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  • dear Dashiell,

    do you already know that your mama has vibrant dreams? epic adventures, often lucid, always in color and emotional, physical experiences with histories and intertwining plot lines.

    I remember dreaming about you before you were born. before I even knew you were a boy I had a dream of a little towheaded boy bounding down a hillside. and tonight you were doing just that with your white blond red head, except - glory be! - you were stark naked (with blue Crocs and socks). the most perfect baby bum that has ever existed. the nurse said some UV light would be good for your most recent skin disasters. you ran around the yard, picked up a scrubby brush and said "help! Poppy! help!" meaning you wanted to help Poppy clean out the bird bath. you're generous beyond belief.

    anyway I came across this dream that I'd written out and I wanted to share it with you. it was a dream I had the night before Tuesday, March 23, 2010. here it goes:

    in a village, not sure exactly where, I was staying for a while. writing down all I could see as the war drew daily closer.

    one day out walking without my book, I could hear it getting closer. I knew it was coming. I found a piece of cardboard I could write on, ripped it, started writing everything down:

    "today's the day we meet our end. the sound's approaching through the trees. down the lane we've started moving. now bodies start to melt and fall, like all their joints were turned to water. it must be gas. I start yelling to those behind where I am walking. it's hit me. I can barely move my hand now. I'm crawling towards a broken truck. inside there are four of us whose legs don't work. the engine won't turn over. we spend the day. we've spent the night. and now the sun is rising. hot and high it climbs into our sight and hushes all the fighting. birdsong returns and we know it is the end. it is a beautiful day to die."

    and in that moment, I know it is the end, I know it is. in that moment the barrel of a hand gun breaks the plane of the left hand window and I open myself to death, unlock my chest and wait to be sent to whatever-is-next.

    only the gun never fires.

    a Romanian soldier appears in a crisp clean uniform the color of the Seine at night under artificial light. and he says to us, "it is over, you are free now."

    time goes on and we are all in possession of our own story lines. we all measure time in what extra we've been given, how much more we've lived than we should've lived. but there is no conversation. no story telling hours or time to ponder each others horrors.

    and the courage slowly fades.

    it would have been so easy to die on that beautiful morning.

    to bravely walk into my death.

    instead the clock continues ticking and I hardly sleep, I sweat, I dream every night of flesh melting from bones. and children whose fathers will never come home. the courage slowly fades the farther I get from my rightful death and the longer I'm made to live in a world that keeps a light on for war.
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