Library Dream

'91. Calendars come and go, paper sheets flap mysteriously in the wind, annually. One on particular numerically-inspired day-divided piece of nonsense, that pertaining to the nineteen-hundred and ninety-first year of our Lord to be precise, on the last few papery days thereof, on the tenth month, the great primeval swellings of sorrowful Autumn already billing and swilling in its bulk, fuck the calendar in fact, on a lamplit warm darknight temple of the last day of calendary October, in a stupid and solemn room, westeringly lit by October's death, I had nothing to do but go to bed, sleep snugly, and in the stirring gasps of the night had the following dream.

I found myself in the depths of a library, searching about, casting glances up at the decks and rows of paperbacks. On a wide expanse of culturally carpeted thin floor I ambled, struggling with my own anxious thoughts of what to find in the studious must rows, learning leeking from peering woodblock librarians, custodians of silence which accompanies the older dustjacket volumes, written by old men who're dead now and don't care whether you read them or not. Near the wide expanse of brushed carpet I traversed, dimly seeking something, emerging from the huge room space from the blurred darkness of pre-dream, to see grand lofty architecture above the bookworms, nobly aggrandizing its masonry in the big chalk spaces of the room.

In fact naturally it was the local library I was in, or a standardized personal dream version of it, a big normal granite type building on its own, full of little women librarians behind its thick Greekish artifice walls, Carnegie patroned, a rain-washed vault, bespectacled librarians busily stamping books (that's a bit clichéd) faroff in their brownwood desk wit computers and tings. There's big plaster murals on high-vaulted roofs as I stroll and trip below, this is the normal big lending department where're kept all the books too crap to buy, but like I said, in the dream it was a more personal visionary little version, dreamed or dredged up of course by me like a liquid reality fable of mind. Womanish owners busily perform workstation miracles, I wander beatly and bleakly around my huge playroom, anxious. I had the feeling (during dreams you always get an unconscious intimation of some previous or unproven affair which affects you like a questing sickness) that I'd been there for some time, casting around and looking desperately upwards to the rows for some kind of salvation. Wasting time in a whirpool of Godly time called fate. Letting myself walk in dreamtime library comfort midst the dark electric arcs of the childish mind, my eyes dreamily bulging to see or seek destinies, wildhaired in the buzzy mist of cotton pillows.