I know you remarked once that you’d like your veigns replaced by strawberry candy laces. But I am human; at least half-human…I’ld like to be. Its ok for you, you are your own anarchist state. I have to live here and make sense of the locals. This is a letter I wrote last night, that seemed deadly serious then, but now has precious little relevance. Several Peters are chiming in with the same sentiments, I think. It is your choice to listen, but you grow tired very quickly. SO, I’m watching television most of the time and I find it obnoxious and dull. One might wonder, channel-hopping quite darkly, what the purpose of these reports is. With all this trauma and war relayed, as if it were a campfire story, and perhaps last night I reacted inappropriately.
Please find enclosed one (1) Dream(s):
I was in a gallery, and all the works where attributed to other people, though when I woke up I realised I had devised them and I felt quite pleased with myself. There was a huge classically painted oil painting thing…you know those old ones of banquets or primative surgeons or important people debating? The ones that are so dark that you just wanna put an electric lightbulb in there?
Three fat but smiling nude ladies, I only paid attention to the left one really. Such a beautiful painting. And they where all frozen-looking, happy but theatrically so, tiny little smiles, so with a modesty to boot, you know? little mouths in a moth-brown room with hints of green. I’m not an art critic.
And below it a thinner woman – not on the canvas but actually lying on the gallery floor, lifeless, presumed to be be a dead, art object. Made out of wheat or straw, tightly bound. Then unexpectidly she would walk around creeping up on the gallery visitiers, crawling walking and alien kinda.
The wheat/basket/straw woman and the dark pre-electricity painting were one single work, both attributed to one Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Fair enough, I suppose, noone knows what Magic Realism is anyway.
A newspaper report from Marquez said that the painting was called many things – feminist or whatever – but the French had decided to enterpret it cinematically, as a chorus of nuns singing about Noah’s Ark.
Out of respect for Marquez, and to aid many a confused student, this is surrealisme, not the same as the ol’ MR. That is I think it is, but definitions are problematic here. I dunno, it’s just a dream of little consequence I suppose, but dear Hare, things take on extra significance come nightfall. Perhaps you can negotiate with some of your contacts, inter-dimensionally, and wrangle some sense out of this, as you always seem to. I am grateful to have you, to flop on your shoulder whenever things get silly. Lets not get academic about it.