I don't talk about my dreams very often; to do so would be like taking pictures of your children and showing them to a dubious audience. So allow me to take out my wallet:
The night before last I dreamt I was in a small house – square, poor, undecorated. It was located in the desert. There were others with me and we were waiting for a tidal wave to sweep us from the dusty floor. The thought of the great hand of the ocean rising above us in the middle of such a dry place didn't strike me as odd.
I peered outside. There was no wave. But there was the sky. It was a sleepy blue, the type of melted watercolor that Parrish used as a backdrop for his maidens and Dulac used as a carpet for his queens to trod upon.
It was as if liquid turquoise and lapis lazuli had poured down the face of the daytime sky, cooling it beneath its delicate, exquisite gradations.
Then I saw the wave: a pale curl of water on the brow of the horizon. So I closed the door and continued to wait. In time the water slowing begain to pour into the house. And then I woke up. For some time I remembered that terrible wait and the semi-precious sky.
Much later, during my walk home from work, I thought of my dream again. Now if I leave at 6PM, or even a little earlier, I stand a chance of seeing the light being subdued by the powerful twilight. The memory of that confrontation lives on in colors that are rich and exotic. The battlefield above me was strewn with banners of ruby, bronze, chilly cobalt, nectarine and ice.
I saw those colors in the sky. I saw a string of brown clouds running like dirty children being called home. And I had seen that sky before – during the night, with my eyes closed, the harvest of blue growing beyond nerves, bone and blood. Asleep and awake I was held in its dusky embrace, awash in the blue glacier rain.