Dream of: 08 February 1978 "The Real Mexico"

While I walked through the streets of Mexico City, Mexico (although it didn't seem like Mexico City), I played a flute which seemed more like a recorder since I was holding it in my mouth and it extended in front of me rather than to my side. I was producing some unique sounds and was using an unusual technique which made the notes sound low and rough but quite pleasant. I was playing beautiful, original tunes which I composed as I walked.

I must have been in the black section of town, because the people were black. Some were leaning out of windows, some were waiting in line for a bus. As I walked past them playing away, everyone looked at me and I became a trifle worried some thug might try to take my flute from me.

I entered a room where I found Mike Saxby (a British fellow whom I had met in Mexico City) and Augustus (a Columbian fellow I had met in Mexico City). Augustus didn't seem to be feeling well and was complaining about something. The room was rather gray except for a stream of light undulating through a window. I asked Augustus if he had been drinking alcohol or smoking anything lately to make him feel so bad. He said he hadn't been drinking anything alcoholic and he hadn't been smoking either much. We laughed as he added the word "much" to the end of his sentence. When I asked what he had been smoking, he replied in some slang unknown to me that he had been smoking marijuana and tobacco sprinkled with "horse." Mike and I rather gasped and asked if he meant heroin. He said yes, he had been smoking heroin. We thought his smoking heroin would clearly account for his unpleasant mood.

Mike and I left and boarded a bus headed south from Mexico City. I had been quite downcast earlier, but now found my spirits raised as I looked out on the passing countryside. Only a few people, including Bob Morris (a former high school classmate), were in the bus.

A man (about 40 years old) began speaking of his travels through various parts of the world. I listened attentively and was quite relaxed as we raced along. To my left I could see the sea. One could discern tiny cars moving along upon bridges and roads on the sea. The waves seemed so large in comparison to the cars, it seemed as if they would overwhelm them. I motioned to Mike to look at the sea. He saw the waves and said, "Well, looks as if we're going to get some topits."

I didn't quite understand the last word and was unsure whether he had said "topits" or "tobbits"; the word made me think of Tolkien's book The Hobbit. Mike then explained the word meant the "tops of waves."

The older man continued talking and a few other people also talked of their adventures. I was amused, but I began thinking to myself that they were all quite foolish. They were doing nothing with their lives but bumping around from one place to the next. Then someone seemed to say to me that I was doing the same thing. I laughed and said, no, that I knew what I was doing. I was writing a play. I laughed again as I added however that I hadn't written much yet. I thought of the three scenes on which I had been working and the general course the play was taking.

Then someone seemed to also attack Mike for not fulfilling himself. I defended him and said that at least he was painting and that I liked the two paintings which he had recently done. But it seemed that since I was Mike's friend, it didn't matter much what I said. Mike smiled and seemed glad I had spoken up for him; but he clearly realized it wasn't my opinion which was important.

Bob Morris then began relating a conversation which had once taken place in my father's office. It had something to do with insurance and something to do with my leaving my father with bitterness and heading off into the world. I felt, however, quite secure in my motives and deeds, and although Morris was quite nasty, his words didn't bother me.

The bus stopped and when I stepped out, I was standing in front of a large, ornate building adorned with carvings and many blue tiles in its ancient walls. A pair of gigantic doors opened in front of me. The architecture was clearly of a Spanish-arabesque style. As the doors opened, a long vista of other doors within the building likewise opened and the sight took my breath away. I gasped, "Here is the real Mexico."

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