Dream of: 06 October 1996 "From Manure To Art"

all art may be traced

back to the creative source

of the universe 

I was on my grandparents' Gallia County Farm, down by the long loafing shed which sits at the bottom of the hill behind the Farmhouse. With me was a visitor: the extremely conservative radio talk show host, Rush Limbaugh (who at the same time, at least in spirit, resembled a fellow named John Jacobs with whom I had been exchanging dreams on the internet). Rush (who looked as if he were in his early 20s) was my classmate at a school which we were attending together. Having invited him to be my guest at the Farm, I was now showing him around the barn area.

As we walked around to the back of the barn, I pointed out to him a large, swampy area filled with black mud and manure. I also pointed out some large rocks which were arranged in a line through the black muck, and I admonished him to be sure to stay on the rocks and not to step off them. I then walked out ahead of Rush - across the rocks and through the bogey area - to the other side. When I reached firm ground and turned back around to look at him, I saw that Rush was following me, but that he had completely disregarded my directions, and that instead of staying on the rocks, he was blithely marching right through the manure. He did not have a problem at first, and he was able to proceed without difficulty, but suddenly he stepped into the wrong place and right before my eyes he sank all the way up to his waist in the fetid mess. To make matters worse, in his struggle to free himself, he fell over onto his side, so that only his head was still above the mud and manure. He was obviously holding his upper body up with his hand, which had found firm land about a meter below the surface, but he could not push himself up. He could only push himself along through the mess, barely holding his body above the surface, until he reached the edge.

All the while, although I could not clearly hear his voice, I could plainly see that he was angry at me and that he was blaming me for his misadventure. He seemed to be yelling threats at me, and when he finally reached shore, I sensed that he was going to cause me some problem. I turned and headed up the hill to the back of the Farmhouse. Once I had reached the back porch, I stood on the concrete steps and looked back down the slopping hill to the barns, and saw Rush rushing up the hill toward me. I also saw that he had something in his hands which appeared to be a rifle. Realizing that I needed to defend myself, I looked around me for a weapon. I saw some long wooden tobacco sticks  (sticks about a meter and a half long used for hanging tobacco in the barns) which I thought I might use. I also saw a hoe or a mattock, which I thought would make a better weapon, but I really did not want to use a hoe or mattock because I knew with that I might do some serious damage, and I did not really want to hurt him - I just wanted to defend myself. So just as Rush was about to reach me, I picked up one of the tobacco sticks, and prepared to defend myself.

Rush rushed at me and a short one-sided struggle ensued in which I quickly disarmed him and threw him on his back to the ground. I now held the rifle in my hand, and after pinning him down, I pointed it at him, not intending to use it, but to let him know that I was serious. I told him that if he would calm down and cease this ridiculous behavior, I would let him up. He reluctantly acquiesced, and I allowed him to stand up.

Like a little boy, he ran into the Farmhouse, saying that he was going to tell my mother about what had happened. I followed him into the kitchen where I found several people, including a woman who was my mother, sitting at the table. She was a strong, thin woman, in the prime of life - her very presence seemed to demand respect. She listened as Rush began gushing about what had happened and as he tried to fix the blame on me. I quickly joined in, interjecting that Rush had had a gun which he had pointed at me - I however did not mention that I had also pointed the gun at Rush once I had relieved him of it. My mother listened to what we had to say, and then seemed to dismiss the whole matter, as if it were now all settled. Rush could go his way, and I could go mine, and there was nothing else left to resolve.

As the audience before my mother had been taking place, I had noticed that another man was in the kitchen, and that he was doing something which I found quite interesting. Now that I no longer needed to focus on Rush, I turned my attention to the other man, whom I recognized immediately: Bob Dylan. But I did not recognize him from his appearance because he looked nothing like Dylan. Indeed, he looked exactly like Robert DeNiro.

Dylan was hard at work. In front of him stood what looked like a large round table, about a meter and a half in diameter. The top of the table was also quite thick, about eight centimeters thick. Dylan was busy doing something to the top of the table. At first, I thought he must be writing a song on the top, but when I now looked more closely, I saw that he was painting a picture. It seemed as if he had just started, because the only color that he had used so far was a bright strawberry red.

The paint did not really look like paint. It looked more like the sticky icing of a cake. I noticed that as he had spread some of the icing-paint over the top of his table-canvas, some of the paint had dripped down the side of the table. I picked up a dishcloth and wiped part of the paint off the side. Dylan saw what I had done and gave me a severe look. I realized immediately that I should not have wiped the paint off, that the paint was part of Dylan's work, and that he had intended the paint to be there. He quickly began trying to dab more paint onto the area where I had wiped the paint off. Although there was still a smudge where I had wiped off the paint, he mostly succeeded in covering it up, and he did not appear to be angry with my mistake.

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