Dream of:06 October 1996 "From Manure To Art"
I was on the 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: Rush Limbaugh (who at the same time, at least in spirit, resembled Jacobs). Limbaugh, who looked as if he were in his early 20s, was a classmate at a school which we were attending together. I had invited him to be my guest at the Farm, and 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 which was filled with black mud and manure. I also pointed out some large rocks which passed in a line through the black muck, and admonished him to be sure to stay on the rocks and not to step off from them. I then walked out ahead of the fellow, across the bogey area, to the other side. When I reached firm ground and turned back around to look at Rush, I saw that he was following me, but that he had completely disregarded my directions, and instead of staying on the rocks, he was blithely marching right through the manure. He didn't have a problem at first, and was able to proceed without difficulty. But suddenly he stepped into the wrong place and right before my eyes he sunk all the way up to his waist in the fetid mess. Then 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 couldn't push himself up. The only thing he could do was to push himself along through the mess, barely holding his body above the surface, until he reached the edge.
All the while, although I couldn't hear clearly, I could clearly see that he was angry at me, blaming me for his misadventure, and that he seemed to be yelling some threats at me. Once he had found the shore, sensing 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 that Rush was now 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 some weapon. I saw some long wooden tobacco sticks 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 didn't want to use a hoe or mattock because I knew with that I might do some serious damage, and I didn't really want to hurt him; I just wanted to defend myself. So just as he was about to reach me, I picked up one of the tobacco sticks (which is a stick about a meter and a half long which is used for hanging tobacco in the barns), and prepared to defend myself.
He rushed at me and a short one-sided struggle ensued. 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 then ran into the Farmhouse, saying that he was going to tell my mother about what had happened. I followed him in to the kitchen.
Several people were in the kitchen, including a woman, sitting at the table, who was my mother. She was a strong thin woman, in the prime of life, whose very presence seemed to demand respect. She listened as Rush began gushing about what had happened, trying 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 didn't 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 didn't 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 some kind of song on the top. But when I now looked more closely, I saw that he was painting a picture. It seemed he had just started, because the only color that he had used so far was a bright strawberry red. But the paint didn't 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 have not wiped the paint off, that it 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 it didn't appear to be angry with my mistake.
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