Dream of: 22 January 1997 "Sun-Splintering Beach"
I was thinking about what kind of law I would practice if I decided to again work as a lawyer. Perhaps I would specialize in defending drug cases. However I saw some definite problems with concentrating on drug cases. I was afraid that if I became specialized in drug cases, I would end up defending high-profile drug dealers, especially dealers involved in international drug trade. I was afraid that if I did this, I might learn so much about the drug dealers, that if I ever wanted to stop representing them and get out, they wouldn't allow me to leave.
However I liked the idea of defending drug cases. I was already vividly imagining some of what would be involved. Before me I could see a large room filled with dozens of men, probably FBI agents, all sitting at cramped little desks, listening to telephones. All the agents were working on wiretaps, and I could see that many mistakes were probably being made. If I worked on drug cases, defeating evidence brought out through wiretaps would be an area I would have to thoroughly understand. I would have to study the law intently, to know how to question these people on the witness stand. I would need to know all the nuances of the law to break the cases. It would be a pleasure doing so, so great was my contempt and disdain for these petty little men, who wasted their dull lives here listening to other peoples' conversations.
However, my dilemma was that even though I might enjoy practicing that kind of law for a while, I didn't want to get caught up in it and be forced to continue doing it forever. Of course, the better the work I did, the harder it would be for me to get out, because the dealers would always want me to represent them.
Perhaps, I thought, in a situation like that, at some point I would simply suddenly disappear. I began imagining how I could steal away somewhere, perhaps to a Latin American country. A scene began to unfold – a small village, close to the sea. It wouldn't be a resort area, and would only have a few people living in it. I would have to keep a very low profile so that none of my former clients would ever be able to find me.
As the picturesque scene became more vivid in my mind, I imagined myself sitting in a small adobe home, with the white beach and the sea not far from my door. As I would sit and look out on the white sand, I could read poetry. Perhaps I would even compose poetry myself, with such words as, "whited sparkling green-acred sun-splintering beach."
The words had appeared so spontaneously in my mind. They seemed like something Dylan Thomas might have written. But I knew they were my words and not his. I had just never had such words suddenly come to me so abruptly, with no fore-thought, like that before.
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