Dream of:15 June 1997 "Collage"
I was in the basement of Weinstein's house in Portsmouth, the house where Weinstein had lived when I had known him during high school and our first years of college. I was alone in the basement, and was occupying myself with thinking of what I wanted to do with my future. It suddenly occurred to me that I would like to be a sculptor. I had never sculpted anything before, but I thought I could do it. I wasn't interested in molding something, as from clay. I wanted to actually have a piece of stone or marble and chisel something out of it. I pondered how difficult it would be to do such a thing. I might have to return to school, to study sculpture for a year or so to get a better idea of how to go about it.
I began thinking of what I would like to sculpt and an image formed in my mind. I could see a block of black rock, about a meter and a third high. The block had already been sculpted on the top so I could see a perfectly smooth oval, about the size of a head. The oval head had no features and was bent over at about a 45 degree angle. I loved the sight of it. Although the oval orb clearly looked like a head, I quickly decided that if I were to finish the sculpture, I wouldn't make the rest of the sculpture represent a body. Instead I would just sculpt abstract designs and patterns on the bottom part. To finish off the sculpture, I would chisel a pithy saying on the back, a saying of three or four short sentences. Instead of regular words, however, I would use cuneiform or Egyptian hieroglyphics. I would have to learn a little about those picture languages to understand what I was writing, but I was sure I could do it.
As I continued with my reverie, I noticed someone pass by a window. Since I was in the basement, the window was one of the small kind which was up over my head. I realized it had been Weinstein who had passed by, and that he had been carrying a load of books with him. It suddenly occurred to me that Weinstein was going to get rid of the books by giving them to some charitable organization. Thinking I might like to have the books, I ran for the door. As I hurried toward the door, it came to my mind another woman was in the house, and that she would also probably like to have the books. I thought I needed to beat her to them, because she would take the books if she got there first. But when I reached the door to the outside, I encountered a problem: a number of small brown bottles were standing in front of the door, impeding my path so I couldn't pass. Remembering where the other door to the basement was, I backed around to it, and finding it clear, I went outside.
Just as I had thought, Weinstein had been loading the books onto the back of a pickup truck so they could be hauled away. I stared at the dozens of books. It quickly became clear that not all the books were the kind that Weinstein would have, and I concluded that some of the books had belonged to Weinstein's mother, Mrs.Weinstein. Most of the books which belonged to Weinstein were paperback novels. There were so many novels, I wondered if Weinstein had actually read them all. If he had, I wondered if he would someday regret throwing them away; someday he might want to use them for reference.
Mrs. Weinstein's books, on the other hand, weren't novels. I could tell her books from Weinstein's because hers were larger hard-cover books. The larger books interested me most, especially since I began thinking that many of them might contain colorful pictures which I could use forcollages. I saw one over-sized book about the artist Michelangelo, and another large book about the history of Spain. I was sure those books would have the kind of pictures which I would like to have. I hadn't made a collage in quite a long while, but I knew I used to make many collages, and I felt as if it were time to make one again.
Stepping up to the back of the truck, I picked up a small pamphlet mixed in with the books, and I began leafing through it. The pamphlet was a brochure for a play, a play that I had heard about before, although I had never seen it. The play had been performed by an Indian religious group, something like the Hare Krishnas. The pages of the pamphlet were full of intricate drawings of Hindu mythological figures. The pictures were quite intriguing, and I thought I might be able to use some of them in a collage. It looked like good material.
I hoped Mrs. Weinstein wouldn't object to my taking some of the books; she could be rather peculiar about such things. I might have to tell her that after I was finished with the books I would take them to the charitable organization where she wanted them to go.
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