Dream of: 22 October 1997 "Book Of Art"
A tiny little cell in a foreign jail. The cell was just big enough for three beds, each along a wall. Drab and brown-colorless. I was lying in one of the beds, having gone before a judge and having been convicted. The other two beds were also occupied. The fellow in one of the beds had lied to the judge about me. I hadn't even committed the offense, minor to begin with. But the other fellow had testified against me and the judge had believed him. Now to pass the time, I lay on my bed and flipped through the pages of the only book I had - a small hard-bound book on art. Each section of text in the book was followed by several pages of pictures. I concentrated on the pictures.
After two days I was released. Early in the morning the jailer came and opened the door. Returning to my home, I felt renewed, reinvigorated. I had been to jail several times during my life. It seemed that I needed to return to prison from time to time to restore my spirits. Now I would have to tell everyone of my latest experience and how I had fared. I would tell them the ordeal hadn't been that bad. The food hadn't been great, but had proven adequate. The worst part had been the size of the cell.
I would also tell them about the art book which I had studied. As I thought about the little book, I was surprised to find that I had an identical book lying right in front of me there in my home. I picked up the book and began looking through it, just as I had done in jail, recognizing the same pictures. I realized I certainly had a lot to learn about art. And my learning was impeded because I was distracted by the pictures of nudes. In fact, the first thing I did was to start looking for all the nude pictures, just as I recalled I had done in the jail. Even though I had never found nude paintings to be erotic (they simply didn't appeal to my libido), I had discovered that interspersed in the book were some actual photographs of nudes; and photos in general did arouse me. I was spurred on even more when I now discovered a whole section of pictures which had been missing in the book in the prison, having been apparently torn out. The pictures in this section were more risqué than the other pictures in the book, but still nothing to get excited about. I continued riffling through the pages, hoping to find the picture which would stir me.
But it soon became evident that there was little in the book to arouse me. So, instead, I began looking more closely at some pictures of misshapen sculptures. One seemed to look like a caricature of Bill Clinton, with a distended stomach protruding out from his body. I read the blurb along with the picture. The work had apparently been done by a Frenchman. Apparently only five French artists did caricatures of Clinton.
As I looked through the book, I began thinking that I needed to start preparing my next foreign trip. I thought that the next time I would probably travel to Quebec. I had always liked Quebec. It was safe. I might concentrate on art when I took the trip.
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