Dream of: 16 December 2004 "Writers"
the ecstasy of
communion with artists is
sometimes found in dreams
As another person and I wandered atop a forested mountain, we noticed several elephants which were excited about something. One elephant was holding some burning sticks in its snout and I had the impression that the elephant was trying to set the forest afire. The elephant finally threw down the sticks and all the elephants raced off away from us. I especially remarked how fast one elephant was running, gracefully sprinting into the distance.
I next noticed several cheetahs grouped together in a thicket, apparently pursuing their prey. The cheetahs adroitly wound themselves through the brush.
With so much wildlife in the area, I was surprised to see a couple small houses nearby and I wondered who would live clear up here. Both houses were small, probably not more than one room. After my companion and I walked up close to one, I wondered if I might be able to stay up here sometime -- this was such a picturesque place and I would surely enjoy some time up here alone.
I walked up to one of the little houses, and finding the door open, I walked in. I was immediately greeted by a man standing in the room and I instantly knew who he was: Ernest Hemmingway. He was a tall slender lanky man (probably in his late 40s). I felt rather presumptuous being in the house of Ernest Hemingway, and I figured I would not be allowed to stay, but he was quite cordial and unassuming. We spoke and he quickly put me at ease and made me feel welcome.
A tape recorder was playing and I quickly recognized the recording as a play by William Shakespeare. I realized Hemingway and I would have something in common: apparently we both enjoyed listening to tapes of Shakespeare plays. Maybe Hemingway and I could spend time together. I did not know much about him, except that he was a writer, but I felt at ease here and I thought he and I could be friends.
I immediately thought of something we might be able to do together and I pulled out a book which contained poems by Dante Alighieri. I motioned Hemingway over to a chair and we both sat down. I opened the book to a poem and began reading. I quickly stopped however, because the Shakespeare tape in the background was interfering with my reading. I asked the other person who had accompanied me there (whom I now identified as my wife Carolina) to turn off the recorder so I could continue with my reading. She did so and I once again began reading.
Hemingway was now standing, and as I read, he seemed a bit distracted. I quickly surmised what the problem might be: I was reading the poem in English and he would probably prefer its being read in the original Italian. When I stopped reading and asked him if he would prefer Italian, he did not answer, but I felt from his looks that he was assessing me, weighing his own language abilities against mine. I still felt comfortable, but slightly disconcerted. I knew some Italian, but I did not really know the language well enough to read the poems out loud in Italian. I hoped my inadequacy would not impact upon this blossoming friendship.
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