We are all monkeys


I had a dream last night that this was all a dream. My daily existence, my wanting to be a professional writer, a successful actor, a loving father, great brother, good son, wonderful lover: was all a little play of tissue paper and bits of cotton candy. I saw myself going through the motions of being the person that I am. I saw myself waking up, eating food with my kid, crawling in the grass, talking to a customer in the restaurant where I work as a waiter, sitting on a couch listening to Monk, smoking cigarettes at night in an outside cafe with a bunch of little small tables each with a tiny candle illuminating the myriad of places to sit. A moment passed. I was somewhere else. I was someone else. I was me, it was still me, but I did not look like me. I was much bigger. I took up more room but was larger, more mass, not fat, just a huge being at an old fashioned kitchen table looking down at a plate. On the plate were globs of paint. Have you ever eaten at a fancy restaurant and for dessert they give you this small tart, with cream on the side and on the bottom of the plate they spread this raspberry sauce that looks like it’s bleeding into each other like an M.C. Escher painting? To do this, they put drops of raspberry around the plate leaving a space in between each drop, then take a toothpick and run it across the plate. That’s what I was doing. I was making alterations to my life by moving, scultping these globs of paint. In that instant I came to understand that ‘there is no end.’ There is no end to what occurs. I heard a million voices all saying, “If I knew that there was gonna be somethin else when I died, I would’ve been so much different. I wouldn’t of had to fear anything. I could have done anything I want.” We are living in a dream within a dream within a dream within a dream within a dream…

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