On Sundays

On Sundays, I always have the same dream. Which is only to say that it is not.  I dream of my grandma sitting in his favorite rocking chair. Reading.  That’s the way I like her to spend his time in my dreams. Once, when I had that dream on a Sunday, I was looking through a kaleidoscopic peephole and the colors and shapes were so mesmerizing that I dozed off. As I was falling asleep, I saw a piece of poetry of the approximately following content:

I have an inappropriate emotion /

Which is inappropriate to everybody else except for me /

I rid get off the emotion abovesaid want to /

And yet, when I want to, I cannot /

Makes me think I cannot feel /

Makes me think I cannot tell what appropriate is /

And what is not!

I assumed that the poetry must have been from a book or something…I heard the telephone ringing.

Hi dear…Wassup grandma! Reading a book…Cool! Tell me about it! It’s about a kid who has a dream on Sundays. Always the same dream. Which is only to say that it is not. What!? On Sundays, the kid has dreams of grandaddy who is a gangster and reads dirty comic books. But she is a gangster of a specific sort. The only gangsternalia of the poor guy is his proverbial leather jacket—the symbol of his undivided passion for birds. Bullshit, grandma, if I may! No, you can. Listen, grandma…how about I tell you that the book you are reading is a piece of shit that I fantasize of eating every morning for breakfast until I feel hunger no more, which is for a good half an hour, after which I want to devour more of that crappy thing until you tell me…Get out of here. You are my kin, but truth be told, you fucking are so full of shit. Grandma! Stop it! Tell me more about the book you are reading…

I woke up to the sound of the telephone ringing. I picked up the phone and then I woke up. I remembered that it was Sunday. And I, as always, have the same dream on Sundays. Which is only to say that it is not.  I dream about the music from the book she is reading. It might be the sound of whispering leaves. Dry, yellow, orange, golden…glimmering in their silver glory…in the reflection of quiet sunshine.  It might be the sound of an unexpected spring air amidst the conquering cold season. Such interruptions are so painfully soft that it hurts even thinking of going  for a walk in such weather. Because one would rather spend the whole day dreaming of the book that somebody’s grannie is reading.

And then I wake up to the phone ringing. I pick up the phone.

The book is pretty much about my constant feeling of having inadequate emotions and wanting them to dissipate. The moment I decide it to be my wish, the wish defies itself and I wish my feelings were not something I want to detach myself from. Wow! I know. I was like…how can you want and do not want to feel something at the same time? It’s not exactly how you understand it. The book is about maps. Maps of paths, streams, isles, and more. They are almost invisible. Because they are merely meandering between greater spatial chunks. Paths become streams when they are threatened. Streams become isles when they are endangered. They meander between greater spatial chunks. Geography of time eats the language of spatial temporality. The pathstreamsisles know no such language.

How can you want and do not want to feel something at the same time? Oh, do shut up. Don’t you tell me what to fucking do! I won’t.  The phone is ringing. I won’t answer! That’s right!!

I might like to have coffee and a cigarette for breakfast. You might prefer bacon and eggs. I might feel fulfilled if I spend the whole warm afternoon walking through the vistas from my dreams. You might prefer jogging. I might find it most rewarding if I can spend three rainy days in complete isolation crying because I don’t understand my own dreams. You might think tears are repellent. I might live in a memory of my own unwritten poetry. You may think that if it’s unwritten, it’s not poetry. I might not want to try to explain it. I don’t care what somebody prefers to how I like things to be. I just have to figure out how to hard headedly persevere in unwillingness.