imagine this, or that

While driving today, I listened to "Imagine" on the John Lennon "Wonsaponatime" LP. It's a secular hymn, an ode. When I was young, I thought the lyrics were simplistic, almost trivial. Now that I am oldish, I seem to embrace the lyrics ever more. It's haunting. A lament. I wanted to pull over and weep. Why? for me? Or the planet. But I didn't. My eyes welled up, but I lumbered onward into the brilliant and lustrous day.

Yesterday, I noticed on a sidewalk the graffito "FAS." Was the writer so hurried that he or she could not complete "FAST"? Or tragically halted? Graffitus interruptus. Or was it the tag of Flemington Angus Smithson, WASP scion?

Imagine that.

I, Um, Had a Dream

Bob Dylan dreamed he saw Saint Augustine, or so he said in his song from the John Wesley Harding album:

I dreamed I saw St. Augustine,
Alive as you or me,
Tearing through these quarters
In the utmost misery,
With a blanket underneath his arm
And a coat of solid gold,
Searching for the very souls
Whom already have been sold.

"Arise, arise," he cried so loud,
In a voice without restraint,
"Come out, ye gifted kings and queens
And hear my sad complaint.
No martyr is among ye now
Whom you can call your own,
So go on your way accordingly
But know you're not alone."

I dreamed I saw St. Augustine,
Alive with fiery breath,
And I dreamed I was amongst the ones
That put him out to death.
Oh, I awoke in anger,
So alone and terrified,
I put my fingers against the glass
And bowed my head and cried.

Copyright © 1968; renewed 1996 Dwarf Music

(No offense, Mr. Dylan, but the "whom" at the end of the first verse should've been a "who," but you can rightfully claim poetic license.)

Me, I dreamed last night John Lennon was about to kick my ass in a drunken brawl at a party. He was drunk, not me. I was lying there, mute, minding my own business, sleeping in my bed. John, did you forget "I'm Only Sleeping"? Good song. That was me, sleeping. What was he so pissed off about anyway? I mean, "Give Peace a Chance," won't you? "We Can Work It Out." I don't know what caused the fracas (we in America pronounce it FRAY-kuss; do they really say frah-KAH in the British Isles?). Maybe he was angry because he found out Paul used to be (past tense) my favorite Beatle when I was in high school (same first name; we're both left-handed; plus, his cuteness must've appealed to my subterranean homesick blues latent homosexuality or anglophilia or whatever).

"Let It Be."

Life, The Serial

On my misty, coolish dogwalk tonight, I noticed that the graffito of LIFE with the "i" dotted with an "x," on a small electrical utility shed, was gone.

LIFE, vanished, without a trace.

As if LIFE were but a dream.

I miss LIFE.

Where'd it go, now that its resident surface is scrubbed clean, freshly painted, pristine?

Can LIFE even exist on such a pristine surface anyway?

LIFE, I was just getting to know you. I was on the cusp of what you wanted to tell me, who put you there, and why.

Now, it's like starting over.