Every so often I have a dream that was obviously intended for someone else. Last night’s tour of the unconscious mind was a case in point.
My dream self popped up in a hole-in-the-wall greasy-spoon diner somewhere in New York City.
The place was little more than a narrow closet: four or five two-tops running along one wall, a battered white enamel display case stocked with an assortment of plastic-wrapped mystery-meals, and a narrow aisle in between. At the back was the cash register and a doorway leading to the kitchen.
From “Mathios Paschalis among the Roses”, by George Seferis:
Her aunt was a poor old body, — veins in relief, Many wrinkles about her ears, a nose about to die; Yet her words always full of wisdom. One day I saw her touching Antigone’s breast, Like a child stealing an apple
Will I perhaps meet the old woman as I keep descending? When I left she said to me “Who knows when we shall meet again?” Then I read of her death in some old newspapers And of Antigone’s wedding and the wedding of Antigone’s daughter Without an end of the steps or of my tobacco Which imparts to me the taste of a haunted ship With a mermaid crucified, when still beautiful, to the wheel.
(Excerpted from “George Seferis: Poems”, translated from the Greek by Rex Warner, Nonpareil Books, 1960)