The people I’ve tried to make love with, haunt my virtual
reality dreams that are as fragile as a crashed hard drive or pulled plug. My
dreams haunt my dreams. Everything I have ever seen or imagined or done,
invisibly haunt my super-reality dreams.
I am not a bad man, yet I am a troubled man, troubled by
what could have been, what was, what should have been, what can never be. If my
dreams trouble someone as guiltless and meaningless as me, what must the dreams
of Adolf, Idi, Mao, George W, and Pius XII have been? Not to mention good men
like Bill, Obama, and Indira. What was in the dreams of Chopin, A.S. Neill, and
Groucho as they lay dying?
How can it be that 5000 years of human majesty and shame can
absolutely vanish in a millisecond explosion, along with all the cute bunnies,
redwoods, hummingbirds, crocodiles, roses, manatees, and mosquitoes we’ve
killed.
My list of tragedies are endless and soothing, yet fill only
a page of the Great Unabridged Dictionary of things known, experienced, not
known, imagined, unimagined, and distorted.