The other night I had the most crazy, yet lucid dream. I was hanging out with Pablo Picasso and Earnest Hemingway. We were in a large European home, eating great food, drinking superb wine and engaging in dialectic dialogue or should I say tri-logue.
We critiqued each other's work. We threw insults like an assassin might daggers. Neither of us showed any twinge of being hurt by these jabs. That wouldn't be manly. Instead, we proceeded to try and one up each other's insolence. This led to loud laughter. At one point while we were joking, Papa rapped me on the back with his big hand and I spewed wine all over myself.
The night ended with each of challenging the other to see who could last the longest wrestling the Devil. The wrestling matches will have to wait for another night.
Oh, did I mention the entire dream was in Spanish? I don't even speak Spanish on a normal basis, let alone think in Spanish. I am trying to still figure out what triggered the dream. I am not going to lie; it was fun. Perhaps it was an undigested potato.
No comments:
Post a Comment