The dreams have been coming up and down the Staircase in black and white lately, reflecting the unnuanced national mood of senile old spooks' middle aged terror of death and judgment that're translating here and abroad as kill or be killed. How can you live with yourself when you're that ugly and old, unwanted? You can't. So now this: the blind cracker soldiers of the New York Times, my forgotten, forlorn Michigan hometown's flag at half mast, "We don't bother to raise it because as soon as we do...."
Did you read that profile of Wolfowitz in the New Yorker this week too? It's like a Freudian case study or a murder mystery where the culprit is named on the first page. They seem like ancient killers we're reading about, it's that baroque, that unconscious and faraway dumb.
So my color-drained dreams churn, the magazine drops carelessly open on the bedroom floor, one so two-toned, so either/or that I had you and me picknicking in a suburban Detroit cemetery on an imaginary holiday that was half Easter and half Halloween. The old lady bike I had just come off after pedalling to meet you with one spoked wheel still spinning where it lay in the great expanse of grey grass amid the Eastoween holiday headstones.
And it's like this imaginary celebration in the air out there in Old Manhattan: the pop art plastic eggs I bought filled with candy and ready in the basket for the East Village children to hunt in the garden here, the crocuses popping purple up in the churchyard--and yet haunted America howling, the year ready to tip into Fall so soon.
And even in this perfume can still rise to the occasion, or almost. I think it can. Because where Bouton de Rose has a dank funereal bottom of amber and resin something rushes up from the base like a genie to nearly manifest a Blakean pink vision of a rose in bloom, broadcasting so blatantly the substance of things longed for, the evidence of things not seen.
And so Faith is cocked and loaded behind the heads of the villians, a weapon they don't expect or see, an Easter within the Halloween, one enormous alive scent emerging from the crooked little dark one to open so unendingly.
I saw you lost there later in the dream, but when I awoke I had all the existential calm and steady certainty of a single rose (the last one?) just emanating anyway.
Because love is stronger than witchcraft.