His scarf was tied in a whimsical and useless knot around his neck. No coat or jacket.
And a wedding band and watch on the same hand.
He had sheets of music staffs covered with delicately drawn cords.
He stuffed the music in his backpack as the train approached 96th Street.
There was something about his hounds-tooth scarf that made him seem like someone familiar. I felt that I had the right to look at him.
So I looked at him, and his sheet music, and tried to read the music on the sheet, tried to read the story in his face.
The dreams I dream at night are specific. They take place in locations I know the names of, just not the words that go with the names.
They are populated with people like the man with the hounds-tooth scarf and music in his hand. People whose faces are a cipher, but whose spirits are familiar.
I close my eyes, and I see my hands soaked in wine.
I see pungent rot on sidewalks.
I see old friends crying, and strange, stern women guarding prison doors.
I see trails meant for running, and muscles atrophying inside.
I see a lot of new images; new places I have never seen before.
My dreams are filled with new colors and old houses. New environs with old shades of crimson.
They are filled with different color schemes, and characters pop out of the woodwork of my unconscious, pieced together from new friends and watersheds.
Sweet words and bitter feelings weave together a new symphony of dreaming.
Time ripples and wrinkles until it is as senseless as my dreams, more colorful than waking, more temporal than words, and as fraught with missed encounters.
We are weaving a new world out of this dreaming.
Old dreams resurrected, new formulas forming.