Bed of Books

 I was in bed with my brother, my old bed of my years of childhood. This was fine until my second brother came into the bed. The bed was big enough when we were boys, but now that we are adults, it is rather crowded. Not only crowded, but too warm to sleep. I wondered lazily if I should get out and sleep on the floor, where it would be cooler.

I lazily got out of the bed and surveyed the floor. There was plenty of space on the floor, at the foot of be bed, but it was piled with books and files and copy-books and reams of paper. I decided that, rather than try and clear a space, I would lie on top of the lot. This proved quite comfortable. I lay half on my front and half on my side. My shoulder dipped into a hollow in the pile of papers and my upper arm and leg were each supported by a little mound of books. However, my head was on a rather hard support.

I wondered if I should rise and take a pillow from the bed. Just then one of my brothers stirred and mumbled, "All Right?" I said, "I need my pillow," but he had turned over and gone back to sleep. I noticed that the pillow had been thrown down to the bottom of the bed. I could reach up my arm and grab it without rising. I did this, put the pillow under my head; and drifted into a dream.

In the dream my neighbour, Emmet, came across to my house with a proposal. He wanted us to play a tune he had dedicated to his grand-daughter. He called the tune "To my beautiful granddaughter." I suggested he should name the granddaughter in the title: "To my beautiful granddaughter, Emily," and he agreed. (Emily is a name proposed by the dream, not the name of an actual granddaughter.

He gave me a copy of the sheet music for the tune. I was to play on the tin whistle, and Emmet would play the Jews' Harp. I played the first bar, and it was very nice. There were no notes in the second bar, and I stopped. Emmet kept going on the Jews' Harp. Then he stopped and said, "You come in there." But I said, "There is nothing there in my copy. You better get me a proper copy." Then I said "It's very nice --  it's simple." Then, in case he might take "Simple" as a criticism, I said, "Simple is good."

The tune was actually my tune, "A Butterfly on a Pink-White Rose," in remembrance of my friend Sean O'Connor (author of the poem of that title), who died almost a year ago.

As I said "Simple is good," I glanced up at the audience, for we were in a little theatre. There was only one person in the audience, Paschal Donohoe, the Minister for Finance. When he heard me saying "Simple is Good," he smiled and nodded.

Emmet went home to print out another copy of the sheet music, and I drifted back to sleep.

Then I heard the handle of the bedroom door turning. I lay quiet and alert. Somebody came quietly into the room and went over to my side of the bed. (I was lying on the floor still). Then I heard some pages turning. The intruder was rifling through my writings. I decided to confront him. 

I uttered a shout, "Hoi," and jolted myself, as one would do if awakening from sleep. I woke up and found that I was not on the floor on a pile of books, nor in bed with my brothers, nor confronting an intruder, but in my normal sleeping place beside my wife. It was a bit warm all right.

Interpretation:

2 days later, I find an interpretation in my head. I am more comfortable with my books and papers than with the company of humans. Since my wife retired from her position as Manager of Clareville Day Centre, last February, there have been a stream of celebrations, funerals, weddings and visitations; plenty of small-talk and little time for my music-composition, blogs or books. 

The tune that "Emmet" proposed to me in the dream was my tune "A Butterfly on a Pink-White Rose." Today I looked it up and found that I had made two versions, the first, with guitar and whistle/ violin, on Sibelius, is simple, but mechanical, since the notes are all automated from the sheet music, and the second played on my Yamaha Keyboard, which has more drums and the imperfections of my fingering.

While I did post the Sibelius version on Facebook in remembrance of my friend Sean O'Connor, who used to play the guitar to accompany my whistle, when he died almost a year ago, I never finished the project or posted the tune to Spotify. The dream is reminding me of this unfinished project.

The Saver

 I dreamt that my pre-teen (as he was once) neighbour, Garret, came over to my garden to kick football. He would try to score a goal and I would save. He shot magnificently and I saved magnificently, diving gracefully and catching the ball in mid air.

His father, Emmet, was incredulous; he did not believe his son could kick so well, or need to transfer to a real soccer park to develop his skill.

More importantly, in that dream world, I could get nobody to discuss with me what energy the ball must contain as it travelled through the air; what energy was in Garret's kick and how; what percentage of the kick's energy was transferred to the ball; what percentage of the ball's energy would be lost between the kick and the save; how my leaping energy was generated; how all this energy was brought back to zero as I lay on the ground with the ball in my arms.

The dream reached its conclusion with a sudden image of the crucified Jesus, not in a hanging pose, but a leaping pose, as He stretched out to save (the ball). Most striking in His dark figure were the crescent-moon shaped whites of His eyes under the black pupil-iris balls of His eyes, (with a hint of green through the irises).

The dream undoubtedly rises out of my pondering on a tentative book in my head, titled "Mathness," which questíons some mad math theories, sch as non-computable numbers, and a number-line divided into a continuum of multiple Infinities of points. (A line can't divide into points, only segments, and conclusions drawn from this false basis must be suspect).

The Rubber Building Block

 I dreamt I was back in my childhood home in Phibsboro', but it had elements of the Mukuru slums of Nairobi.

I dreamt the people had made a rubber building block. This was like a rubber pillow, made with a hard rubber external surface, but packed with desiccated rubbish. Basically, you got a rubber container, packed it tight with chopped-up rubbish, and attached the rubber lid, then sealed it with a blow-torch or something like that. It seemed to be a way of turning rubbish into building material.

You could build a wall with these rubber bricks, sealing the wall with a blow-torch or glue.

I was in the kitchen of our house. This is a galley kitchen. It is the back part of the passage that leads from the front door to the back door. There is a passage about three feet wide in between cabinets lining the wall on each side (cooker and cabinets on one side and kitchen sink and cabinets on the other).

Now, I was receiving information about this wonderful rubber block invention from people standing blocking the kitchen door, who appeared to be Polish immigrants, babbling in their own tongue, but obviously thinking it would be good if I accepted, in some way, the value of their invention. Homeless, they hoped to build houses for themselves with this cheap invention.

My father was at the back door, trying to bring his bicycle through the house. The bicycle shed was in the back yard, so, we had to bring our bicycles through the house. They might be parked outside the front during the day, but, for security, they had to be brought into the back at night.

"Go back into the dining room out of my way," said father. But my way was blocked by these people. I could not move.

My father got angry. He had to get to work, and his way was blocked by me. He did not seem to appreciate that I was stuck where I was by him and the Polish people.

"Didn't I tell you to get out of the way!" he roared.