Jun 26 2010 10:09 pm

Gleason's rope

The bells clang aloud.  I keep having dreams about being in my boat on the river at night.  I’m lying on my back and have no control; I slowly spin in an eddy beneath moonlight filtered through trees whose leaves look oddly like mini-blinds.   I feel around and realize the anchor is gone, so are the oars, in fact everything is gone and my boat is smaller than I remember it.  I feel for the water and touch short-napped carpet and realize I’m in bed. 

When I got back from a steelhead trip last fall I had similar dreams.  I was lying on my stomach at the front of Kevin’s boat and he’s telling me to push us off a rock so I’m pushing and pushing.  I pushed my bed a foot from the wall three nights in a row.

Several years ago when I returned from England I moved into a new house.  I had a dream for a week in which I was trying to climb up a very narrow, rapids-choked ravine on the headwaters of the River Dart.  I pulled my blinds off the wall several times. 

I have a dream that one day all the female writers from The New Yorker’s 20 under 40 fiction issue want to go fishing in Michigan and fall madly in love with me.

I have a dream that my Gleason’s Rope grows by several thousand miles so I can tow myself to Alaska on the cheap.  And by Gleason’s Rope I don’t mean penis. 

I think these interactive dreams have something to do with new houses and mini-blinds.  As for catching large fish, I’ve conducted many empirical studies and conclude with some not insignificant bravado that it’s all about motherfucking time on the motherfucking water.  But I have to take a day off.  I’m out of the good flies. 


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