Dreams crept up on me in the dark last night, sounding like the soft lapping of a wake against a small, rocking rowboat. There were two of us in the boat, an older man and me. We were fishing on a foggy evening, and there was barely enough light to make out his form sitting across from me.
"The important thing," he said, "is to be still. And also, to move like a fish."
This struck me as contradictory, but I knew what he meant. "I was hoping to ask you about your writing, Vernon," I said, trying to make out his face.
"What writing?" he sounded a little annoyed.
"The writing on your paintings."
"Hmph," he said, turning his head away. "That's not writing."
I wanted to disagree with him, but a banshee began to scream into my ear and I sat up with a start. Vernon was gone. I punched the banshee in the head and tried to find the boat again, but it had floated away.
P.S. - I'm driving from Fort Worth, Texas to Lafayette, Louisiana at 4:00 in the morning. I'll try to post something more Tuesday evening. Thanks for stopping by. Later. Love.
