Every week for the past too many years to say, I have worked on and sent out this thing called a sorbet. It’s a piece of raw writing — meaning, it’s not as polished as it ought to be, sometimes only days old, and occasionally, only created hours before it’s send out. These sorbets, which can be poems, chunks of fiction, or happily nesting in between poetry and fiction, are exercise for me — they force me to look at the world with poet’s eyes at least once a week. Creating them, keeps me grounded in what’s important — writing, making story, reflecting the world through story. Honestly, sometimes the sorbets are brilliant little gems, other times, not so much. I try not to judge, as they are meant to be a curious break between the work-week and the weekend. They started small, with a dozen people (family and friends). Today, the list is hundreds. There have been times in the past few years, when I’ve felt discouraged about the sorbets, and wanted to walk away but I’ve come back to the joy of them and today, they are a delightful thing in my life. This is not really an ad for the sorbets; it’s more an explanation, a restatement (for myself?). Easy to sign up, if you want, on the “contact” page. Anyway, today, I offer up this week’s sorbet (which went out on Thursday) for your reading pleasure:
Carnal knowledge of the Oprah
Last week I dreamed I was intimate with Oprah – curled
inside a timid, fleshy embrace – which is weirder than it seems,
because I have never liked Oprah. I have never understood
her appeal. But then I am not her audience so perhaps this
is fine. But why would my subconscious put me there,
all compromised and vulnerable and carnal? What is it that
Oprah wanted me to know?
So, I woke up and knew Oprah’s body. I knew it well.
Some dreams you can’t un-dream, I know, but this
is not one of those. It was a delightful dream, as Oprah
is beautiful inside and out. Every nook and cranny of her
is beautiful. Every fold. Every curve. If I were still in therapy
I know my therapist – a dyed-in-the-wool Jungian who always wore
black pumps, would have had a field day with this dream.
She might have said something like – “Well, everyone
and everything in your dreams is you.” And I would have smiled
and said – “I’m Oprah?” At this point, she would lean forward
and sigh and I would be tempted to say something like – “I want
to help people? I want to give away cars? I want to be famous and
wealthy?” “Is that what Oprah is to you?” “No. I admire her curiosity
and the way she seeks grace,” I will say. And the therapist might nod.
Maybe the Oprah in my dream was trying to tell me
I need to listen better, because my Oprah was completely silent.
Could it be that simple? Be a better listener? I mean, she just looked at me
with her questioning dark eyes. She didn’t say a thing, not one word,
as if she had dreamed herself into my dream and her subconscious
would not let her do the thing she knows best. As if she was as
baffled by me, as I was by her.