A Voice Crying in the Desert

“Life could be a dream if I could be in paradise with you. Sh-boon, sh-boon.”

I was a little boy barely ten years old when I first heard that song. For some reason, it streams through my mind as clearly as music from Spotify streams through my grandchildren’s Apple AirPods. But sadly I no longer think of being up in paradise with a significant other.

My dreams have taken a wild bronco ride over unexplored terrain during the last few months. At my age, I wake up in the early morning hours to relieve myself two or three times before the sun rises. And when the sun rises, I’m ready to refill my bladder with freshly made coffee. I drink the first cup and go over the dreams before nature rudely rousted me from my sleep and herded me toward the commode.

Dreams? I try to recreate them in my photographs. But I can’t replicate them in detail. I piece together ragged fragments like squares of cloth in a quilt. Thank God, for Chardonnay. Half a bottle later and I capture vague images of five dreams.

Oh, dear. Now I need to go to sleep and dream up more images. Won’t be long, though. At my age, I get up like clockwork. So my mind will keep on plugging away on new images.

Should you prefer a hard copy of my early morning dream sequences, you can order the book that exposes an old man’s inner early morning nature calls. https://www.blurb.com/b/9924598-breaking-through-the-creative-mist