Celia Ingrid Farber, New York, September 17, 2009The Black Fish, Part 1
Dream: I was in a house, working desperately, at something — not clear what it was. Then Christine was there, and I couldn’t speak because I was so happy to see her but couldn’t quite find my voice. She was a little bit chubby around her mid-section, which made me happy as well. She was wearing a heavy raincoat. I hugged her and told her how good it was to have her back. I started telling her about who had been doing all the work around the house while she was gone. It was the moths. “They did everything, even the beds. The male moths did not help,” I said. Christine bent down and took something from the fridge. “Really?”
“Yeah, their little moth wings, they could do anything. It was amazing they didn’t get more tired.”
Christine listened.
She and I were going to eat something and I left the house, bicycled through a town, past some very phony professors who I felt hatred for, and wound up in an IKEA cafeteria. Swedes were eating fish, potatoes and salad, in silence. I decided we would cook at home. When I got back to the house we stood in the kitchen and the window was open. Young disheveled men with long and/or bushy hair started pulling up, ordering hamburgers. I took their orders and gave them to Christine and together we made burgers with onions and gave them to them through the window. The third one asked for a triple cheese-burger.”
“Really? A triple cheeseburger?” I said despondently and we started to build this enormous cheeseburger together, but it was falling apart.
Christine said we should eat outside. “Come on,” she said, “a taste of the outdoors.”
The radio was on. “I’ll just be like any old person listening to the radio,” she said, as she worked. And in the dream it was the radio that made her come back together, from being in parts, fragmented, she was fused back together in orde to stand at the window, at the sink, which she once told me was her favorite thing to do, dishes, because it had a beginning, middle, and end — a predictable outcome.
“Yeah, their little moth wings, they could do anything. It was amazing they didn’t get more tired.”
Christine listened.
She and I were going to eat something and I left the house, bicycled through a town, past some very phony professors who I felt hatred for, and wound up in an IKEA cafeteria. Swedes were eating fish, potatoes and salad, in silence. I decided we would cook at home. When I got back to the house we stood in the kitchen and the window was open. Young disheveled men with long and/or bushy hair started pulling up, ordering hamburgers. I took their orders and gave them to Christine and together we made burgers with onions and gave them to them through the window. The third one asked for a triple cheese-burger.”
“Really? A triple cheeseburger?” I said despondently and we started to build this enormous cheeseburger together, but it was falling apart.
Christine said we should eat outside. “Come on,” she said, “a taste of the outdoors.”
The radio was on. “I’ll just be like any old person listening to the radio,” she said, as she worked. And in the dream it was the radio that made her come back together, from being in parts, fragmented, she was fused back together in orde to stand at the window, at the sink, which she once told me was her favorite thing to do, dishes, because it had a beginning, middle, and end — a predictable outcome.
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