The Summer Tanager has chosen his tree to sing from. It's nice to again be in the presence of my post structural friend, but sadly his tree this year is in earshot of the room where I sleep. So I will have to listen to him harp on at an hour of the day when thought process is best left uncomplicated by external stimuli. Today the Tanager entered morning dreams a little before the sunrise. I was in the lecture hall, undergoing scrutiny, my thesis on Barn Swallow attacked by the more practical minds of Banana Growers, it was getting ugly with sneering and I felt aggressive. Then, when my post structural friend started to sing, I drew a blank.
As those of us who are often distressed by dreams know, drawing a blank while
dreaming is tantamount to a day spent pacing around the question "I should of
said" while reinterpreting Jung with the question "what was I trying to
remember." So I closed my eyes determined that no dream of mine would end
without a satisfactory conclusion, which as a rule requires me to lop off the
heads of my antagonists before marching down the aisle toward a coffee pot.
But woe is me when the Tanager sings, his voice enters a synaptic cleft, grips
it with his little feet and he pecks away. I turned toward my enemies.
"There," I said. "That's your answer." And bowed gracefully into