Last night I dreamed I was new arrived again, and fell
to weeping in my sleep. Those who welcomed me, rejected, accepted, attacked,
tolerated or disapproved of me: I’ve forgiven you all. Some indeed have by now
forgiven me.
Why then do
tears run down in sleep? Sleep, the alternative world, is peopled with the past,
a treasure-store of memory: prop-room, wardrobe, prompt-box, rehearsal space
for life’s cautionary dramas.
Proust says
a cast of divinities inhabits memory: those people who have made us suffer.
Recollection comes through the senses, an uneven paving-stone, for instance,
and Venice appears. For me the question ‘How d’you like Australia?’— once a
common expression — awakened memory to work again in sleep.
All this
was decades ago, many have died, and died heroic deaths, too. Yet in memory, in
sleep, they live to perform their roles. As Proustian divinities, they’re only
a metaphor: they point to the joy received when they embrace instead of
doubting.
Is life so
personal? The rational mind would allow, explain, excuse, comprehend. In sleep,
though, the mind recounts its private story. What I’ve learned is this: for the
love of God, treat your immigrants well. The marks are indelible.
No comments:
Post a Comment