Uncle Clyde (John Dotson’s dream of January 28, 2012)
Uncle Clyde—who died decades ago—was entertaining me—a man who never in his life entertained, who would not have understood that verb.
I am also on something of a tour, traveling in a small company of artist friends. I want to be sure to get the group down the alley for a quick glance at my sculptures, which remain in a shed in the backyard on Sullivan Street—a shed generally in the area where my beloved childhood sandbox was located.
Then, back down in the country, the room that was Grampaw’s bedroom has been stripped completely bare down to the wallpaper—yellow floral, and Uncle Clyde has served me a pitcher of whiskey… It’s good as I sip it, but he has gone on down to a lower room, previously unknown to me. I am summoned to join him but don’t quite know how to navigate the pitcher full of whiskey… I can’t possibly have finished it off, more than a quart…don’t want to spill it… even have mixed feelings about how it has come to be served to me at all.
It feels risky, clandestine… and still, it is out in the open, in the bare, well-lit floral room…Somehow I feel I must juggle the pitcher carefully downstairs into the refrigerator.
My film-maker friend Peter has suggested that we change our Air France reservations to stay another day and night. More adventure and exploration. I’m not sure that I want to, or if this is feasible. Will the airlines allow it? So I am found in the midst of an unformed choice.