Ron Silliman Dream #37: Thru The Tulip Field

artist rendition of Ron and Me

We're in a bath together.

I can't tell if I'm male or female.

The water's all smudged up with dead floating mosquitoes and rust's dripping into the tub relentlessly.

I'm getting close to climax and I'm staring out the glittering window where a cold white horse's prancing around in the iron sunlight. But it's too much! It's just way too much.

So, I look back into Ron's eye and it's hollowed out, like it's a cartoon: a roach darting back and forth. "This orgasm's just not happening," I think, trying to focus on the roach, as if this will lift me up into a perfect and holy realm where I can see everything truthfully and compassionately.

Now we're in a big, fancy, cathedral-like mall, next to a skating rink, and Ron's turned into a green, bronze statue with a pretty decent sized penis.

The mosquitoes are rising up around us now in a thickening cloud-mass and we're in a public bathroom standing next to each other pissing.

A small girl, maybe 7 or 8, walks up to and grabs Ron's penis.

And she tugs on it and starts giggling.

I'm chasing Ron naked through a tulip field.

artist rendition of Ron and Me

Ron Silliman dream #36: White Rabbit

artist rendition of Ron and Me

Ron's across from my wife and me at a conference table.

My wife's grasping my hand quite firmly.

"We need to integrate our love," Ron says, sliding a tiny white rabbit across the table towards us.

This sounds good to me, I think as my wife looks at the rabbit for maybe a millisecond and then blurts out "You mean like a Ménage à Trois," absolutely butchering the French phrase in the process.

Like the phrase itself is dirty. Horrible. A real fucking sin.

Some time later I'm having sex, tender and excruciatingly beautiful, with my wife on the couch. And Ron's sitting next to us. But the communion with my wife is so complete, so deep, Godlike and consuming that I'm only slightly aware or concerned about his presence.

And my wife, thankfully, is 1000% oblivious.

But now Ron's started pacing back and forth in front of the TV. Like a panther in an early Ted Hughes poem. And the TV's showing a close-up, bright facial of Nicolas Cage.

Ron punches the TV. . . .Cage's face shatters.

And then Ron falls to the ground howling "Just be yourself, Rauan. Just be your fucking self."

My wife starts to moan.

"Only the biggest orgasm for Mama," Ron whimpers out.

The small white rabbit's on the coffee stand and it's twitching.

"Please don't bleed," I tell myself. "Please don't bleed."

Ron Silliman Dream #35: Sixshooter

artist's rendition of Ron and Me

I walk into a Chelsea club and up on the bar dancing languidly about in his white underwear is my Ron Silliman.

And he's got a Cowboy hat on and he's twirling a couple of sixshooters slowly and languidly in his rough, beautiful hands. And now he's firing them: Bang. Bang.

And he smacks his lips and runs his tongue up and out each time he says the magical and intoxicating syllable: Bang. Bang. And this could be a dangerous auction, I think. But I'm ready for the ride (this aint my first rodeo, you know).

A scrawny guy with piss-yellow hair's talking to Ron, now, and I feel, watching them, now, that I'm in a Catullus poem. Or a Sappho fragment.

Then, after what seems like an eternity, Ron comes towards me slowly taking off his underwear while uttering the magic word over and over: Bang. Bang. Bang.

He stands over me, and--taking his sweet ol' time--begins to open up his beautiful, enormous pussy for me.

"Will you still love me," he croons, "when I'm old."

His pussy's so adorable, furry, and glistening, and, as he squats down, it's almost touching my face.

A rich aroma envelopes and penetrates me to the depths of my soul. The richness is overwhelming. And I can't breathe enough of it in. (Deep breath. Sigh. Deep breath.)

And, the next thing I know, I'm wandering alone in some old, misty forest. And I'm looking at my hands. And they are covered in blood. Blood that keeps changing color. Keeps changing color.

And I'm spinning around and around. Till I fall down and nuzzle into and suck, suck, suck at the wet soothing earth. (I know this smell, I think. It's like the shoveled earth of a grave. Or Poetry!)

And I'm crying. Crying out for joy. Joy. Joy.

Till joy's filled the whole, old boat of the world. And I let it all go.

Ron Silliman dream #34: Amazing Grace

Artist Rendition of Ron and Me

Paradise: And my love like a gentle mist.

A quiet park. A few gentle people. A bit of muted birdsong. Slow rippling water in the distance.

"I need you to fuck me," Ron blurts out wildly, disfigured shards of I-DON'T-GIVE-A-FUCK-WHERE-JUST-NOW-NOW-NOW!!!

And he's clutching at me like he's drowning. Or shit-faced drunk.

And he's a fiend, all desire—in heat. And I try to subdue the beast: "Let's go somewhere else, my darling." (There are more people now. And they're speaking in hushed tones. And the water sounds like it's under all sorts of pressure, about to boil, I think.)

But my love's unreachable. Unchangeable. And bites at my ear. And cackles. All peace and decorum cracked. A chaos of dementia. Color and bugs. Like the beasts that range in our blood. A sudden nausea thrusting up.

"I need to be fucked!" "I need to be fucked!" "I need to be fucked."

As he clutches at me. And claws at me, clutching. And clutching. (swoon. swoon.)

A pair of ducks come waddling up to us. (This is a nightmare! Could I die?... But I'm not ready to die! O, God, I am so not ready to die. Why? Why? WHY? WHY? O, I am so not ready to die).

They graze oblivious, their necks so astonishingly bruised. Necks like Amazing Grace. Necks like a boat lost, blazing away at the sea.

Necks like a choir of heavenly, purified annihilations.

"I need to be fucked." "I need to be fucked." "O, I need to be fucked."

And the ducks, aloof—like hooks into and down through my brain—are my slight sanity. My sole balance. My unique, drifting compass.

And, O, how they graze on so peacefully.

Like a single, wooden cross.

Ron Silliman Dream #33: KEEP OFF THE LAWN

Artist Rendition of Ron and Me

"o, such a beautiful magpie," Ron caws, pointing a penis in a jar.

My feet are raw big rafts of extravagant ice. And I can't move. Can't move even sluggishly. Could I die, I think, vaguely, ???

And then Ron's gone and when he returns he tells me he was with someone else. Tells me it was like it was no big deal. Tells me like he's doing the laundry. Like he's folding up a pair of old socks.

"now, that's some bird," Ron caws out again, as the jars dance around us with their shadowy cargo. "I only touched his leg once or twice," he tells me, and I'm thinking this guy is a crow. I want to skewer this crow: And leave this crow skewered out by mailbox as a warning like "don't fuck with my Ron."

There was a train, I remember. (And maybe I can move now? No. No.) It crawled up into lives and skies so beautifully. We sewed through the hills. It was like making a magic dress. A dress to get married in and cavort all night long in an ancient and sophisticated dance.

This feels like a fishing trip. Like one big wave. And then another.

KEEP OFF THE LAWN!!! and KEEP ALL YOUR GOD DAMNED FEATHERS!!!

The jars of formaldehyde are flashing colors as they revolve around us more and more slowly. I feel like its X-Mas. I feel like I am Jesus Christ.

KEEP OFF THE LAWN!!! ...... KEEP OFF THE LAWN!!!

And I feel as though I am rising up in a kind of wave of Neruda.

And Ron is flying with me. Yeah, Ron is my right hand man. And he is grinning. And he is touching me. Rubbing himself—beaks and claws and feathers and cawing— all over me.

And I can hear trumpets, dark and oily, like we're entering Eden for the first and last god damned time.

Ron Silliman Dream #32: The Freakiest Guy

Ron and I are out driving around looking at X-Mas lights.

Suddenly he leans, cuddling, against my shoulder:

"O, Rauan, you're the freakiest guy I've been with."

He pauses for a moment, colored lights splashed, blinking, all over his face. And he's rubbing up against me, almost purring his charged, hot body against mine:

"And am I the freakiest girl you've ever been with?"

I hesitate. A large herd of deer are blazing out from the yard we're rolling slowly past. Blazing out red, yellow and white. And I hesitate. They are so damned beautiful. And  I hesitate.

"O, no," Rauan laments, whining. "I'm not! I am not! I am not! O, no Rauan! O, no!"

And I'm immediately terrified with Déjà Vu ambiguity. Excited because a long passionate night/fire/chaos awaits us. But, at the same time, I can't even imagine what cruel and ludicrous abuses Ron is going to exhort and even force me to visit on his insatiable flesh.

And I'm suddenly not up for this at all. And I feel as though I am falling, flailing—like a dead bird—through the immensities of desire, fulfillment and annihilation.

"O, No, Rauan" .... "O, No!" .... "O, No!" ... "O, No!"

Ron Silliman Dream #31: A Major Pleasure

artists rendition of Ron and Me

During the 7th inning stretch I'm pissing next to Ron at a Phillies game. (I've always liked the Phillies).

"I want you to write my obituary," Ron says, as he shakes his cock about, quite elegantly. "And I want you to post it on my blog for me."

What can I even write, I wonder to myself, about such a rare and unique example of humanity? (I scratch my head, feeling for a moment that I'm in a hospital full of near-dead people all lined up for appointments they probably won't make it to).

"O, just say that I was one of the Titans of Modern Letters. Say that I was a major player. A major pleasure and player," Ron says, seemingly having read my mind.

And then he digs a nail into his cock and blood´s everywhere. People are streaming in and out of the restroom. And Ron's massively erect now and he's stroking himself so slowly and patiently and erotically that I've nearly lost my mind, I think, because, well, Ron should be bleeding to death and no one seems to care, and Ron keeps touching himself.

And where's the blood, now? Where's the blood?

(I am lost. I am lost.)             -----

Ron grunts me back into the moment with "O, Rauan, I love you so God Damned much." He is intense, phenomenal, a kind of Tour de Force, a natural freak, of the highest order, blah, blah.

"Say, my little bird," Ron continues, swaying a little now, "that women of all breeds, livid and glittering, sewed their breasts into the fountains and gymnasiums of more dominant women at huge parties thrown in honor of my poetry."

"Say I wasn´t just a pretty face with incredible sexual stamina! Say, say, say---Say I was the Burning Man of Modern Literature!"

("And by the way," he says, tilting, and leering, towards me, "watch Machete, that fine movie, to find my blog's password. Ho! Ho! Ho!"

And Ron's cock's rubbing against my stomach and as the tip of it glints, like a beak, I know that I am pregnant. And I can see—not far into the future—a child surrounded by vultures it keeps petting. And petting.)

"Say that my poetry talked dogs off the railroad tracks! And say I was the dark figure that fucked and fucked and fucked William fucking Shakespeare's cold-fucking brain!"

At this point Ron's jumping up and down, hand still on his cock, but not so slow and patient now. Disjointed, jerking, disfigured, but still massively potent. And massively compelling.

"Say that I was a New Religion!"

The blood's back now, foaming and splashing about, like a car wash.

"Say that I clawed and almond-assed at the world in a Brave New Conciousness!"

"And say, say, say---Say I was the Truth, my Love. Say the Truth. The Truth. The Truth!!!"

Ron Silliman Dream #27: O, Papi, O Papi (A Dove, An Orca, A Kill)

"Spring's afraid of me," Ron whispers.

But then something's happened.

"O, Papi," Ron's breathing—panicked, hysterical—in my ear.

I'm walking briskly, staring straight ahead as Ron clings to me, repeating, over and over, wild & foamy: "O, Papi, O, Papi, O Papi, I am so sorry, Mi Amor."

"Are you having my son?" a piece of paper stapled to the light post asks. "He is good boy. Please return him us."

Ron's face lights up.

"Let me kill someone for you," he blurts out.

"O, my darling, please" he continues, hand, intimately, on my shoulder, "Let me kill someone for you. Some nobody keeps track of."

"Or better yet," he adds, after a moment's thought," let me kill someone really important. Like a priest!"

And next thing I know (yikes!) we're in the old church and Ron's got someone pinned under his heaving body. But his body's not a real body at all. It looks like a squirming word-mess.

An actual, physical mass of squirming words all aglow is what my Ron's become. And this word system's violent, irresistible. Like The Borg in Star Trek, I think: Resistance is futile! And I'm appalled, of course (there's a terrible moaning emanating from the mass), but I'm also impressed with the special effects. Am mesmerized by the glow and seethe and playfulness. How do they do this, I think to myself?? How on earth do they do it.

A dove lands on my wrist (a vague sense of screaming).

"O, PAPI !!!!!!!!!!!!" Ron whoops out suddenly, like an orca's glee in the celebrating of a crucial kill. "O, PAPI !!!!!!!!!!!!" "O, PAPI !!!!!!!!!!!!" "O, PAPI !!!!!!!!!!!!"

The dove nibbles at my thumb. It's like I'm on a mountain.

This is the missing boy, I think. This is the missing boy.

Ron Silliman Dream #26 (The Stars Are Hungry)

"I love farting in the bath," Ron says.

(unfortunately it's just a fragment. a blur. and, o, God, how I wish I knew what came before and after that).

What I do remember next, though, is that Ron and I are at a huge party rollicking and thronged with naked men, women, beasts, children, galaxies, diseases, arguments, Artworks, hot dog stands, clocks, etc, etc

And I'm staring at a ravishing young woman and (snap!) I'm in bed with her surrounded by the party's seething chatter, energy, mirrors, cigar smoke, etc. But it seems like we're alone.

Hours seem to pass. Physical luxury surpasseth. Pancakes, topped with maple syrup, powdered sugar.

I orgasm—and I'm with Ron, again.

"These are all me," he says, turning his palms up in front of him in a magnificent and generous gesture.

"Yes," this is all me, Ron says. And he's winking at me.

I'm not well focused on my man, though, because I'm staring now at an agile guy dancing behind him, and (snap!) we're in a steam room, tight. And again the chattering and energies of the party roil about us, timeless, lost.

I orgasm, again—and I'm with Ron, again.

A dog barks. It's a mangy, rabid Dachshund and as soon as I've looked at it we're alone in a dark alley and it's tearing away at my thighs. The party looms in the walls. In the darkness. But, again, we're completely alone.

Hours seem to pass, again. The torment, agony and dripping is the greatest pleasure of my life. Till the dog sprouts wings and ascends, winking, as though off to herd, nipping away at the heels of celestial orgies.

I am so content, like a scene from Sex and The City.

But I am afraid. And alone now. No party. No Ron. Nothing.

The stars—they are hungry. And the wind's insatiable. I hear a monkey howl, seductively, but menacingly. The trembling hiss of a boa (an extinct type, I think).

A child asking table to table if someone would please buy a rose.

My eyes are shut. I have no desire to fuck the world. Enough is enough, I think. Enough is enough.

But then I think why not? And I open them.

Ron Silliman Dream #25: The Bloody Tutu (Spork Confrontation)

"We've got a problem," says Andrew Shuta of Spork as he and Drew Burk guide me into a fancy conference room.

Ron's sitting across from us, flanked by a couple of tough, angry looking lawyers. Ron looks absolutely soulless.

"Look," Ron starts in, kind of beaming at me. "I'll forget the $50 or so worth of royalties or the 10 or 12 author copies that you most certainly owe me but from now on I'm the cover."

He pauses for effect and then continues: "yeah, from now on, kids, I want and require my precious mug to be on the cover of each and every handmade Sky Rat you naughty Tucson Cowboys turn out."

Andrew and Drew lock eyes for a moment, clearly upset, but before anyone can say anything Ron's leaped up on the shiny table and he's got a violin and he's wearing a pink Tutu (matching his bowtie) and he's playing Kishi Bashi's "Philosophize In It! Chemicalize In It!"

Wow! Just Wow! And I'm really loving it!

It reminds me of why I've fallen for Ron in so many cities and rubbish dumps. Like the red light district in Amsterdam at 5 a.m. Or that stone park in Kinshasa.

And it's not just a decent version of Kishi's hit it's a rousing one. I'm entranced. I am floating. Love is tender. Love is sweet. Love flits about on such gorgeous feet!

Drew's climbed up on the table and he's slammed Ron's head into the table. Down into the table. And down into the table.

Ron's teeth are smashed, the violin's broken and yet somehow the song keeps playing, more and more hauntingly beautiful.

Andrew, Drew and I are walking in the rain.

Suddenly Drew's pulled out a blood-stained Tutu.

We laugh. But it's not funny. It's not funny at all.

Ron Silliman Dream #24: O, My Nipples

I sit down to Project Runway with my wife Edith and our popcorn and (woa!) Ron's one of the contestants. 

He's putting the final touches on this blue and green thing that looks just like one of the dresses my mother wore when I was a child and it makes me think The Tree of Life with that retarded Brad Pitt voice over, stars, shadows & dinosaurs.

It makes me think also of the Guns 'n Roses song: "She's got a smile that it seems to me / Reminds me of childhood memories / Where everything / Was as fresh as the bright blue sky."

And I'm tingling now because Ron's just started singing the song and that must mean this is a lucid dream and that I'm in control. That I can make Ron and I rise up together and fly away. That I can make Ron and I do whatever I want. Absolutely whatever.

The T.V. explodes. Ron's in my arms.

A naked newborn baby. But I know it's my Ron because of the way its buttocks are rubbing against my chest.

And Ron, my little baby, has found his way to one of my teats and he looks so cute nursing at me, making such wonderful little noises. I am so content.

But, now he's biting me—And I am bleeding.

He goes at me mercilessly.

I'm outraged—And the pain's excruciating. But I am so damned proud of my Ron. My baby. My little sex and death kitten. My future— And my everything.

I am bleeding, yes, but I am glowing. A proud glowing Mom.

Ron Silliman Dream # 23: Table Dance

Ron gives me a table dance.

At first I thought it was a tall beautiful blonde-haired Ukrainian woman but something about the hard-scrabbled determination of its desperate thighs and the rough way she touched my face betrayed him completely.

Yes, it's Ron Silliman.

"Would you like to shoot some pool?" she asks while running her hands over and over her black brassiere.

"I love your style and equipment," she tells me a little later but all I can think is man, o, man, Ron's tongue is like an eel. Like a god-damned fucking eel!

"Quit stripping... for me," I ask/tell him as we lie together in each other's arms watching Jerry Springer and lapping down some excellent Cream Soda.

"I'd miss it too much," Ron answers, cold and soulless. "And I don't think I'd like to be your woman because you'd probably take advantage of me in extremely bad ways."

Ron is completely Ron now. No illusions now.

The stubble on his cheek. The dark intelligence and devious passion of his doe-like eyes.

(Outside I hear a skunk raising its tail. The filthy hole.)

I pay him and leave.

New Ron Silliman Dream (#22): Grab Ass

the following is my first Ron dream in over 5 years:

Ron Silliman grabs my ass at a funeral.

Yes, I'm at the funeral of my best friend's daughter. She was 16 months old and there was a small thin tube down her throat. And, o, how her mother cried clutching at my shirt each time I visited them on my way home from work.

"Let us go then, you and I," whispers Ron, huskily, and I am powerless, watching us go trembling, impatient, like a couple of greedy insatiable teenagers. Through the cemetery gates guarded by twin giant oak trees. And on into the long tall grass.

And then the tenderness of flesh. The sweetness. All the blood and the screaming. The holding off of time and decay. And then the glowing as we stroll on hand in hand.

Maybe we've died and are strolling towards heaven, I think. But in the distance I can see a crude gallows has been erected and I can see people getting out of smart cars.

Ron's grip on my hand tightens. Suddenly he's extremely strong. Like a young Schwarzenegger. And I'm panicked.

“Look,” I say, “I’m not really sure what I've done but couldn't I just write a couple of poems, or a short symphony, and we’ll just call it even.”

The sky's like the end of time. The sky's like a bright shining dime that reminds me of our sins. And I can almost hear Robbie Williams' rising angels. And everything's going to be ok. It's going to be ok.

Ron snaps out a quick “No!” puts his hands on my shoulders, looks deep into my eyes and tells me: “I am really sorry, my little bird. I am really sorry.”

Ron Silliman Dreams

Ron Silliman dreams (and one vision) came to me in three batches. All have been posted to my blog(s) except for the 8th dream in the 2nd Batch ("In a Bar") which originally appeared in Blake Butler's on-line journal Lamination Colony.

I haven't dreamed of Ron in quite a while now. Maybe I'm done. But, of course, you never know. I miss him.

Ron Silliman Dream # 1 (Batch 1, dream 1): I am going to bury you

..



My wife tells me there’s a call for me.

“This is Ron Silliman"-- and, before I can say anything: “Where do you get off making fun of my weight?”

He's really upset and I’m afraid.

“What are you talking about?” I manage.

“On your blog and in your posts you’re labeling me as “The Big Man.”

“O, God,” I reply, laughing.

But Ron’s not amused:

“Listen here, you little punk. I am going to bury you. I am going to fcking bury you!”

I want to say that I’m referring to his internet presence. His on-line stature.

Want to say that I’ve never met or seen him. Not even a photo of anything but his face. But he’s in a zone and he just keeps on at me.

I was afraid before, but now my anxiety's through the roof.

And, so, while Ron rants on (like a fire, really) a vision comes to me:

A big lumbering man’s carrying my lifeless body into a clearing. He tosses me off like a bag of concrete and goes down at the ground, digging. He looks so strong, muscled and beautiful——and I think to myself. “He’s not fat at all.”

Ron Silliman Dream # 2 (Batch 1, dream 2): A Brain Shot

George Orwell, Ron Silliman and I are walking into a village that looks like it’s been hit by a hurricane. Silliman suddenly chirps up in a kind of screech: “There it is! There it is!” and he’s jumping up and down like a boy at his first circus.

And, yes, he's spotted the elephant--off to the side, grazing quite peacefully. It looks so relaxed and so wise.

A lackey steps forward with a gun.

Silliman grabs it. I try to wrestle it away from him, and we fall, locked, to the ground. As we struggle, panting and groaning, I notice Orwell’s sitting down, drawing.

He's drawing the elephant and he's drawing it all in blue, except for the eyes for which he's using a kind of intense emerald green.

Silliman gets the upper hand and knees me in the nuts.

I’m next to the Big-Man in a helicopter and we’re coming down at a herd of elephants.

Silliman smacks the pilot’s back and shouts out “lower! Lower!” and he leans out and he’s firing.

A baby elephant, perhaps 6 months old, slides right down into the dirt. Red dust flares up.

Silliman’s screaming:

“Did you see that? A brain shot. A perfect brain shot.”

Ron Silliman Dream # 3 (Batch 1, dream 3): Sorry

..


George Orwell and Ron Silliman are walking me through tall, dry grass.

Orwell says “You know it really hurts me to do this.”

Silliman says nothing.

In the distance a crude gallows has been erected and I can see people getting out of smart cars.

“Look,” I say, “I’m not really sure what I’ve done but couldn’t I just write a couple of poems, or a short symphony, and we’ll just call it even.”

Silliman snaps out a quick “No!” and bounds on through the grass like a dog.

Orwell puts his hands on my shoulders, looks deep into my eyes and tells me:

“I am really sorry, my little bird. I am really sorry.”

Ron Silliman Dream # 4 (Batch 1, dream 4): (a vision, actually)

..



To follow is a draft of a poem I’ve never submitted anywhere because, frankly, I think you’d have to be a complete fool and idiot to publish it:


The parrot I bought from a fat man in Laredo may well be retarded. All he grinds out is “Cunt!” “Cunt! Cunt! Cunt!” All night, even, that's all he grinds out: “Cunt! Cunt! Cunt!” One night I was drunk, really drunk, and the girl I was with wanted it in the ass: “In the ass!” she urged, “In the ass!” and I had no idea where I was, the whole scene covered in fog, and all I’m sure of’s she kept screaming “No, Pussy! No, Pussy!”


Well, for some reason while having breakfast this morning I thought of this poem (maybe it has something to with my wife asking me if wanted some sugar on my cereal and my answer--“No, Honey.”)

Anyways, it’s strange how the mind works but for some reason, staring down at my cereal there, I had a vision of Ron Silliman, The Big Man, laboring at an exquisite young creature, down on her hands and knees, and screaming--

“No, Langpo. No, Langpo.”

Thinking about this now I guess he must have been hitting her SOQ.

Ron Silliman Dream # 5 (Batch 1, dream 5): A Beautiful Conversation

I enjoy birding. But I am definitely not a "birder." I also have birds in cages. My friend Raoul, a serious Buddhist, doesn’t like cages.

"But they’re happy," I tell him. These are big cages, you see, and my birds eat really well. And they have plenty of toys. Some of them even build nests and lay eggs. But Raoul is not won over, so I try a different tack:

“Raoul, I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll let the birds go free if I can put you in a cage for a year.”

Anyways, this is all just foreplay to the next dream:

I walk downstairs and Lord!——there’s Ron Silliman, naked, in a cage. Without missing a beat, though, I call out to him. “How’s it going, Ron?” “Beautiful, beautiful,” he twitters. “I’ve never been so happy.”

And, really, he does look radiant.

So, I pull up a chair and we start talking-- and I think to myself that is the most civil and satisfying conversation I’ve had in my entire life. Some of the details are fuzzy now but here are some impressions and details I remember about this conversation:

Ron is extremely well-fed. I order him Chinese, Thai, Italian, etc. On certain Sundays the cooks from the local restaurant, La Cucaracha, take over the kitchen here and prepare treats for Ron to sample.

Ron is still writing and blogging. And it doesn’t bother him in the slightest that everything he writes and blogs has to go through me. “O, what does it matter,” he says, “when you’re so damned happy.”

Ron has had many epiphanies here in this cage by my turtles. But the "Everest" of these epiphanies, he tells me, is that “Freedom and flying are way overrated.”

Ron Silliman Dream # 6 (Batch 1, dream 6): In Court

..



I’m in court with Ron Silliman. He’s cross-examining me.

“Where were you, Rauan M. Klassnik,” on March, 2nd 2003, he asks-- winking at me, and then, again and again, all around the room.

“I have no idea,” I answer. “I’m sorry but I don’t have one of those calendar memories.”

The judge gives me a bad look.

“Then I’ll give you an easier one,” Silliman says. “A slow-pitch softball. A watermelon.”

I’m starting to feel uncomfortable. Silliman pauses for effect and then launches out again:

“Where were you on March 2nd, 1932,”

“Ha!” I exclaim right away. “I wasn’t even born then.”

Ron jumps right back at me: “It is well known, and time-stamped too, that you were at your computer using the handle ‘monkey-face’ to slander me. Slander me horribly.”

He pauses again, and then:

“And, so, do you deny this?”

I look over at the judge, and when he gives me a really nasty look I notice he’s wearing a cap that says Langpo.”

On recess, and this is all feeling very Law-&-Order, Silliman approaches me:

“you know we can settle this all very simply.” And he winks at me again.

The next thing I know I’m in a hospital room. In the bed next to me’s a young woman in a suit. She’s got a small purple bruise on her right cheek.

“We should sue,” she says.