At the very moment that a young Jose Fernandez, having recently pulled his drowning mother from the Gulf of Mexico during a storm as revolutionary guards ashore were cursing their terrible if not subsconsciously misarrayed marksmanship, was watchiong his first major league baseball game beneath the circular ruin of the Tropicana Dump, he was also mowing down the Tampa Bay Razed with less compunction than those who had fired upon him, if not even with a certain relish. You may protest that the time when the adolescent El Keed, as yet unformed, dreamed of mowing down some opponent other than the Naimoli-blighted Razed of his youth because in his dream he was wearing a manta ray and not a kitsch-stylized Rainbow Warrior he was not dreaming the same dream in which he pitched yesterday afternoon, I would remind you that in the dreamer’s dream he is wearing that gonorrhea-discharge colored “M” of Scrooge McLoria’s “I really always wanted to be an artist but had no talent except for screwing people over” underimagining and in fact it was exactly the same image as the manta ray, because two images can and in fact always are one. Like loyalties to rooting interests. Imprinted too late in life, El Keed’s loyalty has transfigured itself. That is how it is in dreams.
Now it also happens that during my prior night’s dreaming I had dreamed that a teenaged William Gibson dreamed he was reading Borges for the first time in his grandmother’s lettuce-colored old chair, as as happened by Gibson’s own admission in his introduction to the most recent edition of Ficciones about which he confesses feeling unworthy to have written, but whose worthiness I reconstituted by dreaming that Gibson had been dreamed by Borges when, in fact, Gibson was to dream Borges into Mona Lisa Overdrive as a digital Aleph in the shape of a Brancusian cube himself at the very same dreamtime that Umberto Eco was dreaming Borges as a blind medieval librarian, even though Borges had already dreamed or was simultaneously dreaming Gibson, Eco and El Keed, only to awaken in the morning whereupon I read on the Feesh web page that El Keed had dreamed as an adolescent of pitching in the Tropicana Dump and was by his own admission “living his dream” there.
You want to try to distinguish El Keed’s dream of someday pitching in the major leagues that he dreamed that day beneath the ugliest, dreariest and most depressing convectitude in the game and the dream he dreamed he was dreaming as in that selfseame architectonic travesty today beginning at 1:10 PM on May 26 he went seven innings, scattering six hits, walking one while striking out twelve (including ten of the last twelve he faced) and allowing only one run on a flyblown home run bespeckling his day’s line like a faint schmear of bird shit by somebody named Guyer while his own dreammates amongst the Rainbow Warriors fetched him nine runs on fifteen ridiculous hits – come now, hath not this all the ectoplasmosis of dream? – as he reduced his ERA to 2.82 (which in his waking state had lingered in the high 4s and 5s onceuponatime) and hauled the Feesh to 25-22 in their eternal fourth place niche in the NL East?
Forget it. Dreams are for dreamers, not for the wide awakened likes of us. We’re nitpickers from the moments our lids are parted. Meh.