I dreamt I was in Iowa. I had moved there at twenty and lived to be a hundred years old. I had written a novel, but it was never finished.
I dreamt I was locked in a game of chess with Jorge Luis Borges. I outsmarted him. We played three games, and I lost every single one.
I dreamt I was curled up on the floor of Roberto Bolaño’s apartment in Mexico City. I hadn’t eaten in days, and my vision was blurry. He held me tight and fed me tomato soup.
I dreamt that God spoke to me through Thomas Pynchon. He told me James Joyce was still alive, living in Akron as a vampire called Jacques. He only drinks the blood of the brokenhearted.
I dreamt I was living in East Berlin. Somebody told me a memorial to my father had been painted on the Wall. When I responded that he was still alive, they laughed and said it was good to be prepared.
I dreamt that Pope Francis renounced God and came to live with me in Boca Raton. He wasn’t a good housemate, but we managed. When he died, very few people attended his funeral. I was not among them.
Categories: creative, dec 7, henry schmidel, vol 25