“Where am I? Who am I? Why am I?”
I woke from a dream in the early hours of the morning and couldn’t get back to sleep. I just ended up staring out the window, watching the sun make itself seen with its small margins of horizon light, through the trees, into the houses along my street. The dream shouldn’t have shook me that much, but I still couldn’t shake it. It wasn’t about me. I was just sitting on a couch in a house I didn’t recognize, watching an old TV in black and white. On the TV was some type of news. They were announcing that Allen Ginsberg had lost his ears. The details weren’t clear, but the bottom line was—Allen Ginsberg had no ears, not any more. Whether someone had got to him in the night, or whether he had done it to himself, maybe for spiritual reasons, maybe not, I couldn’t tell. But when the camera focused on him, he was smiling. That’s what stuck with me as I stared out the window, naked, with the sheets wrapped around me. Take away his ears, but he still has that smile.