Butterfield Talking the Blues

It was the image of a tunnel, long and descending that awakened me and I felt my way to the computer. Its a picture I remember seeing at my eighth birthday, in it a demographic slice of rural culture circa 1973. It is scented, rubbery and chalky at the same time, and it filters the words that come to my mind only to be altered before they reach my fingers.

You had on a cape and I don't know why. As the lights dimmed and the candles sparked I slipped into a trance of electrified and mostly incoherent image reflection. The symbolic nature eluded me then but since I've had time to consider that I knew things then, intuitively, that thirty years of conscious thought still hasn't illuminated.

But after all, it's only a picture and you never said any of those things to me. It was just a dream of a dream I thought I had once when I was a boy. Those memories are so hard to pin down, so hard to interpret, even after all these years of introspection. Its getting so I can't tell awake from asleep.

I still remember what I wished for.