не знам дали е нужен този послепис. всмисъл, знам, не е нужен, но не знам дали разваля и украсява. май първото, но все пак, написах го, и го добавям тук (обещавам да не пълня хомили с други мой неща):
(са като го гледам, послеписа не ме кефи много, освен последния параграф може би, но карай, ще го оставя)
PS:
I wrote this letter yesterday and when I was finished it was already too late for me to go to the post office, so I postponed the sending for today morning. Tonight, however, I again had a dream of you and me. It was a very fleeting dream, and I remember it only vaguely. I don’t know if there’s anything special in this dream but I definitely felt very excited about it when I woke up. So without further prefacing, here is my dream, as I remember it (and I am still in my bed with a pen and my letter to scribble this down before daylight diffuses the memory of it):
We were standing in a park, but this was no park I knew. It was a very weird park in fact (“in fact” – what an unfitting phrase to use in a dream description.) It was sort of like a huge natural amphitheatre, all of it covered with bluish green grass; the rising ground, where, were this a theatre, the audience would sit, was very densely crowded with trees. I remember trying to focus on the trees and see what kind they were, but in my dream, I just couldn’t produce a single clear image in the distance. In the flat part where we were standing – it was about as big as a basketball field – there was just grass. No flowers, no weeds, no bushes – just plain, recently cut bluish green grass. (Right now I am badly trying to remember how you or I were dressed, but, alas, I fail to conjure up any image of our clothes; yet we were certainly not naked, I would have remembered that.) We were standing in this field of bluish green, surrounded by those indistinct trees, and I remember you saying something I could hardly understand (not because I couldn’t hear you – your voice was perfectly audible) – your syntax was awfully strange. Maybe it was my fault, I don’t remember, but everything you said, every sentence, I had to reassemble its words to understand it. It was as if you were throwing a cluster of words at me which I had to first arrange in my mind before recognizing the actual sentence. I have forgotten exactly what you were saying, but I remember one sentence perfectly clear, it was a question, I think: “If kill you sleep dreams do you kill.” I remember very lucidly rearranging those words into the question: “If you kill sleep, do you kill dreams?” Now that I look at your words written on the paper, I notice that this is not the only possible coherent arrangement. But anyway, in my dream I deciphered your words as mentioned. After that question of yours, I don’t remember what happened for a while at all. It feels as if I have slept through this part of my dream. What I remember next is us still on the same bluish green field, only now it was raining. A heavy rain, the kind where you can hear the raindrops on your head. You said, “Is it raining?” I said, “You speak normally again!” And you just explained how that thing with your messed up syntax had just been a phase; a “phase” you called your complete lack of a sense for basic syntax! (Remembering this now I’m grinning.) “Is it raining?” you repeated, and I said that yes, of course it is raining, can’t you see? Then you said that you can see it, but you cannot feel it – and indeed as I looked at you I saw that your face, your hair, your neck, your clothes (whatever they were) – all of you was dry, perfectly dry, not a single drop of the heavy rain had touched you. I remember us sharing the excitement of this miraculous phenomenon. After looking at you carefully and the rain above and around you we concluded somehow that it must be an enormous accumulation of coincidences that not a single rain drop touches you. I remember holding out my bare hand and telling you to look at it. In the next seconds a few wet cold drops fell on my hand and I said that theoretically there was a chance that not one of those few drops would fall on my hand, and, I went on to explain, shouting for no obvious reason I can remember, that the same way all those drops that could fall on you, by chance, don’t hit you. I remember very clearly what you said then: “I’m so ashamed. I’m sorry for not getting hit by the rain.” And, embarrassed, you started running around, trying to trick the drops into touching you, but they didn’t. I felt sorry for you, I did. But suddenly I felt that it would be a great idea to start singing to you; indeed this sounds absurd, but so does, you might agree, the whole situation we were in. (The dream is over soon, please do not lose patience.) So I started singing. First just humming, then in la-la-la, and then with loud words I fail to remember. I don’t think I sang any real song, I sort of made my song up as I went. And you danced. Your running around, your desperate yet unsuccessful rain-catching attempt turned into dancing, something like a Viennese waltz. You turned and you spun and you run to-and-fro around on the bluish green grass that had turned almost entirely blue from the rain. And then I woke up. I will never set an alarm clock in my life, ever again.
Anyway, I just felt like jotting this dream down as a postscript. I don’t know what it is supposed to mean (I’m not a firm believer in the idea of dream interpretation but having written it down and especially sending it to you does imply some implication on my part – what said implication is, I honestly don’t know.) Accept this postscript as a little doodle after my signature that might or might not purport something.