One of Ten Thousand (Impossible Dreams)

Every single time I read something, one more component of one more facet of one of my ten thousand impossible dreams becomes a little clearer, a little more cohesive- cohered in my brain as equal parts manageable, reachable and utterly far-fetched, absurd and (as the name implies) impossible.

On the plane from Charlotte to Philadelphia, I started 'A Good Year'.  I continued it on the plane to Manchester.  It is the kind of book I take on when I feel like an easy read to get me back in the flow of things; when I haven't been able to sit down and properly devour a book in a while, I need something charming and nostalgic to get me eating again. And it did exactly that.

Half a book later, I landed in New Hampshire after a weekend of glory in North Carolina, wanting to immediately hop another plane and restart life in France. How much trouble could I possibly get into, right?

Yep,  one of my ten thousand impossible dreams- to leave this North American life behind and take up, myself, my dog, a straw hat and espadrilles, in France.  Perhaps Spain- either would work honestly (where do I sign up for a relative to bequeath me land?).  The landscape of Provence charms me at the moment so that component of place takes shape with ease.

What I would not give for an ancient farmhouse, table set outside in the violet sunset, air shimmering with summer heat and fragrance.  What I would not give for a love with whom I can share wine and laughter and the sweetest and simplest of lives in that farmhouse.  What I would not give for the opportunity to feel alive and part of the landscape- to feel good; to walk through a local village and make up stories for the old men playing boules, the same old men who yell in savory foreign languages at me when I accidentally walk across their courts.

One of tens of thousands of impossible dreams. 

At the same time I pick up Frank O'Hara's 'Lunch Poems' and immediately being that great of a writer is set into my dreams as well.  It is a movable impossible dream- to be a great poet, a great writer; great enough to make a living because other people actually want to read what I have to say- in poetry, in prose, in essays or long works of (non)fiction. 

Combine the two, and another element solidifies in my mind's eye.  On top of the table that is set outside is a manuscript, half typed, half hand-written and waiting to be typed.  It sits under some trinket that I bought on a whim at the airport, or maybe at the local antique market, that I use as a paperweight.  It has been discarded, for the moment, in favor of the every-evening drink which keeps us company as we witness the sunset.  It has been discarded in favor of a bowl of olives which are oily in their dream-goodness, crackers with soft cheese and maybe anchovies or artichoke hearts.  It has been discarded in favor of bare feet, languorous stretches, and head-thrown-back laughter (although if is even beginning to be possible, I am not nearly that graceful, the laughter would be through the wine, which would be spit or spilled).

And then Henry (he's inevitable) starts barking. 

Back to work, Mom.. Bark to work.

The sigh of the impossible, Friends.  Until next time.