Tim pie face circa 1980, not of Frances’s dream
January 12, 1989
I woke from this dream.
Timothy and I are sitting on top of a very large apple pie, a mountain of apple pie. I dig my finger into the middle, it turns to crisp paper, which we peel back. We are on the roof of the Mexico City Symphony. Tom and Jill (Tim’s brother and sister-in-law) are down there at a party milling around with their viola and violin under their arms. Tom is laughing and smiling, as always. It is bright down there, everybody is dressed up. It looks like fun, not an uptight situation. We slide through the pie.
Suddenly we are in an old Spanish house with corridors and a garden in the middle. Carpenters are working on it. One man seems to be the boss. He says, “You can’t go in that part until we finish,” pointing to the left wing of the house. But that’s where we want to go.
Switch. We sit on a bench. Timothy turns into this fat, balding, funny looking old man. He just sits there looking around. He has a paunch, but I still like him. He looks nothing like Timothy will ever look. But he has an interesting mind and he is interested in what I have to say. I bring him a photo cube with pictures on it. You have to turn it a certain way and the pictures change. In other words you go around one time and there are certain pictures, but you turn it and a whole new set appears. It is a photo essay, without words. From another time, not modern.
There is a picture of a cute little boy, about a year old. Oh yes, these pictures move. The child crawls toward us, laughing. “We have to do something to save him,” I say to Tim. I don’t know what’s wrong. There seem to be a lot of people milling around, from a different time, maybe from the future or another kind of world. Nobody is fighting, nobody is mad. Everybody is reading or interested in something. It is very beautiful there.
There is some kind of bush in he middle of the corridor. We are on the veranda, next to the garden. A small boy, four or five, comes by with two little girls and a drill. He starts to drill the bush. I say, “Stop, you’ll ruin it. Where did you get that drill?” “From the carpenter, the head guy, over there.” I say, “Go out in front and drill on the building; leave this place alone.” He keeps drilling. I take the drill; he stands there dumbfounded. I say, “You have to learn to care for things, you were hurting this poor bush.” I go to find the main carpenter, give him the drill, tell him the story. “Good,” he says. “He has to learn the lessons.”