Dream of Father Paschal and the Fries
dream as poem, poem as dream
Article voiceover
Rerun from 2023
It’s Saturday night. I’m walking home from Wendy’s, a large to-go bag in my hands, when whom should I chance to meet but my old favorite monk, Father Paschal, who is hurrying to vigil mass to celebrate it, no doubt, in his cheerful energetic way. It occurs to me I haven’t seen him in a while and haven’t told him about my drift away from the church, my veering towards something like zen, and my divorce. Perhaps I’m also vaguely aware, in the dream, of the odd fact that Father Paschal is no longer a denizen of this world, and so perhaps this walk is taking place in a border zone between this life and the next, which is fine; so I offer him some fries and open the bag to reveal two large cartons of them nestled beside some burgers I’m bringing back home for my daughters who often resort to such fare. “No thanks,” the padre says, seeming to straighten up and quicken his pace. But then the drift of the penumbra of the warm salty, tasty fries seems to reach him, and he pauses to examine them. “Well, on second thought …” He plunges both hands into the grease-stained paper bag and pulls out two large, lovely handfuls, commencing with gusto to eat as we walk on.
“Well, on second thought …”
It's the smallest things that make a poem become a real place with real people in it.
A dream scenario real perhaps once with elements of deep sleep state that can be eschewed in days past by mixed emotions on a path way to understanding Zen.
I too have been influenced by the step into the curtain that opens just for a few seconds to glimpse gone moments to later make sense in a waking world that is questionable.