LUCID DREAMS WITH LIFER FRIENDS

We bridged the night and the dawn light with the sounds of our voices. “Working through some things.” Smoking the occasional ill-advised Camel to move the process along from an itty bitty hustle into a dull roar. Like a crash. We worked through everything – work, death, sex, love, family, drugs, writing, rap – all the big ideas, everything that matters. The mechanicals and the abstracts. Also, predictions for our whereabouts, and those of our friends, at the moment of the Mayan apocalypse (2012, two years after Lost ends). It felt like we were beating something. Being real and winning at it. I read Woody Allen’s Bergman obit in the Times and I think this fits:
I’ve said it before to people who have a romanticized view of the artist and hold creation sacred: In the end, your art doesn’t save you…
I have joked about art being the intellectual’s Catholicism, that is, a wishful belief in an afterlife. Better than to live on in the hearts and minds of the public is to live on in one’s apartment, is how I put it.
I am fortunate to spend my alive-time in my apartment with people who are so terrific.