The English Dream

… listen, this night I woke up early just to fall asleep again. I had a hilarious dream. I was in Jerusalem somewhere about Hillel street, strolling in my night gown and slippers—both adorned with tiny flowers. I had a sense of purpose, but I didn’t remember what the purpose was. I climbed a shaky, plastic ladder into a dilapidated attic to have a sip of water and to rest. This attic was obviously quite familiar to me. When I got there, there was a young blond woman in a spotty swimsuit and high heels, who was a refugee. I was a bit displeased with her being in that attic that I knew to be my habitual hiding place—of which I informed her. Then in a second, many other women with small children bursted in and it all turned into a Young Moms Party with chatting and cooking. Children kept falling from all Items of Furniture, but no one got hurt. I realized that I have to leave, because of this thing I had to do and because evidently there was nothing for me in the attic. I took off and climbed down the shaky ladder back to the street and then I realized that I’ve left my slippers in the attic, so I climbed back the ladder, which was literally coming apart under my fingers, dispatching glittering pieces of gilded plastic. I snatched the slippers and made it back to the street in one piece. Then I became the Temporary Replacement for the Queen of England and was driven around London in a huge Rolls-Royce, dressed in a Proper Tweed Suit. I was constantly speaking Russian, though with a vague sense that it’s not the right language for the occasion. The embarrassing part commenced when I arrived to The Country Palace and there were many people whom I understood to be relations, but of whom I didn’t have the faintest clue, yet I still had to Converse With and Express Concern. I didn’t know what the Concern was concerned with, but I had to be Polite, knowing that there Must Be something to be concerned about since all those people have gathered together. Then there was a Miss Marple’s kind of house and Pruned Shrubs, and through them I was transported into a little shabby pub—by that time I was naked and indeed concerned with the whereabouts of my flowery night gown, no matter the slippers! I’ve found the gown, but it had shortened significantly by then, leaving Certain Parts of my lower body not fully covered, so I had to go about it and improvise. I was sitting in the pub with some friendly pillows by my side, thinking of a beer (I was a bit weary after this whole day) and then you came in— as yourself, but not quite, you were wearing a different face, pale and with a more astute profile then usual. But you were habitually tall and slim, jeans and white shirt. We had a conversation, I don’t remember what about, but intense. Then I woke up, bewildered at the least, and thought I should write you and ask how are you. 

So how are you, my friend?