IT'S MY LIFE (DON'T YOU FORGET)

Somewhere between dreams two nights ago, in space, I wondered where I was and reconsidered my first gyroscope sighting. Was it in primary school or on Mr. Wizard? 

No matter, the gyro’s twirling stirred me in unforgettable, indelible visions and sensations of balance and imbalance, order and chaos, nausea.

My dream field was black and cloudy.  Spots sparked resembling prick-light-flashes in the vision field tests I've been taking, reminding me of those Psych Dept. perception experiments I loved; they paid you cash on the spot for describing what you saw. 

Unfortunately, this time around I’m paying, and it’s all truth, consequences, diagnosis, prognosis.

I saw myself in a dream and I want to tell you everything was all right.

That is to say, I briefly caught a glimpse in the mirror of the back of my head and I looked better than I have in years. 

I’m beginning to see the light. (It's coming a little softer.)  

Flitting by, a false accusation of disloyalty from someone I care about disappears silently in a dark dust-cloud. 

It’s a hard world to get a break in. 

Over under sideways down. 

All the good things have been taken. 

We’ve got to get out of this place. 

It's My Life: Talk Talk (Link)

André Masson Images:  Top – Automatic Drawing (1924); Bottom – Automatic Drawing (1925).

TRAVELLER'S LUCK

One day, mounted on my good horse La Joie, I was crossing the pleasant hillsides of Jura.

It was in the worst days of the Revolution, and I was on my way to Dôle to see Representative Prôt and to obtain from him, if possible, a safe-conduct to keep me from going first to prison, and then in all probability to the scaffold.

About eleven o’clock in the morning I arrived at an inn in the small town of Mont-sous-Vaudrey; and after attending to the wants of my mount I went into the kitchen, where a sight met my eyes which no traveller could have beheld without a thrill of pleasure.

In front of a blazing fire a spit was slowly turning, most admirably decked with kingly quails, and with those little green-footed landrails which are so very plump.  The choice game was yielding its last drops on to a huge round of toast, which looked as if it had been fashioned by a sportsman’s hand; and close beside it, already cooked, lay one of those round leverets which Parisians never see, and the smell of which would scent a church as sweetly as any incense.

‘Good!’ I said to myself, greatly cheered by what I saw, ‘Providence has not utterly forsaken me.  Let me pluck this flower on my way.  I can always die a little later.’  

Text:  Jean-Anthelme Brillat-Savarin, The Philosopher in the Kitchen, tr. Anne Drayton, New York, Penguin, 1970. 

Images by André Masson:  Top -- Les Filles de Cuisine (1962); Bottom:  Poursuite (1942).

Revolution: The Beatles (Link)