2003-11-06

Acoustic Bicycle Stories

Numero Tres

Day 2. I wake up in a field. Having a dream of what I fear most would happen as I was falling asleep the previous night, that is, that the team that used said field for soccer practice would come out and use it while I was sleeping under the goal post.

So this dream of the young soccer players running out onto the green, dew kissed grass jolted me to wake, anxious that I would find myself in such embarrassment as I would not know what to do with myself.

And it turned out, as I awoke, that the dream itself, though vivid and particular, was a dream. But not only a mere dream, also a prophesy. About 5 seconds ahead of reality. That is, there was but no delay between me opening my eyes from the dream image of men running onto the field, when I saw in actual time, actual heads bobbing over the horizon, and the first, second, and third players approached the goal on the other side of the soccer field. What a bizarre, but persuasive event that convinced me that there are things truly that we do not know. I did not have time to meditate on the ripple in reality that had just happened, but instead found a way to quickly and quietly stash all of the things I had laying about me: flashlight, clothes acting as pillows, canvas and sleeping bag; and so I walked my wet components towards the exit, and back onto the nearby road.

This field was in Sleeping Giant State Park, in the Quinnipiac University lands. And yes they do have Sunday morning soccer practice at 7 am. I was stunned, and embarrassed. The coach hailed me, as my trail provided that I had to saunter right by where he was standing, talking to the other coach. The team had begun its first warm-up lap around the fields and was at a comfortable distance away from me. Of course they had all seen me pack up my stuff up. �Did you get any sleep?� He asked.

�Yeah, a bit,� I replied.

�Did you get wet?�

�Not too much.�

He smiled to his accompanying coach, and joked, � �e must have had a good sleep to not notice the rain�

�Do you get good tips, you must . . . � referring to the guitar.

The coach was black, with a British or perhaps South African accent. He was slightly condescending, but generally didn�t care that I was on his field. I made my way out of there and on to the road in a hurry, shaken and feeling foolish.

As I was exiting Sleeping Giant State Park, I noticed a posted Xerox ad for the show I had played at the night before, at the Space in Hamden. I had seen a few of these along the road, stapled to telephone poles. I ripped this one off and put it in my bag.