On last Wednesday’s show, which is preserved as a podcast, I read out the lyrics of the song and then played it.
Somewhere in my past is a dream, or a sequence of dreams (in the sense of night-visions rather than lofty aspirations) that keeps me moving in a specific direction. I don’t remember the details of the dreams, especially the earliest ones. I do remember dream-like episodes in childhood that formed my inner being more certainly than any external facts of my daily life. One happened when I was three, and my family pulled into a neon-lit, sparkling new motel on the Alcan Highway in the Yukon. I ran down a corridor and opened a door. Behind the door was a forest… the shell of the motel was being built without removing the small birches and pines that grew in that spot. I saw little houses, small people, dogs and cats, moving around at the foot of the trees. I saw the scene only for a moment and then was whisked away to our room. My parents didn’t believe me.
Now, after having lived many different outward lives (who needs reincarnation, when I can live thousands of lives in this one life!), I’m struggling with the necessity to finish a thesis and finding myself pulled onward in other directions by these compelling dreams. Much though I love Monkey, I may need to bid him goodbye.
Here’s how Joanna Newsom describes her formative dream:
“I think every song I write is just attempting to bring back this moment that I had when I was probably a year old. I had a dream about a huge cat and a huge dog wearing party hats, holding a big glass bowl of jelly beans and looking at each other in the eyes and being really silent. And they were standing at the top of these stairs and I swear that the stairs — and I know this sounds ridiculous — but in my dream, I woke up and I thought that I had seen eternity. I thought that I had actually visually seen what it looked like for something to not to end, you know?