hello, my name is Palate

A Black Orpheus to set you dreaming.

I've said I hate to dream.
But then my father read me some spare journal pieces:

Fall 1992 (the year when I was five)
Marge and I drove over the prairie last night and we saw the quarter moon. She told me during the day the moon's mom moved his bed back to where he started and at night the moon moved his bed wherever he wanted to. The moon's mom's name is Andrew. He has lots of brothers and sisters and three silly boys, three silly girls, and three stray girls. The stray girls just seem to be part of the family. When I asked her how she knew all of this she said the moon had written her a letter.

Oh glory! That I was pen pals with the moon!

And although I begin to wonder at how our lives are so filled with things that can break--I'm getting tired of my own voice saying "Cuidado, you can't do that, you will break all your crayons; your plate is going to fall off the table and break; you're going to fall; fireman's hats sometimes just break," I have a tiny little voice in my head haunting me with "you'll shoot your eye out"--and although Black Orpheus was filled with all the feeling of inescapable dread my dreams fill me with, we can still in the end have loved and have been pen pals with the moon. Then make the sun rise with a song we've just made up.