All That We See or Seem Is But a Meme Within a Meme...

Last Sunday night I dreamed that Eugenie Scott, Richard Dawkins, and a man who may have been Ernst Mayr were in the Ice Capades (no, really, I’m not kidding). My mother and I were astounded at how well everyone performed on the ice. (Actually, I don’t remember anybody doing much of anything on the ice.) I used to figure skate, myself.

Afterward, there was a massive book signing by all participants involved, and Eugenie Scott said to me, “You'd better get to Dawkins while you can, he's probably going to bolt soon,” so I was frantic to have Dawkins sign my copy of The Ancestor's Tale before he, fatigued and wanting to withdraw, left with Lalla in tow. My mother said that we had to get a copy of The Ancestor’s Tale for my sister, but I told my mother to go downstairs to the bookstore and buy it, and I would run upstairs to “hold a place in line.” Actually, as I, mercenary that I am, ran pell-mell up the stairs, I could see that there was no longer any line in front of Dawkins, who was capping his pen with a smile at his manager. (This was one of those dreams in which I feared that I could not get there in time.)

Everyone seated behind their small desks for their book signings was chatting casually amongst themselves, as the room was nearly empty of admirers, and suddenly Eugenie Scott, just as I reached the table in front of Dawkins, asked the manager, a funny-looking, bald, squat man, to tell a story about their rehearsals for the show. The manager rolled his eyes as if he’d heard this before and inexplicably flushed, while everyone leaned toward him in anticipation. I had no idea why the man was so embarrassed but people giggled, including Dawkins, who as I waited held up a finger at me, and I nodded to him. We smiled at each other, and we both turned to the manager who was shaking his head. Without knowing the reason for the manager's hesitation, I joined in the smothered guffaws. In an effort to rush things along, and also perhaps to be witty in front of Dawkins, I quipped, “Something tells me that there is only one story left!” and the manager turned beet red while everyone laughed.

At this point, my mother arrived and deposited my sister's book on top of mine, and also gave me my hardcopy first edition of Climbing Mount Improbable [this part is true--I found one last week at Booksmart in Uptown for eight dollars!] and said to me, “I found this as well.” My helpful mom. Dawkins blinked at the pile, and I warned the manager, “For every moment that you delay telling your story, we will add another book!” The room burst into laughter, and I woke up laughing.

I guess that's what happens when you start writing poetry again.