it was some sort of a squash festival with a cookbook by barthelme (who i've never read)

there was dream before
something about the small shops
in town
and an antique store
that used curtains to particularly nice effect
as a stylistic device of the storefront
but then
outside
there were
like maybe by the hundreds
ceramic casseroles tureens what-have-you, pots
all hand constructed
some
solid colored
some
painted with ever so slightly day-of-the-dead-ish designs
swimming with beautiful fleshy spicy pumpkin dishes
stacked
one upon another
distractingly beautiful
the saucy dishes
and then i looked down
and saw
a kid glove leather soft
hand tooled
book
with three leather
folders inside
containing hand written cards
written by barthelme
which i assume means donald barthelme
which i though was odd
since i've never read him

but after i woke up
i started to think about it
and
naturally i'll start reading him
but
i did think of some connections

when i was in german 1501
we had to write a journal in german
and, i mean, i wasn't going to keep a personal journal
for what's-his-name the german grad student to read
and one of the things i wrote
quite in the spirit of aschenputtel, i thought
was a fairy tale about a young beautiful girl
her family was poor
very very poor
but, naturally, she was destined for fame
so
since there wasn't enough money to buy food
she did the only thing one could be expected to do
she cannibalized her less attractive siblings
and eventually
her parents as well
which was fine
until
on the brink of winning the miss america contest
the judges discovered her little ethical issue
and wanted to
disqualify her

i think i'm getting this right

until she did a little one on one explaining
with each and every judge
at which point
to a man
they came to understand
that her actions
had been
as american as apple pie, etc.

and gave her the crown... here she comes, etc.

well, to this my grad student seeks me out personally
and says:
that was a very rude fairy tale

whatever

fast forward to german 2301
i've moved on
to describing how i spent the weekend
in a brazilian hotel with my lover paolo
listening to the sound of the sea washing in the window
my fingers entwined in his curls

but my grad student was in another class with me
and he's in some other class
in which he's reading snow white by barthelme
and he keeps asking me questions
about word meaning
and i'm telling him:
it seems to me, completely out of context, that he's playing with language
i think, maybe, you shouldn't be focusing quite as literally as you are
and i think you need to talk with someone who's actually reading it
or maybe read what others say about it

and, i mean, barthelme had a sort of god-like status
where i went to college
when i was in a creative writing class
the guy who was teaching the class
wanted to be barthelme, i think
he kept telling us:
you need to write thenewyorkerstory, no genre crap
(i was nineteen and had no idea what that meant, but whatever)
and then, he read us one of his stories
at the end of the semester
and it was
well, i read some barthelme today
not barthelme, not by half
but even not really knowing what he was going for

he was not a man i found attractive
i have to start with that, because
all semester
i found myself staring at his crotch
and i could never figure out why
the class was at the jcc
in the eveningtime vacated galleries
of crayola and macaroni masterpieces
until we finally
graduated to middle-school sized chairs
and i was so terrified before we were going to discuss
my stories
that i got drunk before i went to class
on strawberry daiquiris
if i remember correctly

and then his story
was about the time just after a hurricane
drinking warm margaritas
swimming in the pool filled with debris
just to attempt to stay cool
just stuff
but it didn't say anything
i had more or less been through that
yet
i found his story
turgid
plain
but
turgid