Anything is Better Than Working on the Book

This is the dream I had two nights ago: A hockey game seen from the tenth row of the bleachers, slightly above and to the left of the action. Below me two goalies are fighting while the referees and other players (forwards centers defensemen) look on, sometimes skating around to get a better view. Both goalies are lying on the ice: a bearded man in a green sweater and a man with dreadlocks and a maroon sweater, both of them ensconced in their bulky goalie pads.

One of the bearded goalie's arms is missing below the elbow and has been fitted with a black wooden peg which the bearded goalie is using to steadily bludgeon his opponent. The blows from the black peg-arm fall with metronomic regularity; it's clear that the dreadlocked goalie is beaten and incapable of defending himself. I yell and pound on the glass for someone to stop the fight, but the steady driving blows from the black peg go on and on.

Eventually the all the hair and skin is pounded away from the dreadlock-goalie's head, leaving a white gleaming skull in which shift back and forth two helpless eyes. Now the wooden arm, as it lands its blows, makes a clinking sound on the shining bone in which the overhead sodium lights are reflected. The beaten goalie's face and hair hang around his neck like a frayed collar. Still nobody stops the fight. The referees, the players, and the crowd are all sunk, like me, in dream-quicksand.