R.I.P. Syd Barrett
Syd Barrett, as you might have heard, is dead at 60, of diabetes. Getting the sad news prompted my recollection of this dream -- a summary of which I posted in the comments to a long-ago Friday Quiz:
Did I ever tell you about the time I dreamed I went to Syd Barrett's house? I remember it was evening, just at the hour when the sun is disappearing. He lived in a large, white, somewhat ordinary two-story house in a nondescript community just outside of some city, possibly London, but in my dream it didn't seem strange that I might be in England. I don't remember why I was visiting him; in fact, as I stood on the porch of his house, after knocking I grew nervous, and gazed around the darkening, silent suburb, realizing that I didn't know the man and that I couldn't think of what had brought me there.
There was a row of small glass panes running up one side of the door, from the level of one's feet to one's head, and as I turned back to the door I saw, filling the row of windows, a giant version of the image from this album cover.
The face grew and grew, blotting out all else. I screamed and seemed to fall into its terrifying gullet, until I woke.
I know...wrong band.
Anyway...here's to an unruly genius, whose music no doubt provided the substance for many dreams more interesting than the one related above.