late last night near morning, I’m on a boat. tidy, motel-like room. a tuxedo'd, Costanza-ish dude keeps poking his head in to tell me “Trotsky is almost here! Trotsky is almost here!” then, a guy climbs in thru the window, who is Trotsky, tho he looks nothing like Trotsky, and I’m very excited to see him, because we’re old, dear friends. I kiss him on the forehead. he is exhausted and needs to lay down. I say in russian, “dear Lev, it is so good to be here with you again.” he lays down and doesn’t say much.

but wait, I think, it’s 2016. it can’t be Trotsky. so why’d I call him Lev? it’s a pun about art, I decide. “did you like the joke about art?” I ask Trotsky. Trotsky answers, “on a boat, everything one says is a joke about art.” I decide this is true and Trotsky is great
then I realize that it can’t be a pun about art, because calling someone Lev has absolutely no relationship to art. instead I tell him, “I call you Lev because you are our lion!” (this makes more sense because the name Lev, as in Trotsky, Tolstoy, or Schreiber, means “lion.”)
he looks over at me and says, “I am the Other Trotsky.”
then I wake up and see this! I believe this is as poorly as it is possible for the human mouth to produce the sounds of french. I believe Trotsky may have been a wooden figurine who sat too near a xmas tree & was accidentally turned alive by magic.
& most of all, I eagerly anticipate meeting the Other Trotsky, may his Other Revolution come soon.