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Hieronymus Bosch has visited my dreams again for the first time in several months but there was less verbiage than in our last encounter where we discussed the end of the world, Mayans and Robert DeNiro starring as him in a surreal Raging Bull sequel.

He exuded respect for me taking my late Aunt Virginia out to a cafe on a mountain top somewhere in the Swiss Alps.

We exchanged glances as I drove Gin and Tonic up an incredibly steep highway that seemed more like cartoon versions that just continuously circle a mountain with a pointy peak, like an inverted ice cream cone, with just enough white frosting to reveal snow covering the tip.

My car was, at first, like the Grand Prix I normally drive except it had a 5-speed and felt like a V-12. The longer I drove the more it morphed into a full size version of the minature metallic red Lamborghini Miura I purchased in 1971 when I was collecting shrunken replicas of expensive foreign automobiles I wanted to own when I became a successful novelist. I fancied the Countach, which I begged my dad to buy me.

“Son, I’m not buying you a $250,000 Italian sports car.”

He did, however, buy me a yellow 1970 Cougar X-R7, with black and white hound’s tooth checked roof like a Bear Bryant hat, 351 cubic inch, 4 barrel, 8-Track Tape Deck and no air conditioning.

When Road Test Magazine displayed an ad for the Aston Martin from Goldfinger (1964) he didn’t buy me that either.

“But, dad, it still has the machine guns, ejector seat and oil slick.”

“Son, I’m not buying you a movie car with machine guns so you can shoot the bullies at school.”

Ford, General Motors, Chevrolet, Chrysler and Dodge but never a Lamborghini, although I did get to ride in one on I-10 in New Orleans in 1973 during rush hour going over 160 mph, but that is another story.

I would also race a Gallardo through the curbs of I-95 in New York State in 2005 on my last trip to Maine. Some maturity, eh? Me in a 1997 plum colored Pontiac Grand Prix weaving in and out of BMWs, Mercedes and SUVs. I so surprised the fellow, and his blond girl friend, as I stayed beside them at 110 mph that he nodded approvingly, as if to say, “Aren’t you an insane bastard, but so are we.”

We both slowed down and drove closer to the speed limit and within two minutes passed a Jaguar and Ford F-350 on the shoulder with a half a dozen sets of flashing blues. We both acknowledged to one another “Whew” and he got off at the next exit and I popped a CD into the player and listened to Grand Funk while driving 58 mph.

The giddy dreams of youth merging with the disappointing dreams of old man.

Virginia looked much different than she did in life; her rougher complexion was smooth and her hair longer than the usual short cropped salt and pepper. She wore an elegant hat that changed colors each time she adjusted it; red, blue, pink, bleu, as in cordon, and finally black with white stripes.

The road was narrow but wider when needed, which with me driving a General Motors design at one juncture and at another a Pininfarina design. Voices began to enter my ears and VFB was unaware I was channeling Bosch, who suddenly was seated behind me, made all the more disturbing that I was driving a two seater.

“We’ll meet up later at Le Chateau de Versailles, but now I’m going skiing.”

“I never you knew you could ski,” I replied.

“Me neither, but the slopes beckon.”

“See you in Paris, break a leg.”

Bosch was gone and in another corner of my visual field I could see him skiing like a pro and screaming like a little girl. Lucky Flemish bastard. I had no idea where Paris was and wasn’t certain how I got to Chinaillon where I stopped for gas, a pee break and to ask directions.”

(Did I mention I got a D in high school French? Qui.)

“The night is cold and clear and bold with fear for you my dear,” said an unseen femme voice that alerted me to cock my head to the right and spy a sultry redhead in a short white skirt and black mesh hose riding a Moped next to me on the highway with her hair flowing upwards in slow mo.

Virginia suggested I let her pass but I was trying to watch the road, and as typical of dreams, accept that where her bike was driving she should be off the road and careening downwards.

Bosch was suddenly in the back seat whispering, “Nice legs, but you should really be looking forward.”

“I thought you were skiing?”

“Finished hours ago and drank too much Cognac at the lodge.”

Bosch was right about watching the road as I careened down the mountain side as he jumped out with skis attached and went cross country.

Virginia was gone, possibly ejected, but after an exhilerating few seconds the Moped girl was in her seat and I was back on the road. She was a hybrid, a combination of every girl I dated in college remodeled into French actress Nadia Farès from one of my favorite French crime thrillers, Les rivières pourpres.

Like a foolish fanboy I said excitedly:

“You were great playing the twins in rivières. Boy was your sister an evil bitch, but don’t get me wrong she was hot, except for the missing finger.”

“I get that all the time,” she said, “but don’t you think should watch the road?”

The bike was back, only with Virginia riding. I passed her and saw her waving furiously in the rear view. “That’s my aunt,” I told Nadia, who said, that maybe we should pick her up. Again I was driving a four door Pontiac.

“Sure, pick her up. Say, is Jean Reno as cool as he was in that film? I loved the scene where Vincent Cassel yells “Niemans!!!”

“Yes, very cool. Oh, here’s your aunt.” she jumped out and let Virginia take the front seat of the Miura again. “You and your aunt have a nice lunch.”

“Will I see you again?”

“Anything is possible; it’s your dream.”

Conclusion:

I have reoccuring dreams with the masters of art and scuplture; Escher, Ernst and Dali have all stolled through my mindscape, but so has da Vinci, although he was not as impressed with the internet as I hoped, especially when he saw some poor reproductions of La Gioconda. Who would think Leonardo had such a temper? He destroyed a computer by drawing it as a crumbled mass of plastic and wires.

The Panopticon, in Turtle-Dove City, is so filled with works of art from every conceivable style I realize every painting, woodcut, sculpture and dada manifesto I have ever seen in the 3-D reality is included in this structure. da Vinci was an early favorite, not only for his art, but more often for his journals and sketches; I can relate, obviously not as a genius but as one who loves to pen and ink literary ideas and offbeat devices that could one day revolutionize my world.

Bosch did not break and bones skiing but he did meet later, not in France but in an outlandish nightclub called Dee In A, which I quickly realized was Deoxyribonucleic acid, or DNA. The entire club was designed with DNA Molecules of each person; as we walked in the front door a machine, similar to an airport metal detector scanned us and produced our genetic code in three dimensional beauty, some as tall as three stories!

I started to explain my knowledge of genetic engineering, but saw Bosch having a Chivas on the rocks with co-discoverer of the DNA structure James D. Watson. I felt relived. He was having such a good time I decided to discuss the end of the world in another dream since the life-affirming paradigm that is DNA was far more profound.

As often is the case, I was whisked from the bar before I even got to slide down my double helix like most patrons and found myself in a deep pool or water. Not unsurprising; last night I had a clogged sewer line and at another location, a leaking water line to coalesce into my subconscious.

I didn’t see Bosch again but felt his presence when I first woke up today in those few milliseconds before awakening when I saw him flying on a white horse into a bright light.

The waterline is fixed, the sewer line is unclogged - thank you uni - and my day can move towards other business affairs. I hope I can dream Watson again, he really would be an interesting interview subject.