—– DREAM —–
New country setting, the place that we bought. It was a house with a barn about a couple hundred feet up the hill. The barn had seen better days. Dilapidated. It seems like it had gone through a variety of incarnations. Left the car, up there, overloaded with all sorts of my stuff inside. So overloaded that the back hatch had to remain open. And if it snowed I would lose it. Not only would it be cold to drive but everything inside would be impacted. So I looked at the barn and wondered where I would get enough money and enough energy to make it, to restore it to a point that I could at least lock it up so people wouldn’t break in and take my stuff.
About this time I looked down the hill towards the house and noticed that amidst all the neighbors that were now just in the general area a strange looking entity, a person perhaps? Or maybe another kind of creature. Or maybe a person leading a creature was winding their way up the hill. The creature that the were leading was half horse and half griffin. A strange sort of beast. In any case, I went up to it , it was very tall, and I reached up and without thinking and shook its hand. Immediately, I was in an office with a woman that resembled this creature. Perhaps it was a realty office or something similar? As far as like a small town business office. And I began to envision, as I spoke to the person in passing, how my dreams were to restore this building. Fix up the building, now, had turned into a shoe store that was somewhat dreamlike in a sense. It was a projection of an innate desire to have a small quiet little life with a nice business.
And this, of course, was now part of a Walter Mitty-like film that I guess I was a star in.
—– DREAM —–
I had a visit last night from Errol Flynn. He came to see me. This is coming from an old waterfront one dark apartment two-story. Sort of a down and outer. Amidst the old warehouses and industrial shops. He came and told me that I should know that he was an addict. I told him I knew. I told him that I would be happy to talk to him whenever he needed to talk. It was odd because I had to prime each response almost as if I was (silently) asking the question and then he would respond. The sad thing. He ended up in a place that we met nearby. They had a (warehouse) store where they had a bunch of open model boxes. Half-built plastic models of ships and other types of large craft. All on a big gigantic table resting at knee level. It extended fifty to sixty feet in one direction and twenty-five in the other. That was just outside the apartment that was in a Pike Street, Seattle type of setup. It was sad. It was sad.
Odd, isn’t it? How many draw upon fantasy when reality is there and waiting. As if fantasy will somehow take them away from themselves? The irony being, of course, that most people don’t know themselves. They just have a placebo that was handed out to them at such an early age that they would never know the difference. And, if they’re lucky, they’ll spend the rest of their life searching to find out who in the Hell they were robbed of from the beginning. There are some theories that the place we live, good old mother Earth, is a prison. A prison of the mind and the spirit. And perhaps the soul. Some place where it gets parked. Hard to believe, perhaps? Maybe a physical embodiment in a material sense is a leg iron? Who knows?
—– DREAM —–
A Tim Allen character, handicapped, or something like that. His old older girlfriend is no longer interested in him. He is living in a dugout. You know what it’s like? Basically a ducted ceiling. You head was a ceiling or solo. A very weird situation that was more of a hideout than anything else. His friend was basically in there posing saying, “Hey babe! Come be with me.” She came in and found him saying, “You’re both a bunch of rats! What are you trying to do to me?” She was mad.
This culture. Everything’s too old for it. It’s only allowed to exist in the temporary present. This is just a designation, perhaps? Something old is , maybe an antique, which means it has value! Which means somebody is able to sell it to somebody who is young and inexperienced with it. But really, it’s just a case of selling products because everything old is in competition with everything new. These are just terms for a showroom somewhere in the sky. No longer a mall or a chain store, or you name it. It’s just there to be sold made by slaves in the far east. That’s our culture now. Everything else is disposable, is an impediment, is a doorstop in the way. Just forget it! Old men, old women, old words. Ignore them like you would a puddle of noxious waste. Because all it’s going to do is impede you ability to buy something new.
—– DREAM —–
On a (carnival) midway somewhere, nearly up here, a young Feminist radical tricks a guy with a locker into throwing his keys. Giving his keys and access, his money to her. And then (she) turns around and says that she’s going to fuck him over. This was all supposedly because she knew a person that the guy knew. He’s an older white male so basically the idea is that’s she’s going to punish him for ‘White Privilege’ and other crimes against humanity. But he comes back with a long cattle prod with which he intimidates her. He makes her give up the keys and the money to which he leaves on the ground, initially as she runs off crying. Looking for someone to come back and take her part. Initially, it started on a bus and she says, “I’m going to get two bruthas!” Meaning two black men. “To come teach you a lesson!” This is who she is looking for. She comes back and he has disappeared. Only the signs are there and she can’t find him. And she’s frustrated and mad and everything else. And at this point the assistant’s of the man come and start taking down the sign getting ready to move on. And again she comes back and she’s pissed, aggravated, and mad, and crying, and everything else, because she couldn’t follow through on her plot to teach this guy a lesson for being a man.
He found that he was no longer able to create. No longer an artist. No longer a writer. No special gift for properties that made him any different than say? . . . the lamps in the room or the pictures on the wall. Just reflective of the greater society that he existed within. His haven a small dusty out of date apartment that was a legacy of those that had fathered and mothered him through life. It was clear and most obvious to him when he looked around that he was in a museum. A collection of artifacts that in someways portrayed his innocence and in some ways expelled the notion of any other presence in the world beyond his own. A substantiation that of the egoism and selfishness that was the sea within which he drifted. Stupid phrases and connections that were made spontaneously as the impulse struck his tongue to see it clatter across his teeth. There was certain competition with the room. Normally he never played the music that he had collected in the past. One of his great hoards and treasures of material objects that seemed so important one by one that he had acquired them at great expense. At least for him. Now simply pile of mostly unused refuse. He thought about the dream that he had had the previous night. Something about a family home purchased bereft of a family. A somewhat conventional house from yesteryear. While up the hill, some several hundred feet, an old barn now in long disuse. The barn itself was large and empty and bare. Somewhat of a stable more than a farmer’s (place of) storage. It had lofts. However, they were empty. (music suddenly rising up in volume to a crescendo)
The interruption by the music from the stereo seemed fantastic. Here he was, trying to recite something that would substantiate his existence, and now he had to be in competition with his stereo which suddenly seemed to have a life of its own? The volume bursting forth at an incredible level. Probably a lazy sound engineer, who when prodded, pumped the fader a little more effortlessly than he should have. Who cared!?! This was all artifice and artificiality. Just a recitation of events, and elements, perhaps real and perhaps not, that may have made some sort of sense once time. But now, was just a random gesture to substantiate the fact that he no longer had anything useful to say. And was only following along the course of the stream of his own self-interest. A self-interest to survive. A self-interest to nurture himself. A self-interest to to explain what otherwise was inexplicable. An association with another had commenced! Someone that he, initially, could never see had any possibility of promise. And yet, little by little he found too many similarities with himself which made him think the whole experience had become a sort of mirror. Something of a revealing in an archeological sense of things long disused, and hidden, and entombed, buried somewhere in the locale. It was now being excavated, bit by bit, in terms of incrementally removing abandoned dust from what became a (descending) stairway into the past.
The past being recovered like the unknown that had been deposited upon it like sediment over the intervening years. Too many disappointments. Too many roads that led nowhere. Too many projects instantly created that lost their luster and sheen and settled to the bottom of a creek to be calcified in the sediment of lime. Who was he now? Who was anybody’s guess! Did it matter really? It was just a daily cycle of awaken and drift off. What was the substance and reason of what was laying in-between? The passing of the orb. The turning of the Earth. The regularity of the ministrations of those around him in worshipping the nine to five. And the conventionality of family and heirs, and responsibility that seemed to him so petty. Yet knowing that he was petty to them. A passing type of obstacle, perchance. Who knew?
His eyes had begun the fail. Since youth he was prone to migraine headaches the source of which was equally mysterious as the frequency. At time, yearly, at times, several incidents per same. Now, in later life having reached the dubious milestone of ‘middle age’, they were arriving with an alarming regularity. One that inferred a connection with one of the failing orbs in his head. It was said by many that the lobes of the brain, both left and right, possessed a different personality and a different agenda. One intellectual and one unconsciously and esoteric. ‘Right brain’ and ‘left brain’ were reversed supposedly for some strange reason. Perhaps to confound the gods? Perhaps some lurking extraterrestial? But he could never get straight which brain was controlling which half? It was obvious that what should have been his left brain had failed in terms of wishing to see the outside world any further. Whereas the right brain had to take up the slack and compensate by performing all the worldly duties and accede to the worldly demands that its fraternal twin across the aisle was too reticent to command. He had heard another plausible theory that the side of one’s face floated about over the years and eventually became symmetrically disunified. The degree of same being according to the amount of balance in the aspects of one’s inner being. Someone being a sociopath or worse form of psychopath might have great disparities between the height of one eye and the other. The visual evidence of the deprecation of their personality suggest the marked imbalance of an inner struggle. One side might evidence a certain perversity in a chronic expression similar to the caricature one would expect to see in the classic masks of a Greek chorus, or an animated 1940’s cartoon.
His headaches though seemed to reside outside the brain. A vascular situation of the sinuses? An offshoot symptom of a lack of regular nutrition? No drinking enough liquids during the course of a regular day? A possibility of his succumbing to the poisoning of the environment itself posed in undetectable fumes of another renovated apartment space nearby within the multi-unit building that he now lived? Or, most fantastically, the possibility that those in the universe that kept tabs on mortal humans had had enough of his guff. The combined inertia of his unthinking Earthly actions cumulatively launching him into the direction of the underworld. Pissing off someone on high to a great enough degree that they were putting the breaks on that behavior. True! He lived in a world of fantasy. And reality showed up only occasionally as a distant knock on the door. something that he was increasingly convinced he did not need to heed. The summation of an autobiographical statement of a run down lack of purpose. A fond desire that he lamented that he could not still yet totally abide by. The ache was there. He found that if he cloaked his head in a large cotton watch cap to cut off the light then he could detect his own inner world with greater accuracy. Shutting out the exterior in a manner that gave greater focus to all that was passing by within. It was a strange universe. When everything visual was shut out then the unseen elements within would flutter into view to float about. Not necessarily part of his own being’s physicality, but certainly not part of that visual universe that seemed so consistently hard and solid without.
God forbid, which of the two extremes had more presence! Perhaps this was an equally persistent duality that lurked just behind occasionally toppling one’s conviction in the rock solid nature of all things? Who could tell? “I am sure that the world of dreams has a connection!”, he said. No necessarily a place that one could conjure at will, like asking a genie to take one to a specific place far away. One perfectly in line with their own desires. But a world that traveled far beyond one’s perceptions past other senses. A place that suggested dimensions but had no sense of volume. Spatial recognition inferring a hardness to the shapes that might be verified if one could snatch off the covering. Eyes closed stumbling about his place, a chair was still an impediment. An implement to be knocked into or tripped over. The possibility of smashing one’s self mortally to permanently catapult them into another world if they were not cognizant of them. Yet, he found, if he abided stillness, it was a fantastic journey. One that eventually led to a somnambulant gateway to that other world that all touched upon in the midst of night. There was no doubt that in the mind of the author that he was a victim of his own spiritual constipation. Starting in adolescence listlessly inert before a chattering television set instead of carousing with others of his peers. Yet back then it seemed comfortable to remain at home amidst many ‘sick days’ that his own craftiness could accumulate. When speaking about things like this aloud to himself he noted a strange inability to spontaneously conjure the terms that he was so freely expressing internally. Perhaps this intervention was significant of this same reigning duality of metaphysical and material? The existence of the intangible life force about him needed no explanation. An odd form of tapestry one might find in a movie or a museum. A central bureau of sorts that edited his words by slowly withdrawing his ability to use them. Causing him to dig deeper into his own slowly moldering flesh for further life.
The cinematic characterization of one’s worldly discomforts as being absent or physically suppressed as a matter of minor conversation. The lottery of later life posing what started out as minor inconveniences eventually declining one’s health into a mortal everyday battle for continued life. That little pain in the neck from over the year in working chronically overlong hours that has led to constant distress. Headaches and eyestrain that stymie any other type of activity beyond rest. Perhaps trying to sit int he dark and listen to soothing music? The efficacy of same being a luxury that is superseded by just weathering the storm, Joseph Conrad style. A drumbeat that seems to drag on interminably but eventual clear. Until that day when it does not.