Three Successive Nights OF Dream States
“A number of a mixed group of us get on an elevator at my bidding. It climbs up many stories to the top of the building where it jams between two floors with the bunch of us now trapped within it. The door gets pulled open by us and now we find that it is actually outside of the building and you have to hop over the gap to the sill of what appears to be a small outdoor patio. Though I am initially reluctant a young woman jumps across ahead of me and stands on the raised ledge. I step across after her apprising the drop of many stories in the wide gab between the elevator and the ledge. Though not as wide as I originally though, it still remains sobering.”
I found myself living in Mexico. Mexico? I mean California, but it might as well be Mexico. The last part being that some people of that heritage where, whatever, I was visiting for a few days or so. And they had an area their on a concrete slab where you could urinate, or whatever. I didn’t see a . . . ? Didn’t see uh, any type of latrine or anything like that. But it sure smelled and sort of evidenced the stains of a place where people urinated. A woman saw me and came out and said, “Well. there’s a brush under the round wooden cover there!“, pointing to the middle of one slab. “But it stinks!“, she added. I saying, “OK. no problem.” And I knocked off the cover and grabbed the brush and brushed down the general area where, whatever. You were supposed to pee one place under a tree and so forth. Oh, God knows what action before that it action’d? Before that . . ? Right now, as usual, with the dreams, and my brain, I went scooting right out. So, whatever!
So, Here I am in dreamland , once again at the end of an episode. I found myself as one of a class. A large public room though not necessarily a classroom in a school with a number of people of varied ethnic backgrounds studying the ancient American organized societies that included the Mayan’s and the Aztecs. A lecture now being conducted that could be loosely defined as anthropology but with a focus on a sociological orientation. They were all getting high on the idea of ancient rituals. The guy sitting ahead of me beginning to hallucinate. It seems one of the demonstrations then in progress had someone else dressed in MezoAmerican garb holding a bottle filled with smoke. On closer inspection turning out to be a clear plexiglass tube filled with a finely milled powder that looks like simple common earth. One would blow into it then agitates it until it would become airborne filling the vessel with a foggy cloud. The person demonstrating then pulling a furious column from the end to the tube into his mouth and down into the depths of his lungs in one long continuous inhale. This seemed to be more than a little bit much to me! Another one doing the same thing was going gaga! And here am I with my little camera taking videos of this watching him cut his wrist then get even more intoxicated with the taste of his own blood. And though seemingly still sentient, he is hallucinating now too! The visions invading his present tense reality while he starts to invite me along to join him, as if I am as crazy as he is. Another guy next to me has now donned a headdress and uses his knife to saw across his own neck producing a trickle of blood along the incision which he immediately ingests. Then he gets up and invites me to reel about the room with him. The whole room full of people reeling about in total reckless abandon seeking out their own personal vision state. I being more concerned about concealing my small camera than succumbing to his invitation to join this mass hypnotic event. A solitary feeling of someone trying hard to remain rational amidst all the insanity of the others furiously embracing their own unpredictable irrationalities.
My life has been a tragedy. Something hat I haven’t been aware of until now. Something I still don’t believe in with any conviction. Oh, I am making a recording and I have been taking pictures as if I have been spying on myself, waiting for some fundamental declaration of consequence that would explain and satisfy the feelings of guilt and remorse that I supposedly subscribe to. Yet this confession never really comes to the surface or steps out to the fore to be acknowledged. And yet within, I know somewhere deep down, I feel the shame for all my misdeeds to others. Deeds committed as much out of omission and maybe more so in commission. And yet, just as fateful and damming as if I had taken a knife and willfully plunged it into someone’s heart. And much like the fates, I am faced without the dilemma of atonement. How to make peace for all the many shortcomings that I should have known better about in the first place rather than fall into the trap of? Well, if that explains anything? Perhaps it explains nothing? My silence continues. There is always to leave it behind. After all, that is the coward’s way out. So I have to continue watching myself, and listening to myself, and waiting, until, I finally, reveal, what, I’ve been. Unwilling to reveal all along! Betrayal of those that love me is such a convenient excuse.
Being unexpectedly downtown today, and after my business had been concluded, walking down Walbash from the direction of Randolph; I happened upon a woman, an old woman, of some years that were within reach of the years my mother would have been had she continued to live another five years. Certainly within a stone’s throw of a decade. This woman looking as if she had maintained her youth from the time that she had reached adulthood. Looking out to the street in anticipation in a manner of dress and hairstyle, a little frail now, with the approach of a total of ninety years. But still vital enough to be standing their unassisted. Wrinkled skin with gray hair but with the attitude and bearing of everything that had not changed since she was in her early twenties. Looking out with the same anticipation with a care to come and pick her up in a manner that she had, no doubt, so many times before exhibited in similar circumstances. Her demeanor reaching across the gulf of intervening years to this same place where she had long ago stood wholly unchanged. Perhaps with the same sort of prevailing hairstyle and kind of features that my mother possessed in her own youth? It was a vision, a time machine, to a time before I was alive and able to appreciate such and occurrence. It was as If I was viewing the equivalent of a monument that never shows wear. A stone in the Sahara desert that looks like it might have been their unmoved all along. Even though one realizes superficially, that the years have moved on. This kindred spirit of my mother recalling her in a most immediate sense in a way that I never thought I could experience again. Her alive again! How wonderful and how sad at the same time.
My two best friends had moved to the country to a house that stood upon several acres of land. The yard behind the main dwelling offering a mostly untilled space allowing for the celebration of the birthday of one by the other. The planning of same falling in part to myself to come up with something special for her. My inspiration being to construct a small tower in the decor of a Middle Eastern equivalent of same. The demands of budget and my lack of experience in such things affording a structure that could only accommodate fifteen or twenty individuals at a time. The kitchen was at the bottom at ground level from which one would walk up a set of stairs in the manner of a lighthouse to a cushion lined lounge up above. The accessories within of Turkish origin including ornamental scimitars hanging between each of the windows. The whole thing somewhat ramshackle requiring zip ties to secure these elements to the columns. In terms of completion, it seemed a mixed success. The last delivery of items lacking some key elements that might have led to a greater authenticity. I feeling as if I had not done as good a job as I should have, if nothing else out of a sense of misguided responsibility for taking this task on and not knowing what I was getting into.
“Hee, hee, hee, hee, hee, hee, . . . heeee!” My dialogue! At some point in the last twenty years, or earlier, I said to myself in a random moment doubtful of continued existence, that if everything in the world as I had all along known it, was to fall apart I wanted to be there to see it happen. And now it is three decades later, and everything is starting to fall apart. The world I knew is gone! And that thing which has replaced it is this really vapid, empty, grabbing, ever searching, mind numbing, soul destroying equivalent of death in slow increments. Like effluent pus from rampant bacteria consuming your body dripping out, drop by drop, as the gangrene takes over. And one by one, your extremities drop off into a pestilent mass on the floor vigorously consumed by all manner of vermin. And you have to sit there and watch it, unblinking and unmoved. That is what this time is like! I am sick of jumping from fantasy to fantasy, from lily pad to lily pad. The lurking expectation of finding an epiphany at every turn each fucking day is gone. That lifelong directional path towards something meaningful is now emptied. Sprinkled over with crusts from stale pieces of bread ground to crumbs upon its floor. “Ha, ha ha, ha, ha!” This whole idea of a connection with other human beings . . . ? We, that lasts as long as the last fleeting whiff of the smell of your sweat from the underarm of an old misplaced dirty T-shirt from the back of your closet where it long ago fell. Once it is gone, you’re gone. Animal uniqueness, “Huh?” Everything is an act, from a script, from a play, from a film, from a book that you can now barely recall from long ago. You don’t have your existence as it is caught in an oatmeal batter form of yesteryear. You’re just an ingredient! And not even a major one at that. Why anyone else bothers? Why, maybe it just got out of hand? Maybe its a virus too! Maybe it seemed like a good idea at the time? But then, some unknown voice rang out and said, “Go ahead!” Smash that vial full of a biologically deadly culture and let’s all see what happens. Just for the Hell of it! As if someone takes up a loaded revolver and puts it to their temple and declares, “Uh, I’m going to kill myself today!” “Everybody will miss me!” And that the instant that they pull the trigger realizes, “God, what a bad idea this was!” “This was really fucking stupid.” But now it’s too late!
Love is an animal fiction. Love, love, . . . ! Love is an ounce of cum splattered on a bedroom wall in motel somewhere that remains anonymous because no one carries batteries for a black light to know it was ever there. Love is a memory that is inspired by a Hollywood made for TV movie that is only available on Netflix, but due to the arrival of the latest batch of docudramas, has just been permanently retired from their current inventory, making your selection obsolete. Love is having ten cents for a BJ when only a dollar will do it! Love, what the fuck, is love? Because those who know love don’t know shit about it. Because nobody knows about love. Because there is no such thing as love. It’s just a biological imperative that allows you to get your rocks off. At least once or twice before the shroud salesman sells you a suit. Then the parasites start in and eat all! Recognition and the possibility of perception, extinguished from out of your very soul. Love is gone, never to return! As if it was ever there to begin with? That’s love, and you better get used to it!
Fucking Terry came to live with Jon and I, and he was a tyrant! He had a pistol and he was going to enforce, HIS rules! And if you didn’t like it! He had a gun! So don’t mess with him, “Cuz he’ll shoot ya!” But at some point he seemed to disappear? And was found to be hiding under a desk between one’s feet. A middle drawer above his head now the location of all his guns. The ones that were hidden there that were quickly pulled out by the sitter leaving him defenseless. Now he was trapped like a rat!
Within the span of an hour, within a neighboring community, four different people from the long forgotten past also appeared, one after the other in the span of a single hour. The last one being an erasable personality by the name of Bill that despite the years in between looked younger than when he had last been encountered so many decades ago. He had a tie and jacket that seemed to suggest that he was now semi-prosperous in the bygone era of people from those older times. An appointment to meet a group of friends and close family then threatened with his possible intercession. His abusive nature being mercurial and thus reliably ever unwelcome. Yet after a brief conversation, falling under the spell of his personality, as one was ever wont to do, inviting him along as a matter of polite good graces. Basically knowing all along within that he was up to no good as he had always been. Ever self-indulgent and self-centered when it came to the rest of the world. The voice and the act the same. The destination at risk being a home style family restaurant, now over there and entering into a door beneath a canopy. Not the main entrance but the kitchen! The staff busily darting about preparing a food under the direction of another whose official title was that of “Groiler?” Massive amounts of raw ground beef hanging from wire racks just to the side of a long charcoal fired grill patiently waiting for use. This man constantly checking the cooking of meat by dipping a little into the masses of the same and tasting it with similar aplomb of a wine connoisseur. Making sure that each of the restaurant’s creations was cooked just right. Then, becoming apparent that the only permissible into the dining room would be on the opposite side of the building. A short drive to park in the lot opposite to enter and find a couple of my party waiting at the table praying that Bill would not show up.
His found himself unexpectedly back at the ranch house living with his mother in her still in the prime of her youth. There was a man there who claimed that he was visiting from Israel. A smart ass mother fucker that acted with an unbelievable level of unbounded arrogance, as if he were a petty duke or a tyrannical king. He walked around with this intolerably superior attitude making demands as if he owned the place. The son at some point in time finding himself alone in the kitchen in earshot of voices behind a nearby closed door. The ringing male voice from within, unaware or simply uncaring. His mother had given a competent sales job in terms of how wonderful her boy was as a dutiful son. The other voice slyly playing her along to what seemed increasingly to a devious end. The flattering act barely concealing that something very bad was in the offing concealed by that door. Something, the suggestion of which, made the son’s blood begin to boil. An act that if revealed to plain sight would have cause this boy to kill the man abusing his mother on the spot. Some of the family artifacts pertaining to the achievements of the son now taken in outside that door carelessly handled and strewn about. A closer inspection showing that some had purposely been defaced to demonstrate this interloper’s underlying derision for this hosts. The door now open and the cad walking about the room as if in expectation of being graciously served in some way acting completely oblivious to the distress that he had caused. His nonchalance causing the son to suddenly blow his stack to which the lanky offender crawled immediately under the dining room table. The boy with a glass of sand in his hand threatening to dump it straight into this impudent rascal’s grinning face. The enraged son reciting a litany of many accusations come of the dire speculations wrought be the previous muffled dialogues overheard from behind that door. “You’re not going to get away with it!“, the boy crying out with full menace in his heart. A strange sense of inhibition felt by the boy stopping him short of any actual violent aggression. The son unexpectedly then recalling that he had just previously been that morning in a corner restaurant owned by this man’s close relatives. Somewhere despite a paucity of funds he had decided to buy a breakfast. The owners, his relatives, then demonstrating the same virulent ugly attitudes to those around them, whether they be customer or employee. The boy coming to the conclusion that this clan was vey adept at projecting their unreasonable behavior upon others that they abused while acting like they were the actual victim of same. That long practiced skill of ceding what by the standards of a host society any form of culpable guilt for their foul actions elsewhere. The connection now made that the larger society of movies and Internet and all things governmental of this current day likewise seemed to operate with the same sense of amoral bent. Something that no one dare seem to call out the reality of but just ignored its presence as if it never actually occurred? Something fundamental prevented the boy from avenging his mother’s disgrace at the hands of this weasel? An inhibition that magically prevented him from getting his hands on the guy and throttling him to an inch of his life! A form of lifelong programming enacted of his side of the species that caused him to be overly tolerant of this small group? God knows where or what what nursery school had occasioned this behavior to be implanted?
The era of the modern Kafka when it comes to ethics and the destruction of justice for the everyman. No one is going to go down with the ship, baby! They are just going to take the gold from its hold as it sinks in the drink. That’s what the legal profession does. “Oh, we have to have legal fees!” Something to keep the paper flowing and their mouths moving! That same old call to arms to have the requisite amount of money for the defense to defend one’s common rights. They scoundrels being double agents because they all worship as the same golden Babylonian idol of their supposed rivals. Because it;s all about money! The system steals the wealth from below on mere pretext of a too elastic of a law. And with this pretext simultaneously builds a bulwark to keep them from getting it back. “Otherwise!“, they snivel, “It would be chaos!” “It would be anarchy!” so wouldn’t it be lovely to take some of those massive estates with all their purloined treasures and chop them up for foreword to warm the homeless locked out on a freezing street? Burn the lot of them to the ground and mine out the money back from the safes hidden beneath the ashes of their foundations! Because these fuckers are never going to quit! They remain fucking human parasites dedicated now, as in millennia past, to infecting all then reaping the rewards format those same sorts of ashes. One better be in it for the species, for the human species is on the endangered list. Whatever the species they come from possessing horns and a tail. Given the constant atmosphere of unending destruction in boom and bust it seems to make some sense explaining the greater chaos. A species that has no love for humanity that after long practice in the art of persuasion, herds the rest of us yo be penned up within our daily unremitting toil. Entrancing the majority to value the fantasy of all things material above their own kind, promising an eternity of value. An eternity to be spent in a self-posed prison of foolish fantasies that enslave them in perpetual debt. The matter of true justice being up to those who finally fucking get it and pull their heads out of the gopher holes in the berry patch. All those plastic coated chassis from the same factories monthly soaking up the bank accounts of those that can only afford to lease them because all the rest of the members of their family, all combined, can barely make enough money to afford their weekly groceries and keep a roof over their heads. And for those sporting new George V three piece uniforms in the executive suite a little farther up the food chain, a bucket full of cold Michelob, and a hot chick to fuck in the ass on their sofa at halftime. That socially empowered female looking through the Bergdorf Goodman online catalog imaging all the dresses that he’ll buy her for the privilege of treating her like another dumb cow. But I will tell you what! It ain’t gonna last long! The rest of you breathing CO2 from those lofty balconies will soon be down in the prison without he rest of us. Then you too will know what it is to spread ’em on your hands and knees upon that cum drenched sofa!
Those SJW savants that rabble rouse the local communities of the institutionally dispossessed promoting their unending virtue with promises to the tune of the latest donations speeding the good word saying, “Without God, you won’t get very far!” But which god? All claiming outrage at seeing the little guy getting banged around as a matter of standard procedure. That permanent stain upon the ethnic community a likely place to preach virtue. Interesting to see these people as regular people just trying to do their best in a fractured non-culture that has been build up around them like a self-confining wall of a prison. A place where their children are held short as hostages of perpetually less than because they won’t do what so many other ethnicity’s in similar circumstances have down over the course of centuries. Their world within a world within same, the perfect place to promise and inch and walk away with a mile. Their camel’s blocked from the promise of waiting paradise by that square peg in a round hole. The narcoleptic fit of the current unnumbered sequel of the American Dream who too willingly go out each day to suffer more abuse without the backup of their own kind caught in the mantra of mindless soulless constant wrongs. The process of production no longer having anything to do with realistic output but simply keeping them too busy to care. “Let the rest of the planet do the stinky work!” We’ll mourn our true hero’s at the local bar. Or, whatever!