Archive for the ‘ Dreams ’ Category

Duality

A great white-golden light
in the sat-feed from the west
the technological wonders of my home glowing bright.

The brighter white stars
of the uncluttered east over my head
as I glance up from the
gee-ar-gee on my
right wrist.

On my left a gee-pee-ess
the blue-force-tracker:
a corded bracelet…

new world and old
encompassed on my flesh
should I but face North.

I find some small solace
in the irony.

Awaken

I find myself,
as if awoken from,
a dream of gilded,
lamps and golden mirrors.

There is steel found here,
this desert,
this sandstormed reality,
of space and time.

The gilded dream is,
programmed, conditioned –
all constructed,
for you.

Only my real ones smell of copper and
cordite; gunpowder and blood.

Awakened,
the colors are a mere shade,
of what I know they should be,
you see, that’s the way…
the way they conditioned,
me.

Life(less) Magic

Where does the magic go when it leaves?

I get these glimpses, a stir, almost like a tunnel-shake in my peripheral vision and I can almost feel.

Sometimes I wonder what it’s like to have no walls, no borders or boundaries. It’s a completely alien concept to me.

I’ve had walls since before I could form coherent sentences.

Some lives are more broken than others, but only on the inside, only where nobody will see the me I see when I see me. All of you get a facsimile, I learned to hide before I learned anything else, it’s my Dexter Morgan moments that you’ll never get to see.

There’s this image in my mind, a chalkboard and the words “hope is a four letter word” scrawled with haste, as if written during an escape attempt.

That’s your whisper in the dark, the half-glimpsed form, the cold wind tickling the back of your neck – like a kiss of death.

Faceless and formless, just a vast darkness that claims anything it touches.

Somewhere in there is a boy silently screaming, soundless tears burning clean furrows down dirty cheeks. Fists balled, white-knuckled with impotent rage.

Nobody hears the quiet ones, the ones who scream inside, who create a version of acceptable to show the world; mine feels two-dimensional.

As if I could step out from behind it and you’d all see it was really made out of cardboard the whole time.

Real life doesn’t work like that. Not when your subconscious mind built a fortress before you even knew what one was and then crammed you into it to keep those terrifyingly real things that happen to people from ever being able to touch you again…it leaves a sort of trail, a psychic slash in the mind, like a neon-lit river in the darkness, one that fills brimful of all the normal emotions that should be flowing in and are instead channeled out and away: sometimes you get splashed but you’re dry before you fully realize it.

That’s what it feels like today.

Can’t Quite

I am sometimes confusing. Confused and/or confusion.

I wonder what goes unsaid. I wonder what is between the lines I read and why those words aren’t in bold.

I wonder often of late at my complete inability to concentrate.

I am in a place, a place I don’t want to be, surrounded by people I do not particularly care for and some of whom I fervently wish I’d never met.

I think that the world is sometimes very dark.

I sometimes hear a sentence in my mind, a line from a book I once loved:

“…holding their swords with the ease of trained warriors and the sorrow of awakened dreamers…”

I identified with that line long before I was a trained warrior – I’ve always held the sorrow of an awakened dreamer just beneath the surface, where it is invisible to onlookers.

I prefer it so, I know not (now) why.

I am sometimes unquantifiable; I cross lines, blur boundaries, I am an odd amalgamate of often mutually exclusive qualities – I am the exception to many rules.

I don’t quite know what to make of that.

Upon further review…

This schedule has left me drained, depleted. Sometimes my muse flees like a rat down dark hallways fast filling with water.

But still I manage. Ploddingly adding a word here, excising one there; editing…an excuse to flex fingers on keyboard.

And then there comes a sudden explosion of inspiration or of something very nearly so:

Rewriting the first several chapters, adding more depth, new characters emerge and demand that they be explored, explained – given stage time, the novel moves in strange new directions. My synopsis goes out the window.

Deadlines and plot be damned. The story begins to write itself; I feel more like a medium than a writer. I begin to believe that the words merely pass through me, from the aether, to you.

Yes, I know I’m weird. I’ve made peace with that.

Today is…

“Today I will do what you won’t, so that tomorrow I can do what you can’t.”

Clarifying

Insomnia.

When you have insomnia you’re never really asleep but you’re never really awake either.

I don’t sleep well, I never have. I don’t keep what one might call regular hours and I’ve learned to function productively on very little rest.

Sometimes, just sometimes, I can sleep for more than a few hours at a time.

I think that this post is going to be a bit more about the mundane parts of my life. I’ve got a headache and that’s not really conducive to exploring the things I generally like to discuss here.

I still feel compelled to write though, even when my thoughts are moving at the speed of cold sap. That’s actually weirdly encouraging.

My back hurts. I pulled a muscle in my lower back a week or so ago. Pretty much awful, I’ve never had back problems so rather naturally I was unprepared for just how limited your world becomes when you can’t tie your own shoes.

I’m stuck at the dividing line between the end of one novel and the beginning of the next. Foggy, gray area you have become my home.

My poor beaten up civic has been acting oddly all week, maybe it’s sympathy pangs, that car and I have been through a lot together. Side note on that: I have, since my first ride at sixteen, named my cars after early twentieth-century starlets.

Strange? Maybe.

That scene in the first matrix movie when Smith is having a bit of a breakdown interrogating Morpheus is close to the surface. I must escape this place and in this mind is a key, my key.

I am seriously going a little crazy since I can’t run. I need to run. It’s something that I don’t think I can really live without.

This annoying injury makes me feel old. I’m not a fan of that feeling in any way. I will say this though; still no gray. Not much leaves marks on me, yeah I’ve got some (fairly serious) scars but I’ve earned every single one of them.

I think that my blog has been far too serious and somewhat depressing for a while now. I hardly ever write down the things that make me happy, or any of those things that make me laugh. When there are days between posts you can be certain that I was smiling enough that I didn’t need to write through anything.

I think that I need to change that.

Here’s something. Sandwiches. I freakin love sandwiches. Probably my favorite food. I love bread, and cheese, do not get me started on cheese. Sandwiches have an endless variety in terms of fillers and condiments. One can never be bored with a sandwich if that sandwich has been properly made.

This is from a conversation I had today about cheese and sandwiches, it illustrates my views perfectly:

Cheese is the most important part of a sandwich – adding both flavor and texture and also getting another food group into your hand…that being said, I think it’s chief virtue is that it provides a stable platform for condiment deployment.

I tend take an engineers view on sandwich construction. Probably because my undergrad/grad roommate was an ME guy. And handy with a grill.

But I digress, I’m quite happy right now. I want to get back out of Ohio like no other, (why did I ever come back here again?) and I really really want to tie my shoes again but other than that life is quite good. I do like to explore some serious concepts here, but a large percentage of the time I’ve already worked through it by the time I finish a post. Sometimes I don’t even post them, unless it’s something I think might help someone else or provoke some discussion. I just delete them after I’m done because the act of writing it down solved whatever it was that I was dealing with and I no longer have a need to share it. For example there is a post sitting in my upload cue dated February twenty-eighth.

As for the concept I brought up in my last post, I’ll get to that after I’ve gotten some sleep. I will say this though, right at this exact moment my heart sleeps under a starlit sky, the beat of a desert night keeping its rhythm.