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Getting a jump on dreamreporting because I'm going on vacation :)


Nothing too notable this week, just a naked man with a rat tail lounging on a wooden bar bench; he was lonely, a pariah, women laughed at him. Also dreamt solitary dreams of smoking cigarettes in ornate basements with grand pianos, French doors, fireplaces, and bathrooms stocked with fine lotions. I had one very lucid dream through an Eastern European landscape. It was incredible. Everything was free. I did a lot of travel, walked everywhere. But overall, it was an insomnia week.


However, I enjoyed some learning and relearning: 1) sea lice exist; 2) some buoys transmit data; 3) certain books are popular for good reason (eg., The Overstory); 4) I love fog; 5) "More Human than Human" is a perfect highway driving song; 6) asking for help is a pathway to betterment; 7) my dog is very important; and, 8) Snoop gets hockey

I love you. Dream big <3


The screaming came from within. And there was a lot of it. And it was nonstop. It was understood and openly discussed, the type of conversation people had over dinner, but still generally disliked. People were uncomfortable with the thought of going next, yet understood and accepted that it could, at any moment, be their turn. They worried and worried openly, but they didn’t defy or reject. There were no protests, no martyrs, no rebellions, no underground networks of organized dissent.


People wondered more than they worried. They wondered about the discomfort that they could, at any moment, face. What would it be like? It had been leaked, by the man who used to control the front gate, that a lot of attention was paid to the extremities, to pulling the hands and pulling the feet, to popping shoulders out of sockets and dislocating hips, and in between the pulling and popping and dislocating, the body was flipped from supine to prone and back again, like an over grilled sausage, until eventually, the body lay still. But it was also a wonder how the man who used to control the front gate could know such things, after all, he was outside, and the screaming came from within. Surely, he was letting his imagination spin.


People wondered what was the use. They thought it barbaric, this keeping of secrets and impending pain. But they understood and openly discussed: it was for their safety, it was designed to protect them. Perhaps what bothered people the most was the colorless building. A cement gray fortress that occupied an entire city block — imposing yet ignorable, enormous yet forgettable; the looming gnaw of lifeless. If it were aesthetically pleasing, perhaps painted with murals or draped in ivy, or if bougainvillea climbed up its sides and covered the cement in paper flowers, perhaps then it wouldn’t bother people so much. But then again, that would defeat the purpose, and people knew this, so the wondering of aesthetics was a juvenile conversation people didn’t have past the age of 30.


The night before my number was called, my pillow turned hard and my arms kept lifting up and lowering down, repeatedly, like I was raising my hand and immediately putting it down. Right hand raised, down. Left hand raised, down. This happened throughout the night. I couldn’t get any rest. I tossed and turned. I beat the hard pillow to fluff it up, but it only got harder, flatter, until eventually it became a single sheet of paper. The crumpling noise beneath my head was too much. I reached for the paper to throw it on the floor but moved too quickly and gave myself a vicious paper cut that slit my cheek in two. I thought of crying but didn’t see the use. Somehow the night passed and in the morning I received the news: it was my turn, my number was up. I thought of running, but where to? I thought of begging, but who to beg? I thought of hiding, but how? Everything was known, all locations tracked. So, like everyone who came before and like everyone who’d come after, I gave up the ghost.


On my walk to the colorless building full of screams and secrecy, I had a dream within a dream. All I looked upon turned to light. I felt my heart rise inside me, buoyant, as free as a helium balloon set loose in the sky; I floated. My hair blew in wisps across my face. My body, supported by tufted clouds, blew this way and that in vibrating wind. My skin, warmed by the light I approached, shone brilliantly, until in time and then forever, I was visible no more, and my every utterance adopted the abrupt silence of an extinguished, yet once raging, fire.


Asleep (in dreams I’m told are nightmares), your sweetness is saccharine and saturated; you’re a travel agent in a bright blue suit hawking all-inclusive Disney packages wrapped in neon cellophane. But awake (when you’re beside me or beneath me or on top of me or just nearby), your sweetness is savory and long-sought; you’re a heart-shaped habanero honey pizza after a winter storm's turned the world to wrought.


Derrick sucks ketchup from packets and sits cross-legged beside me at the kitchen table. He keeps trying to speak but no words come out, only ketchup spit. The toad woman without a neck emerges from the hallway, her eyes bulge like golfballs. She rattles, croaks, makes noise. Derrick asks about Moses and Gaspar, wonders if they are dogs. I tell him dogs would never. They are cats or they are demons. The toad woman crouches on the ground and plays sexy with a spatula the width of her tongue. She disturbs me. I think of paste. I leave the kitchen for the porch and stand on the steps leading to the backyard. The arborvitae towers over me. A parade goes by led by the brass-bangled, raccoon woman who makes such a racket with her smile; her ego is her noise, her vanity her cheer. She disturbs me, too. I wonder: Why is everyone so loud? I find silence in a cave. The tide is out. There are drawings on the wall. Rock furniture. Tree stump tables. Slate plates. I am quiet. Spirit is quiet. You are loud. I am blue. Spirit is blue. You are red. I am deep. Spirit is deep. You are shallow. I am everywhere, always. Spirit is everywhere, always. You are nowhere, never.


So I says to the guy,

“Your minute phrasing

Like a pallbearer’s box

Piled on top, like loving, in Boston —

Hip sore and too hot —

Beats the laughter at the viewing;

Painful, how apologetics cry.”

And he says,

“There we have it,

Meggie speaks rotten.

Finally, sincere applause.”


She went by Manhattan but her name was Lily. She wore all black. Her hair was cut short and also black. She had two tattoos — a circle on her right hand, an X on her left hand. She wore thick black glasses and spoke softly and precisely, the enunciation of a stage actress. She disliked when people said “cigarette butts.” “Just call them cigarettes,” she’d say. Butts, butts, butts, the word repulsed her. She rolled her eyes, crossed her arms, hugged her chest tightly. She wore black oxfords and black blazers. She did not suffer fools wisely. She lamented. She was tortured, took it out on us. She wrote about fabrics rubbing against each other — the dissonance of pilled silk rubbing against starched denim; she hated that. She hated chenille on corduroy the most. She carried on about an evening subway ride, about the sickness in her gut, worried about her next drink, how she needed it, how the subway never went fast enough. She stomped her feet and kicked the chair back in front of her. She wanted vodka and she wanted it now. She was sickened by frailty. She talked about her lovers. She loved women best. She taught us how to touch them. She named her women Cheyenne and Dixie but their names were Jennifer and Becky. She dreamt of stormy oceans, abandoned city streets at night, inner city trash. She didn’t believe in viable communities. She kept to herself, ate sparingly, slept on a mattress on the floor in a one-room apartment with a faulty lock and a broken toilet bowl. She shat in a bucket and peed in the shower. She did not care if anyone liked her. She kept a kerosene lamp and a box of matches by her bed, she liked the drama of it. She was opposed to being photographed and eventually she opposed language, so she stopped talking, said not a word and disappeared quite silently. Refusing to be seen, refusing to speak, she shrank into the world of shades where daylight cannot stretch.


No dreams this week, too much insomnia. But I "ice skated" HORSES in the arena underneath a Pippi Longstocking's mom-styled sun... that was dreamy <3


Photo cred: Lindsey Farm :)


A woman wearing black lace up boots stands before a suburban pharmacy greeting card rack. She leads us out back to a forest, through stripped trees vacant and worn as tattered flagpole kindling; I’m not sure why or if I believe in her or if I have use for whys and beliefs anymore. It is like being a flame. Growth in destruction, growth indiscriminate, growth til I cannot breathe — Imprinted, Inherited Mantra.


There is a person making movies. Dark, slouching, they are a dust bunny off in the corner — they want to be seen as who we are, but they are stuffy, their face powder makes me sneeze. They pose, and you, of course, are enamored; even here, attention is your everything. You perform your act and I take off running.


I am a pocketful of limitless without shoes on; me, my only death; me, barefoot running on forest debris — damp, decomposing leaves shift underfoot, sticks switch slashes across my soles, occasionally the pointed edges of rocks puncture my skin and raised tree roots send me tumbling. All throughout are flashes of paradise, life’s ecstasies, the usual gimmicks — soft smiles, huddled winters, August sunsets, subway cars painted orange and pink, October rosebuds, silver glints on lawn chairs, biking by the river (no hands, no shirt, no eyes), the grit of sand on our scalps, floating in salt water, sinking through fresh water, suspended fears temporarily not a part of us.


Fry two fish tonight, let’s eat by candlelight, let’s wear our special dress, let’s decide on this — a loss or a draw?


I add to your mythos in an oil drum. Half a moon, no clouds. Underneath us, in the basement, there's a tunnel, cogs turn and pistons churn; they move without lubrication, pumping production out to sea. What a racket.


If I lived in Victorian England, I’d be home by now, I keep thinking.


The world is dark blue, grey, and dreary; always a mist rises from the streets — at night it is spectacular, during the day it is particulate. I am torn between the need for manic light and the eerie dark of blue. I want footsteps and running and sneaking and pawing. I want exposure and sin.


The woman with the perfect teeth and red boa says, “You are the girl without a feather in her cap.” And I tell her, “Yes.” My heart races. I think for a moment I have fooled her. “Come on,” she laughs. Faceless shapes surround her, they wear torn suit jackets, their hair is sparse, greasy, they emit foul smells masked by saccharine lotions; I am neither attracted nor repelled, their poverty impresses me.


I am a green emanation, I have decided. I have also decided to board a ship; the moon is bright enough for travel. I book a porthole seat. My dress is grey with velvet piping, my hat stacked with dark roses. I yearn and know it's growth.

If I lived in Victorian England, I’d be home by now, I keep thinking.

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