Advanduras: Broken down bus

Here's a link to the most recent post by a couple of Maine-landers who picked me up in their tricked-out "Short Bus."

The way they found me was certainly "serendipitous," to borrow the word used by Pierre to describe the crossing of our paths.

Advanduras: Broken down bus:  After parting ways with Mathias in Santa Cruz, we headed north to try and make time and head into Oregon. We said goodbye to San Fran via...

As for this here blog, things are on hold.  As described in the link above, we are currently in Humboldt County, getting ready to replace a snapped belt in the Short Bus engine.  Once completed, we will likely head North.

SDJ:10 - shoot an arrow; three purple nimbi; filling up the tank (April 10th)

4/10 -

As I'm walking out of a park towards a crosswalk, I see a bicyclist barreling toward me on my left.  I stop in my tracks in order for him to pass me cleanly, since we are on a thin trail.  He stops as well, so as not to hit me, and he looks annoyed.

"Sorry," I say.  "I stopped so you could go behind me."  

He isn't some hard-core cyclist.  He doesn't have a helmet on and is wearing street clothes.

"Do you know how to get to the bridge from here?" he asks.

"What, the Brooklyn Bridge?" I ask.

"Yeah," he says.

"Sorry, I don't know," I say.

"I'll be with people who are walking," he says.

"Then, yeah, the Brooklyn Bridge is what you'll want to take," I say.  In response to this, he makes a face that tells me, "Uh, yeah... I know that much."

"I think," he says, "I just go down Ontario, straight to the bridge."

"Is that a North-South street?" I ask.

"Yeah, it runs by the Starbucks down there," he says.

I'm trying to remember Ontario Street.  I feel like I should know these directions but can't seem to think straight.

"Yeah, I'm sorry, I just don't know," I say.

"Okay," he says.  "But do one thing for me.  If you go to Starbucks, get me a cinnamon roll."

"Okay," I respond, even though I'm pretty sure that I won't be doing that.

I'm starting to cross the street, when he continues.  "Oh, and one more thing.  If you call my apartment and the phone just rings, shoot an arrow and attach a post-it note."

Later -

My brother and I are at a wedding reception, sitting next to one another in chairs at a round table covered by a white tablecloth.  Everyone else from the table has gone to dance or mingle, and the table is full of scattered wine glasses and china with bits of food and cake.  We each are smoking pot out of bongs made of hand-blown glass in swirling colors.  Our Aunt walks by with the video camera, and films us for a moment before quickly moving on.

Now we sit in folding chairs upon a lawn enclosed by tall, lush, green shrubbery and a few skinny trees.  This foliage forms a 15-foot wall.  

A large-screen television mounted on a stand upon the lawn projects the video of the reception.  Most of the people - both onscreen and watching - are family-members.  The scene of my brother, myself, and the bongs flashes across the screen, and Tim and Thomas begin laughing and shouting. 

"Ohhh!  Caught on film!" says Tim.

Hanging against a wall of shrubbery is an enormous photograph from a previous wedding, taken right here in this very yard.  In it, three people stand completely immersed in the lush greenery of the grass at their feet and the bushes all around them.  Each stand separately; but all three are relatively close to the photographer and each one holds a lantern in their left hand that emits a nimbus of transparent, purple light.

The image is strikingly beautiful.  The lantern-bearing figures stand in stark contrast to all the greenery with their pale skin.  They all seem to challenge the viewer with penetrating gazes.  Somehow - maybe due to a slight movement by the photographer as the picture was taken - those three purple nimbi hover just slightly above the hands that hold the lanterns... above and to the left.

Earlier -

I'm at a gas station with Lewis and his son, who is now a toddler.  Lewis has me swipe the credit card at the pump while he holds the nozzle, but I keep punching something in incorrectly over the course of a long series of codes and questions prompted by the screen.  I can't believe how complicated this has become in the short time since I got rid of my car.

Finally, I get frustrated and tell Lewis that he is going to have to enter the info himself.  Lewis is fine with this.  He's enjoying his time with his boy and isn't going to allow my frustration to change that.

I walk across the street to another gas station.  Glancing back at Lewis, I'm startled to see him hosing down the area around the pump with gas as if he is watering a lawn.  What the hell is he doing?  

I yell across the street to him that he needs to stop - that he could cause an explosion; that this could kill both his son and him; and that - at the very least - he is running up quite a tab at the pump.

Lewis doesn't pay me any mind.  I watch anxiously as he casually sprays down most of the gas station before finally filling up his tank.  Then he gets back into the car with his son, drives across the street to the gas station where I am, and parks the car.  

SDJ:9 - The Ranting Man; Pocky Stix & wine; slovenly occupiers (April 9th)

4/9 -   

A ranting lunatic of a man at the park is drawing a picture of my left calf.  I've dragged the table over to him.  I say to the calf-sketching artist:  "I don't think they'd catch me based on this, but if they already had me I think they'd be able to confirm my identity based on your drawing."  He laughs at this statement, which reminds me that I was joking.  He is doing a good job of capturing the direction of hair-growth on my calf.

Earlier -

Sitting in the grass at the edge of the park, I hear someone ranting and get up to walk toward the sound of the voice.  A man stands at a gate beyond some basketball courts.  He's yelling and screaming about injustices and such.  As I walk closer, I hear him say:

"I'd really go for some pussy to eat.  Who agrees with me!"  

There are people scattered around but no one will look at him directly.  I sit down at a picnic table and continue to watch the ranting man.  He crosses the basketball courts and onto the lawn - still ranting and meandering aimlessly.  

Grabbing the bench upon which I was sitting, I quickly drag the entire picnic table over to him and tell him to sit across from me.  He does.  He is a tall, skinny, black man who is probably in his early 40's.  

He talks to me for a minute; then a guy comes and sits next to me, saying that he is the Superintendent of this park.  A little kid comes and sits next to the ranting man across the table from the "Super" and I.  He shows the ranting man a page from a small book he is carrying with him.  The words on the page are "Please Leave."

The Superintendent, watching this, says "That is very telling to me."  

At this point, the ranting man begins to draw my calf, in case they need me to come back for further questioning about what has transpired.

Earlier -

Inside a fancy restaurant, I'm placing my empty beer bottle in a dish tub.  I spot my Aunt dining with her two sons; my cousins.  I go to their table and tell my aunt that I don't want to bother them for long - sorry for the interruption - but I just want to give her a hug; which I do.  

Now I'm walking over to a table where my Mom is seated.  A waiter comes to pour her a glass of wine, and she is surprised by the enormous amount that he pours.  It is so much wine that a murmur rises at other tables as people react to this huge over-pour.

My Dad is away from the table when this happens.  A woman comes over and gives me some dark-chocolate Pocky Stix to give to him as a present, since I don't have anything with me.

Earlier -  

Many of us are in the dining room of the old house in South Pasadena.  A couple is telling everyone goodbye.  They walk out to their car to drive home.  

A man here in the dining room with us says he is going to shoot them before they drive off.  He leaves the room, presumably to get his shotgun.  I immediately walk towards the front of the house to go outside and warn the couple before this man can get to them.

Later -

I'm watching the news on my tablet and see a commercial for some pick-up truck that talks about jobs that will become available to truck-owners "once this Occupy movement is over."  

Did I hear that right?  First off, the Occupy movement doesn't seem very strong right now, so it doesn't make much sense to allude to it in the way this commercial has.  There was basically footage of a messy city street following an Occupy rally, and I guess that pick-up truck drivers were hired to clean up the mess left behind by the slovenly Occupiers.  

I suppose it makes some sense for wealthy corporations to slander the movement; I'm just surprised that "Occupy" is currently deemed enough of a threat to warrant attack-advertizements.

I'm crossing a street and see Gabby standing at the corner I'm approaching.  "How do you like this News coverage?" I ask her.  We exchange cynical remarks.

I'm distracted by something that is rolling down the sidewalk, carried by a wind current.  Whatever it is comes to rest on the concrete lid of a water-meter along the sidewalk.  At first I think it's a softball-sized rubber ball, but once it comes to rest it appears to be a balled-up dress shirt.

I ask Gabby how she's doing, and she casually says "Pretty good... other than my friend being murdered last night."

What?!?!

Apparently, this really did happen; although few details are known at this point.  I think that the murdered girl may have been in a dream that I had last night.  I'll have to check my journal.  Since Barnaby is at his Mom's house in Southern California, I may ask him to call Gabby in case she needs someone to hang out with and talk.

SDJ:8 - (April 8th)

4/8 -

Gianni is taking a shower, and Velvet is with him.  Brawley is in there alternately.  The cat starts as Velvet, becomes Brawley, and finally turns into some random cat.

A beer bottle shatters!  Now Gianni and the cats are gone and I just see the keys of a piano.  

The piano transforms into black and white marble tiles that are being played, like a piano, by Tom Hanks.  He is playing "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" on the marble tiles for passing pedestrians.  Tom Hanks becomes me, and now I'm eating Nacho Cheese Doritos off of a white picket fence in front of a house.  All the houses on this street have air sirens that are making a strange noise that I can't describe.  This place somehow reminds me of a place along the road by that 7-11 that I passed in Napa on the way to the 121-N.

Earlier -

I'm talking with Ollie.  I think he's playing a show tonight although I'm not sure whether it's solo or with a band. 

Christopher shows up, and I try to avoid him.  He mentions something about my hair.  Later I see myself in a mirror and notice that my hair is long again... but it also has - What the hell? - blond highlights?  

I meet up with my brother.  His hair also has blond highlights.  Weird.  Maybe this is a family-thing and our hair does this seasonally?

SDJ:7 - ceremonial robes; "You must find the god of the moment" (April 7th)

4/7 -

"All I know is that addicts are constantly trying to refine their ability to have experiences with people, and I find that incredibly hopeful... and sad."  

The statement comes from a man on the television.  I'm listening to the TV, but not watching.  He's referring to an addict who claims to have magical powers. 

On the sidewalk outside the front doors of a church, I find a golden cloth in the shape of a cross.  I pick it up and go inside, hoping to locate the person from whose ceremonial robes the cloth must have fallen.  Upon entering, I realize that this will be a difficult task: the lobby is filled with perhaps 50 young people whose gold-and-white robes this cloth could have fallen from.  

Looking around, I make eye contact with an old bald man who is standing next to a middle-aged woman with short, blonde hair.  He looks at the cloth in my hand and my baffled expression, and his eyes quickly register an understanding of the situation.  With a stoic expression on his face, he reaches out his hand in a gesture that says "Give it to me, son.  I'll take care of it."

Now the boys in their gold-and-white robes are beginning their procession into the church from the lobby.  Off in the corner, I see an official behind a desk and a roughshod-looking Asian man with Fu Manchu facial-hair standing across from him.  I understand that this man is either being booked on a charge of False Imprisonment or else is being released after having served a sentence on this charge.

Back outside the church, Biggs is talking to a girl.  Behind them I see an enormous campaign poster from Ross Perot's last presidential campaign. 

Earlier -

I'm outside walking through an urban area with a guy I've been practicing vocal harmonies with.  We pass three dudes on bicycles who I recognize from the band that did that viral-video cover of "Somebody That I Used to Know" (The one in which five musicians share one guitar).  We turn around to catch up with them.  They are interested in utilizing a piece of video-game equipment that I own but don't use, and I say that I'll gladly lend it to them.

A group of people focus their attention on a clock-timer to see what will happen to them based on the actions of a cat that has jumped onto a bed I'm sitting on.  I pet it; and just as the timer is about to go off, the cat flops on it's side - Velvet-style  - and begins purring.  Everyone let's out a collective sigh of relief.

Later -

Disneyland.  Messages in the sky refer to things in the new Star Wars movie.  A witch flies across the sky as well.  Everyone stands around looking up at the sky, trying to look for messages.  Words begin to form in the clouds.

I'm in a bed upon which are stacked boxes filled with items from someone's workplace... they aren't mine, anyway.  I'm sure that, at some point, some alarm clock or something is going to start making noise in one of these boxes and then I'll be forced to dump the contents to find the thing that is making noise and shut it off.

Velvet starts exploring around some of the boxes.  Her ears are abnormally large.  Gabby is asleep in a nearby room that is filled with even more boxes.  

Before we came here I had been petting Velvet; then I saw Isobel over on a small bridge that an asphalt road became as it passed over a small stream.  Isobel was rolling on her side, like Velvet does, to beckon me.  

I go over to Isobel.  She is interested in my glass of whiskey, and so I set it in front of her.  Isobel looks the way I remember her, except that she now appears to be an albino.  Her coat is entirely white instead of black-and-white.  She still has the same yellow eyes and pink nose, but there is more pinkness in her face that shows behind all that white fur.

Max and I walk West on Pier Ave. in Hermosa.  We stop at a place where a building is being erected, which will be the business of a psychic named Keysha.  A blue awning forms an entryway on all sides leading to the front door.  On the front of the awning, over the entrance, Keysha's name is written in a Renaissance Faire-style font.  Beneath her name is an image of a key.

Inside, rows of folding chairs are set up, and Max and I take a seat on a couple of the chairs in the front row.  The chairs face a stage on which a panel of speakers are seated.  A man up there on the panel makes eye contact with me.  He is in his early 50's and has flowing grey hair.  His eyes widen and seem to glow, and I wonder if this is some kind of cult-leader-ish magic he's developed.  

Max gets up to go speak with him.  He is still staring intensely at me, so I say "Oh... me too?"  He nods.  I realize that maybe Max and I are being singled out because this is an event that you had to register for, and we just walked in off the street.

I sit back down next to another 50-something man who I somehow identify as a Jewish writer.  He asks if I can drive him somewhere after the event.  "We'll see," I tell him, "I have to give my friend a ride home as well."  Max is still working things out with the guy who called us up to the podium.
 

The Jewish writer gets up and walks onto the stage.  He reads a couple of poems, then discusses some ideas with a Native American man.  They agree that, instead of focusing on cultural and National injustices of the past, we must focus our energies on what can be done now.  The Jewish man then makes a simple, profound statement that feels really powerful, and so I decide to write down:

"You must find the god of the moment."

He sits back down in the chair next to me, to my left.  Max is now seated in the chair at the end of our row, to the right.  The writer gives me a large, yellow, laminated page; larger than an 8 1/2 by 11-inch piece of notebook paper.  Printed on this sheet are the poems he read onstage scattered around the page in black type along with other writings - perhaps even the exchange with the Native American man (who resembled Damo Suzuki, the Japanese singer from the Krautrock band, Can).

Now I'm in the "nosebleeds" at a large, outdoor stadium.  There are rows of seats folded up, and each folded-up seat secures an extra folding chair between the seat-back and folded-up bottom.  These folding chairs can be removed to accommodate extra people if there aren't enough seats in the stadium.  There are so many people standing that I move a few times to offer my seat to various women who are standing.

At one point, I'm sitting on the concrete step at the edge of the ramp between rows of seats.  Across the isle from me, up here in the nosebleeds, is the current speaker at this event.  He is speaking on the subject of pain.  He describes all the different kinds of pain in his body due to injuries or other factors; I'm not exactly sure.  He doesn't seem to be in agony as he speaks, so he must have come up with ways to manage his pain.

At first he is a young man, in a thick denim hoodie that is mostly white with a few thin, blue vertical stripes.  He has some light stubble on his face.  Later on in his speech, he is an extremely tan man in his late 40's, and I wonder whether skin cancer is one thing contributing to his pain.  

A lady near me asks him whether she's seen him on the beach volleyball courts.  "Probably," he says, "I'm there every day."  I consider telling him that he looks like the guy who used to be the football coach at my old Community College and who also taught a volleyball class that I took there one Summer... but I don't.

At Disneyland with my parents and Warren.  We are going to go see an outdoor show depicting scenes from the new, re-imagined Star Wars movie.  Characters names have been altered ever-so-slightly... they still look the same and have names that can be recognized from the originals.  Warren is expressing a lot of cynicism about the whole thing.

We only watch the show momentarily; certainly not long enough to get a good grasp of it.  Then we go to see what appears in the clouds, where I see the witch, etc.

SDJ:6 - Miniature Plastic Animatronic Dioramas; Greek Food; "The Dirt-bed"; Pretzel Wheel; bad music from the nineties (April 5th)

4/5 -

Inside a large subterranean cavern, exploring.  Tide pools are all over the place, teeming with shells, starfish, sea anemones, and little plastic trinkets.  All of these things shine out from within the pools in bright pastel shades of blue, pink, orange, green, and yellow.  

I realize that I'm barefoot and have been stepping on some of these creatures and trinkets.  There are also little crabs moving across the rocks here and there.  Aware, now, of these delicate lifeforms and objects on the surface I walk upon, I place my steps more carefully. 

Belinda is here, standing perhaps 10 feet away from me; back toward where we entered the cavern.  Now that I've looked up - having noticed her - I also get a larger view of the cavern's terrain.  Rock formations jut out unevenly into knobs and crevices.  

Although Belinda and I are close to a wall, this cavern is generally quite open and spacious.  The surfaces vary in shape, but everything is the same color.  This single color reflects myriad shades, however, due to the varying degree of light shining through onto different areas.  Somehow, the spotty lighting seems to effect not only the color of the surfaces, but also their texture.  In some places the rock looks like brittle, Martian-red adobe; in others, like a hardened, porous, brownish-yellow sponge.

"I didn't realize that I was in my bare feet," I say to Belinda, "I'll have to be more careful; I think I was stepping on these little crabs."  

Belinda looks happy to be here, but is also clearly in her own, private world.  I'm pretty sure she heard my words just now, but I don't think she'll be responding.  I think she's been singing to herself.  She's singing now, anyway.  Quietly, though.  Some kind of wordless sea shanties.  She appears to be in some kind of a trance.

Walking back along the wall toward Belinda, I stop and bend down to my right to get a closer look at some of these little plastic trinkets.  I'm going to take some photographs.  

Upon closer inspection, these ones' appear to be mechanized.  They are like little music boxes or coo coo clocks; tiny characters emerge from the doors of houses or slide along the track of their continual, looped destiny.

I'm looking at one... they're so small that it's hard to focus... I think it's a young blonde woman in a blue-and-white smock, crying at the grave of - I'm guessing - her dead lover.  I try to take a close-up picture.  Looking through the viewfinder, however, I find the scene now obscured by a tiny farmhouse.  Raising myself a little to get the angle right, I zoom-in with the viewfinder on the scene over, and beyond, the roof of the farmhouse.  

The scene has now changed.  A prince emerges from the large, wooden double-doors of a medieval castle.  As with the sobbing girl at the graveyard, he is a miniature, vertical-plane, two-dimensional piece of thin metal on which a character is etched and painted.  He moves away from the castle along a tiny track, passing a certain point that triggers the closing of the castle's doors; just as his placement behind them triggered their opening.  

The prince is dressed in stately attire and has medium-length blond hair.  He does a cursory check around the castle grounds.  This is duty he performs with regularity.  He's anxiously awaiting the arrival of his princess; although I get the feeling he's neither met her nor even knows of her identity.

Withdrawing my focus from the microcosmic and returning to the world of the cavern, I see that Belinda is no longer here.  One of my cats, Velvet, seems to have taken her place.  

Velvet looks different.  She's gained a lot of weight.  She looks overweight, in fact.  Gabby must be feeding her kibble.  Her color is different too.  She's darker: black almost, with grey markings.  

I squat down and take a photo of her.  

Startled and frightened by the flash, she lunges and claws at me.  In my mind, I can see the photo after it is developed: Velvet is raised up on her hind legs; one of her front legs blurred - revealing the swiping-motion - with claws sticking out from the digits of her paw.

I grab the paw that she struck with and hold it firmly, yet gently.  This reassures Velvet somewhat, and she rubs her head against my hand, purring.  She's still frazzled, however, and breaks away with wide eyes; startled by something I can't perceive.  

Eyes focused on my shoulders, she squats; preparing to jump.  I don't want my shoulders and neck to get all scratched up, so I "scruff" her (grab the loose skin at the nape of her neck).  As I hold Velvet by the scruff, I begin to massage that area, which should calm her down.

Finally, she does calm down... and plops sideways to the ground from a standing position.  This is something that Velvet has always done when she wants me to pet her; I find it both adorable and hilarious.  Lying on her side, she stretches and purrs as I run my hand from her head to her tail.

There's another cat here with Velvet; how funny.  I think it's a male.  He's mostly black.  I've never seen him, but they seem to be friends.  This is surprising, because Velvet is usually standoffish with other cats - even the one she grew up with.  I guess they've been roaming around together; they seem comfortable with each other.

Inside a house with a group of well-dressed, portly, middle-aged men; all of whom seem focused on projecting a certain kind of swagger.  They appear to be wealthy.  I find them very amusing.  

The men are eagerly awaiting the arrival of a successful former-model-turned-businesswoman.  Once she gets here, they'll all drive to a restaurant for a business meeting.  

I've spoken with only two of these men.  The one I'm speaking with the most is a man whom I didn't know before now.  He's got a lot of gel in his dark brown hair, which is parted on the left and combed across to the right.  He's wearing a light blue, collared shirt and a brown sports jacket.

We go into my room while he waits for the woman - it's my old room at my parent's house.  On the bed is a pile of mail that I guess has built up since I was last here; so I quickly rifle through it while the guy rehearses the talking points he wants to cover during the meeting.  

Mixed in with the mail are several coupons for a pet store.  They look like silver wrappers that once sealed energy bars.  Printed upon each of these coupons is a day, a month, and a year between 2014 and 2017.  I set them aside.

"I know what those are," he says.  "For the pet store.  I go there all the time for my cats."  

Suddenly, I like this guy a lot better.  Now that he's showing an interest in something I deem more important than fancy clothes, perfect hair, and business meetings, there is a sense of camaraderie.

Earlier -

I'm headed to the computer to post something on Christopher's Facebook-wall; some lyrics I just found on a piece of college-ruled paper torn from one of my old notebooks.  He and I must have collaborated on them: about six stanzas, alternating between his handwriting and mine.  

His stanzas are funny, abrupt, and nonsensical.  I'm going to post the line "Your albatross is flossing" on his wall; until I suddenly remember that I can't - we are no longer Facebook-friends.

In my Brother's old room, Christopher is looking at a desk lamp.  The horizontal base of the lamp is grassy-green, with a lighthouse rising from this surface.  Printed on the lighthouse is the logo of the Greek restaurant where I'm assuming this lamp came from.  Christopher says that it's a good restaurant.  I've never eaten there.  

I did have a very good Greek meal for dinner last night, though, which I am now describing for him: Roasted eggplant wrapped in lavash bread with baba ghanoush, black olives, feta cheese, romaine lettuce and Roma tomatoes.  Tabbouleh salad on the side.  

I tell him that it wasn't bland in the way that sub-par Mediterranean food can be; that the pairing of olives and feta with the roasted eggplant created a unique flavor-combination, made even more interesting with the addition of jalapeno spears.*

Dennis and Mac (from "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia"), Turk (from "Scrubs") and I have created a "bed" of mostly-natural substances that we call "The Dirt-bed."  We are absolutely giddy with pride over our creation and the fact that we actually turned the concept into a reality.  

This thing is like the seven-layer dip of beds: rectangular strips of cardboard, soil, grass, and other soft, mostly-natural substances layered on top of one another.  

Sitting in folding chairs on a rooftop overlooking the lawn where the dirt-bed now rests, we excitedly go over our plans.      

I'm picturing events from last night.  The dirt-bed was finished, and we decided it should be placed on the lawn on the other side of an eight-foot brick wall nearby.  We each grabbed a corner and carried it over to the base of the wall.  We squatted down, lifted the dirt-bed, and tossed it upwards in such a way that it maintained it's horizontal plane while traveling in an arch-like trajectory over the wall.  

I see a slow-motion replay of the dirt-bed rising through the air; it's various layers separating like an extended accordion and coming together again at the apex of the arc, above the wall.  Then the dirt-bed falls; the layers spreading accordion-like once again until, finally - like stacked sandwich ingredients tossed onto a counter-top by some cartoon-chef - they land quickly and neatly, one on top of the other, upon the grass.  

At this point we erupt in a flailing storm of howls and high-fives - all of which is a memory of last night that I'm seeing replayed from an aerial perspective.

Someone needs to test the dirt-bed out, and I've drawn the short straw.  This means I'll be the one sleeping in it tonight, outdoors.  

None of us wanted this job; yet the passion we feel toward our creation is such that we were each compelled to surreptitiously visit the bed at different times last night, to lay in it and masturbate.  Passion was likely a part of why we each did this, anyway... but I also think we all were willing to gamble on the 75% chance that someone else would have to sleep in the semen-stained thing; and that we each found this to be quite hilarious. 

Now it's mid-afternoon, and the four of us are constructing a makeshift tarp/tent that the bed will be placed under/within.  We're setting up near the sidewalk on somebody's front lawn on a quiet residential street.  I tell the guys that I wouldn't mind sleeping on the dirt-bed so much if it wasn't stained with their semen.  They each try to deny what they all did, but get quiet when I point out the stains.

A girl stops by, saying that she noticed us while passing by on her bicycle.  She asks what we are working on.  She seems really impressed with the dirt-bed and the tent we're constructing, and Dennis starts to talk her up.  

I let him talk, but little does he know I'm planning to pull the rug out from under him.  If I'm the one who has to sleep on this semen-stained thing, then I'm not going to let him take all the credit and get the girl.  She's fawning all over him and our creation.  

"It would be so cool to stay inside," she says.

"Yeah," I start in, casually, "I'll actually be sleeping here tonight.  I'll probably just be reading or whatever."

"Oh, really?" she says, her focus immediately shifting from Dennis to me.  "Well I might have to pay you a visit!"  Clearly, this girl is a dirt-bed groupie.

Dennis looks pissed.  Mac and Turk are smiling broadly with wide eyes and raised brows; taking great pleasure in watching Dennis getting a taste of his own medicine.

"Do you like having girlfriends?" asks the girl who will be visiting me in the dirt-bed tonight.

"No," I say, simply.

"Fuck you!" she says.

Dennis jumps at the opportunity to gain back some ground.  "See!" he says quickly, adding "What?  Are you a faggot?"

"No, I love to date girls; to hang out with them" I say.  "I just don't want to have a girlfriend."

Later -

I'm laying down, resting in the bed at Barnaby's place.  The apartment seems different, somehow.

For the second time, Barnaby calls out to me from a separate room; asking if I'm alright.  He's behind a door that's opened just a couple of inches.  

I reply, once again, that I am alright; and wonder why he keeps checking - then realize that it's probably because I fell asleep with the light on.  I should turn it off... but now the students at the college are making a lot of noise outside.

I get out of bed and start toward the window to see what's up, but then notice Barnaby's "Pretzel Wheel" - a mobile of sorts he's hung above the bed.  

The Pretzel Wheel consists of two soft-pretzels shaped like horizontal carriage wheels.  These wheels are larger than an Extended Play record, but smaller than an L.P.  One wheel is about a half-foot above the other, with vertical soft pretzels connecting the hubs and outer spokes.    

This had been the shape... I realize now that I've eaten most of it.  I must have gotten really drunk last night, since I apparently fell asleep with the lights on and helped myself to Barnaby's pretzel-wheel.

Suddenly, I realize that I didn't give Barnaby the cat carriers.  Well, maybe we just decided they'd take up too much space in his small apartment.  He can probably leave certain supplies with my Aunt and get them when he needs them.  

A nervous chill spreads through me - do we even have cat food here?  How long have the cats been here without being fed?  

To my great relief, I remember that it was my Aunt - not Barnaby - who kept my cats.

Earlier -

I'm walking through the University near Barnaby's place.  It's bright and sunny out, and I'm enjoying the sight of the green lawns and ornate Greco-Roman architecture.  I'm looking for the Dramatic Arts building.

Walking along the pillared facade of one building that curves slowly to the left, I look at the students sitting in the front on the cement.  Some are alone, some are in little groups.  They sit with their backs against the pillars and walls of the building, studying, talking and eating lunch.  

I pass one who is playing an acoustic guitar.  A few of the students sitting near him sing along as he strums and sings some bad Top-40 song from the Nineties.  Just a little further along the curve of the building, I walk past a similar scene.  In fact, I think this second guitarist is playing the exact same song.  What song is that?  Oh, now I recognize it; it's the one that goes "It's 3a.m. and I'm feelin' lonely," or something like that.

Now I've just entered a building that, on the inside, looks like a stately British palace with well-polished bannisters, staircases, mantels, and walls made of the finest Cherry.  Down the long, wide staircase across from where I've entered is a dining hall.   An impossibly long dining table stretches along the left wall down there.  The wall is draped with the colorful flags and banners of various sects of the British Isles.  A few men in fancy suits slowly stroll around down there.

I walk to the left, and come to the dining area of a very typical-looking mall food-court.  Moving sideways through the tiny space between a seated girl and a table behind her, I realize that I have a hard-on.  Jesus, I hope I don't knock her in the back with it as I'm squeezing past her... okay, luckily that didn't happen.  I guess there was enough room after all.

Now I'm moving along the main walkway of a crowded mall.  My pace is slowed by a student in front of me who is dressed like a slacker and seems to be meandering aimlessly.  I can hear and sense someone walking behind me, impatiently trying to pass me on one side and then the other as I - in turn - try to navigate around the student.  I move to the left so the man can pass me.

My eyes follow the man - a sharply-dressed professor - hurrying past on my right.  Then I notice something beyond him up ahead.  Seated on a bench at an upright piano, a man is playing that same style of music that the guitarists were playing outside... bad, Top-40 music from the nineties.  

I suddenly realize that those guitar players outside weren't even singing or playing; they were pretending to play the music of this piano player, which was being amplified from speakers out there.  I wonder how those guys were able to trick the other students and I into thinking this piano-music was coming from their acoustic guitars?

Earlier - 

It's early evening, and I'm walking down Slater St. towards my Aunt's house.  Three homeless youths - in their early 20's, I'm guessing - sit beneath an awning against a bright-red wall that stands out due to some lights shining against it.

As I pass them by on the sidewalk, their little Jack Russell terrier runs up to me excitedly, wanting to play.  I stop to pet the dog but keep missing it's head because he's jerking it around in excitement.  His wet nose keeps bumping my hands.

After playing with the dog for a minute I figure I should acknowledge these kids, so I say "Hey.  How you guys doing tonight?"  

They are looking at me but don't say a thing.  Although the wall above them is lit, it's darker where they are slumped against the wall, so I can't make out their faces.

A second dog - a pit bull-mix - emerges from where the kids are sitting and comes up to play with me as well.  I play with both dogs for another minute, but figure I'd better leave since these guys don't seem to want me around.

"Have a good night," I say.  Again, they stare and say nothing.  I resume walking, noticing that I'm wearing my hiking pack. 

*The jalapeno spears were the only ingredient of the meal described to Christopher that weren't a part of the last meal I actually ate before this dream.  This meal was prepared at my favorite restaurant near Barnaby's place: Crest Cafe on K street.  During my time in Sacramento, I enjoyed going to Crest for their quality Mediterranean food... and to admire the strikingly beautiful pale blue eyes, and luminous smile, of a certain part-time Cashier.

SDJ:5 - Back at my Aunt's House; "Turn around!" (April 4th)

4/4 -

I ease the old Lincoln into the open garage at the end of the driveway here at my Aunt's house.  I'm now staying here while she takes her turn at traveling and I attend the High School as a Senior.  

I shut off the engine, but not quickly enough... it hits the back wall pretty hard.  I must try to remember that it lurches forward after you cut the engine.  Gabby would be jealous that I get to drive this old car; I'll have to tell her about it.

Walking back down the driveway, headed toward the front door, I hear something and stop in my tracks.  Moaning?  Is that a woman having sex?  I listen closely and think I hear a faint "Oh my God!"  She must be relatively far away.

Two guys are laughing as I offer my analysis of Brooke's dream.  The three of us are standing in the living room, near the upright piano.  Brooke said that, in her dream, she was wearing green clothes and also had green eyes.  "That represents sluttiness," I tell the guys.

Earlier - 

I climb the couple of steps up to the back porch of somebody's suburban house.  Finally, I can rest for a moment.  I take off my heavy pack, set it down to the left of the red back door, turn around, and slide my back down this door; landing on my backside with knees up in front of me.  Hopefully I won't be caught resting on these people's property.  

Across the street, I notice a lanky guy in his 20's with a thin brown beard.  He's smoking a cigarette while standing behind the long, white wooden railing of his front porch.  He doesn't notice me.  

This seems like a wealthy neighborhood with well-tended lawns and gardens.  There are a lot of rose bushes.  Sitting still, I rest my eyes on some of these; keeping the smoking-guy in my field of vision, but in the background - out of focus.

He goes inside his house.  Time for me to leave.  I walk around toward the front yard, so as to exit through the front gate.  

Behind me, a woman yells "Turn around!"  

Although I'm walking away from the house, I can tell that she's inside it; speaking from the opposite side of an open window.  I keep walking and do not turn around.  

"Turn around, Marcus!" she demands.  

A shiver runs up my spine.  This must be some really strange coincidence.  I pick up the pace.  No way in hell am I going to turn around.

SDJ:4 - "homeless-face" (April 2nd)

4/2  -

Esteban has either shot or punched a middle-aged biker inside the bar that he lives above.  The details are sketchy; I'm learning of them from these old bikers at the bar here, who all aggressively inquire as to his whereabouts.  They all want to kill him.  

I have to think fast to avoid them taking it out on me, since they know I'm friends with Esteban.  I don't know where he is; and if I did I wouldn't tell them.  They know this as well as I do, so I'd better get out of here quick.

I'm lying on my back in bed at my Aunt's place, in the room that I stayed in this past Winter.  Velvet is sitting on her belly to my right, and I'm massaging the scruff of her neck and her neck muscles.  Isobel crawls right up in front of my face and I start to pet her with my left hand.  They are both purring and I'm happy to be with them again.

There is a large cardboard box in the middle of the room, near the small wastebasket.  It's about the size that might hold an old-school big-screen television.  The flaps at the top are open and dangle from each of the four sides.  The box is filling up with papers and cardboard for recycling.  I'm hoping that no one messes with it or throws it all in the trash or something because I'm not done filling it.

After showering, I'm looking at my face in the mirror and realize that my forehead is peeling and freckling.  It looks like I'm already getting that "homeless-face," like the weathered face of Charlize Theron's character in the movie "Monster."  I show my peeled forehead to my brother. 

SDJ:3 - "The human being has transformed"; King-Sized bed; "You usually aren't so sensitive" (April 1st)

4/1 -

Having directed the cursor-arrow over to the "play button" on his computer monitor, the young man clicks his mouse and we begin watching the video demo he's created.  

An animated version of himself sits shotgun in a car being driven by a large blue creature whose exterior seems made from car tire-rubber.  As blue shadows dance upon his face, the young man relates the concept we have asked these students to get across in their videos.  We watch him and the creature as they continue down the road, seated in the car.  

Toward the end of their drive the camera turns away from these two characters and we see the dashboard; atop which a small, blue, rectangular creature of rubber is contained inside of a white plastic dish.  A calm, soothing male voice intones "The human being has transformed."

This is the last of several videos I've been shown.  Each has been produced by students in their early 20's who have been instructed to explain the concept behind a product that I'm marketing.  Walking from workstation to workstation, I leaned in and watched each entry played on the monitor of each student.  Now I'm to select a handful of the best ones as finalists.  Although I've viewed several of these videos, this last one is the only one I can seem to recall.

Earlier - 

I'm looking down upon a quiet suburban street.  It is daytime.  The lawns are green and manicured.  No cars are passing and there aren't any people to be seen.   

I am made to understand that some type of authority figures are trying to contact Danielle to make her reveal the kinds of sexual positions I tended to instigate while we were dating.  A King-sized brass bed with a bright red comforter appears on a lawn.  Danielle lies upon it; fully clothed.

Earlier - 

I'm in a dimly lit room, lying in a bed with Anja and Sophie.  I'm waiting for Sophie to leave; but in the meantime I'm sucking on and kissing her breasts and nipples.  Suddenly, she screams in pain.  "Wow!" I say, "You usually aren't so sensitive."

I sit up on the couch and glance over the back.  Barnaby is awake, reclining on his bed and playing video games on his iPhone.  Lying back down on my right side - the position in which I awoke - I concentrate for a time on what details I can remember and jot them down in the notebook he lent me.

Putting pen and journal down, I start speaking to him about the frustration of waking up and trying to hold fast to the images and fading details of dreams that are vividly fascinating, yet so ephemeral.

For instance, I want so badly to remember the details of all the different student-videos I was shown.  Unfortunately, each of those videos was a Seedling Universe at it's dense inception.  Each, by now, has big-banged into dimensions unimaginable.   

Imagine you are at the opening of an art exhibit.  Let's say you are actually the first person to enter, and you walk into a dimly-lit room.

As your eyes adjust you see that there is a wall across from you; and for a fleeting moment you realize that this wall is covered with Etch-a-Sketch screens upon which are etched-reproductions of the Great Masterworks of art history.  The instant you realize this the wall begins to shake violently, and the images dissolve.  All you can do is attempt to memorize this moment; to hone in on as many details of these dissipating images of beauty as possible.  

Perhaps the trick is to approach the chaos and confusion of a rapidly-evolving reality with a spirit of gratitude and curiosity, rather than anxiously wishing to capture and contain something moving at a such an incomprehensible rate of construction and destruction; birth and rebirth.

Maybe trying to hold on at all is pure futility; but I don't think so.  An antenna exists as a conduit for communication, not a place where information is contained.

SDJ:2 - Native American Cheetah-Man; Aunt's place/cruise ship/outside of club (March 31st)

3/31 -

In a parking lot at the Del Amo Mall, a girl jogs past me while reciting a line of a poem or song that I recognize as something I wrote.  How does she know my writing?  I bet she plays music with Brad, and learned the line from him.  I start to follow her, then drop to my knees, raise up on all fours, and begin moving onward like a stalking cheetah. 

Still moving on all-fours, I enter a trail that leads into the Madrona Marsh.  From the other direction, an actual cheetah appears before me.  I'm not scared.  It walks up to me and I look it right in the eyes; waiting.  The cheetah begins speaking to me telepathically.  I realize that the creature must be communicating in English, since I can understand what it's saying.

The cheetah is now a young Native-American man.  He's dressed in buffalo-leather and wears a feather headband, the traditional clothing of his tribe.  He begins speaking about Spring and rebirth.  I ask him to repeat what he's said so that I can write it all down.  I find a pen and paper for this purpose and jot down some notes.

There is a small group gathered now, and he asks that, before leaving, we all sign our names on an informational sign beside where he's standing.  For this purpose, he procures a feather that, instead of ink, has been dipped in liquid amber.  My brother signs his name and then passes the feather to me.

I begin to sign my name in an extremely slow and deliberate fashion, and before I can even finish with my first initial, the Native American Cheetah-Man stops me, saying that I am not writing the letter in the proper way.  He explains that he is taking a class in cursive writing at the community college, so he knows.  This annoys me and I get a little defensive, telling him that cursive writing is subjective and allows for stylistic, individual differences.  I go back to signing with defiance, finishing with a flourish by slashing the line back across my name from right to left.

Earlier -

Aunt's place/cruise ship/outside of club: 

I hug Uncle Basil goodbye.  I'm starting to cry.  He starts slow dancing with me.  I play along to humor him, but my Dad and others are watching and it starts to feel awkward; so I hold him away from me with extended arms and give him an admiring look, breaking away.

I pass my sister on the way out.  She is a short, stocky Mexican girl, probably in her mid-20s.  She is angry that I am leaving, and I tell her "I'm sorry, but I have to go."

Walking down a hallway that is full of lawn furniture.  Everything is a very bright white - from this furniture to the plaster floors to the painted walls.  Feels like a cruise ship.  I pass a young kid sitting in a chair he's dragged to the front of a small television set.  He isn't paying much attention to what is on TV, though, and doesn't look like he's having any fun.  I think he's part of the family reunion, so I ask him if he needs anything.  He says he doesn't, and returns to watching TV by himself.

Proceeding down the hall, I see a woman lying on her belly on a long deck chair, getting a massage from someone who works here.  Just beyond her, a man walks towards a door on the left.  He's wearing a white leather jacket with big red letters on the back stating that he is a psychologist available for 30-minute sessions.

Outside now, a large crowd of club-goers begin to stream down a concrete stairway leading to a concrete walkway where I'm standing.  I sit down on a concrete slab in the corner where the walkway takes a right turn towards another concrete stairway leading down.  I'll sit here until the crowd thins out a bit.

I notice that I'm wearing the same green tracksuit that I was wearing earlier at some point.  My recollection of this is hazy, but I was sitting somewhere with four people who I understood to be dream-characters representing different aspects of my psyche.  All were male, but none looked like me.  They weren't even all necessarily human.

As the people file out, a small group steps away from the crowd so that they can speak to each other. They are standing close to where I'm sitting, slightly to the side of the 2nd stairway.  A young black guy in the small group tells a girl among them that she needs to give him her number, since he didn't get it from her last time.  Hearing this causes me to think, with some envy, that a bunch of these people passing by will be getting laid tonight.

A girl in my extended family leaves with a young blonde woman who I know has wronged her, but whom she's chosen to forgive and defend despite the fact that the rest of the family is quite angry at her.  This blonde girl is wearing a bronze-colored outfit; a thin, lacy cheese-cloth top and tight velour pants.  Whatever issues my family has with her don't prevent me from admiring her ass as she walks down the stairs with my extended-family member.

Back at the reunion, in a remote series of conjoined rooms deep inside my aunt's house, someone is bringing my Grandma in for a visit; pushing her along in her wheelchair.  I walk into a kitchenette  to find some snacks to put out.  I announce that our Grandma will be outside if anyone wants to visit, but this seems to fall on deaf ears.  Everyone is either sleeping or pretending they didn't hear me.  

I find some hummus and broccoli.  While putting these on a platter, I quickly eat a tiny cube of white cake out of a clear plastic cup.  The icing  is pink and blue, with little icing-flowers.  I think this was John Cusack's piece of cake;  He was walking out of the kitchenette as I was walking in.

It's a mess in here, but that's no surprise since this reunion's been going on for several days.  Leaving the kitchen, I head back into the guest room and announce - more insistently this time - "Okay!  Grandma is outside and we are going to visit with her now.  I can't believe I'm the guy doing this right now, but she's out there and we are going to visit with her.  So let's go!"  

I know that this could be the last time any of us see her.  A couple who were napping in a guest bed sit up groggily and get ready to comply with my order.

I'm out in the courtyard looking inside at the hallway through the large, rectangular windows.  I can hear the conversation of a psychiatrist talking with a guy who has allegedly tried to defraud one of my Uncles.  Initially, the man took a very arrogant tone with the doctor, convinced that he would get away with his scam.  However, the doctor is now convincing him that the gig is up and, furthermore, that suicide is his only remaining option.  Although I am startled and - in a visceral sense - appalled by the words of the psychiatrist, I also know that this situation doesn't involve me and it isn't my place to step in.  

Rain is beginning to come down in the courtyard.

SDJ:1 - Track Meet; Cop (March 29th)

Sacramento Dream Journal: Entry 1 (SDJ:1)


3/29 -

At a high school track meet, a field of runners in an 800-meter race approach the turn where I'm standing, just off the track.  They are running clockwise, and will hit the straightaway right after they pass me.  Andy Lim leads the field, running with a relaxed expression and stride.  The rest of the pack looks tired.  

As Andy nears, I begin cheering for him along with those standing around me.  Running past us, he turns 180 degrees mid-stride and begins running backwards.  This revs up the entire stadium of spectators, who begin roaring their approval along with our group of supporters.  Kelly stands to my right, and I turn to her and say "We must be Sophomores, because Andy was a Senior when we were Sophomores."

Just ahead of the turn at the end of the opposite straightaway, Andy - followed by the rest of the field - turns right off the track and continues running along the long-jump track, toward us.  The crowd erupts again as he turns around and does a series of back-flips; essentially doing a gymnastics floor-routine in the process of winning a race.  Kelly and I can only shake our heads in disbelief.  "Andy is amazing," I say.

Earlier -

I'm at Towers Elementary School, standing behind the closed metal gate that separates the school's front entrance from it's parking lot.  There is a large gap - perhaps three feet high - between the concrete and the bottom of the gate, and I'm looking through that gap out into the lot.  A cop is standing out there, although I can only see him from the knees down - the bottom of his navy slacks and his black work boots.  

Suddenly, he hits the ground hard.  Someone has shot him in the head.  As he lays sprawled on the asphalt, I begin speaking to him about something I remember my Dad telling me years ago.  "I guess there were certain 'hoods that cops stopped going to," I say to him, "because they'd get calls for help from people who'd be hiding behind a wall that a single brick had been knocked out from.  They would just pick off cops through the hole."

The cop doesn't seem to be paying any attention, so I turn around and begin walking across the soccer field towards the ice plant-covered hill beyond.  I cross the field, climb a thin dirt path that snakes up through the ice plant, and emerge into a residential neighborhood to the West of the school.

As I'm walking, it occurs to me that talking to the officer about people shooting cops might have been a little insensitive, considering the fact that he'd just been shot in the head.  There haven't been any ambulance sirens yet, either; so maybe I should try to find someone with a cell phone.

On the sidewalk up ahead, a man is walking North down the hill that I'm heading up, so perhaps I'll tell him what happened and see if he's willing to make the call.

OSacramentOtnemarcaSO

Sacramento. 

The State Capital of the State in which I was born.  The State in which I've resided for thirty-four of my thirty-six years.

Despite having spent so much of my life in the State of California, I hadn't even driven through the Capital until I was in my early 30s.  Until then, I always veered off Interstate 5 towards the coast before hitting the State Capital; heading for San Francisco, and sometimes across the Golden Gate Bridge to the coastal Counties to the North.

And even after driving through Sacramento a few times, I hadn't set foot upon the Capital of my home State until the end of this past Winter.

I'd found a dealership in Roseville that offered me a reasonable payout for my 2000 Hyundai Elantra - a car I'd had for nearly ten years, but no longer wanted or needed.  On the way to the dealership, I missed a turn-off and ended up in a run-down section of Sacramento.  At one point, I got out of the car and went into a liquor store to get directions.

The directions were incorrect and took me to a place I hadn't intended on going.  Namely, the City of Placerville, where I got better directions and was soon back on course.  I'd enjoyed being lost briefly, but would have to wait a while before making it a way of life. 

Two weeks later, I was back in Sacramento.  Less than a week into traveling, my friend Barnaby picked me up in Davis, CA.  The 18 miles from there to his place in the Alkali Flat-section of Downtown Sacramento took mere minutes in his car.  On foot it would have taken perhaps six hours.

The next morning, I awoke on Barnaby's couch and searched around for a pen and something to write on.  Upon a napkin, I wrote down a very vivid dream I'd just had about a High School track meet.  The previous day, in Davis, I'd walked past such a meet and decided against stopping to check it out.  A lone man with a full salt-and-pepper beard and a thirty-pound hiking pack might stick out at a High School athletic event.

In the past month and 1/2-plus, I've had dozens upon dozens of dreams while sleeping on this same couch.  The couch of a friend I've known for two-thirds of my life.  In the State Capital. 

Here and there I've spent a night elsewhere: the sloped lawn of City Hall, alongside members of Occupy Sacramento; a cheap Motel near the river.

At several points, I've felt stuck here.  At each of those points, however, something important eventually happens.

A long, enlightening conversation with the proprietor of a Motel.

Time spent with a homeless man who I've never met in waking life, yet who somehow seems familiar.

Whenever I ask the question of whether I'm awake or dreaming something is revealed, and I become aware that there are reasons that I haven't left this place.  The revelation always provides the answer; and the answer transcends the dual nature of perception inherent in the question.

I've been analyzing certain memories; looking for the underlying message.  The seed.  The key.  The more I analyze, the more it seems that memories of dreams become indistinguishable from those of waking life.

The moment of waking and the moment that the dream begins - these are the frozen, immortal moments that do not end.  Time starts when you step out of the mirror, on one side or the other.  Time and space on the one side reflects the other, but the rules are different.

How far the ripples extend and which shores they arrive at remains to be seen.  At this point, I don't feel like the reason I've stayed so long in Sacramento has much to do with what has happened on this side of the mirror.

What I'll be sharing with you in a series of posts over the next day or two is what has happened on this side of the mirror.

Then I will leave the State Capital.  For real, this time.  A friend is on her way to help extract me.

CCR Lyrics (not that CCR).

While working on some writing, I'm listening to Pandora on shuffle-mode.  A song just played that I love but haven't heard in quite some time.  One verse stood out:

Life is like a rollercoaster
It does flips and throws you over
Board your ship that's going nowhere
If you stop, you'll end up somewhere

I love both CCRs.

A review of Anime/Action series "Strike Witches"

"Oh, man.  This is weird."

Barnaby looks a little spooked, and very intense, as he says this.  He's sitting to my left on his moss-green couch.

"I'm having some deja vu..."

He trails off. 

Here I thought we were in my dream; but now it looks like I'm a character in Barnaby's feedback loop.  I'm in a reality I recognize, though.  This is the couch that I've been sleeping on most nights.  The couch upon which I've had a string of incredibly vivid dreams - some of which have traveled through the wormholes of multidimensional consciousness and entered my waking experiences.

Antlers. 

A wild-eyed, scruffy kid called "Trip" prattling off mathematical observations, then gazing at chemical charts he manifests and scans with his eyes.  A symmetrical pattern of tattooed green-and-blue diamonds and swirls emerges from under his white, logo-less ballcap.  Traveling from his temples, over his eyebrows, and around his eyes, the symbols run down his cheeks like inkdrop-tears.

Behind him yellow leaves, green grass, blue sky.  Diamonds travel around his eyes, distracting you from his hands - fingers wriggling like tentacles.  Reaching into various energetic streams.  Adjusting the flow, the direction. "Shut up, Trip.  They call me Trip because my head and my feet are too big."

"And lately, I find that when I get deja vu..."

Barnaby pauses to allow my mind to follow my eyes back to the moment, back into the midst of his deja vu. 

"...I find that I'm in a dream I've had."

I'm focused on Barnaby, now.  He has blood-soaked Kleenex sticking out of his nostril.  He's had several Coors Lights. 

And I'm stoned.  I've been smoking pot off and on since my couple of days spent hanging out at the Occupy Sacramento camp.  Before this, it had been over 5 months since I'd smoked.  So, my tolerance is low.  This has allowed me to realize, during conversations with several strangers, that I have already met them in recent dreams.

Barnaby and I sit on a couch inside of a moment he's already experienced through dream.  At this point I'm totally unconvinced of the reality of my perceptions.  There are drops of blood on the carpet near the blinds.  Barnaby's tone and demeanor seem ominous.  Here comes the feeling that I usually forget exists when I'm not feeling it:  The feeling that I am about to awaken from this dream; this lifetime.  I'll awaken to a new existence that I have no recollection of.

"So you're not into watching 'Strike Witches?'" I ask.

"Naw, not really," says Barnaby.  "I mean, it's cool that they wear no pants although I don't understand why."

I get up and walk behind the couch.  Now I start flapping my arms; trying to get some lift.  It's not the first time I've done this in the last few days. 

Barnaby starts laughing uncontrollably.  He manages to say "What the fuck are you doing?"

"You have to do this - even when you think you're probably awake -" I tell him  "or else you won't try it in dreams.

Dream of A Kitten Named 'Loco'

A phallic bro

with a heart of toothpicks

brings 

A Calico 

with a coat of cowlicks

to

Your dorm-room door

with an air of mischief

now

He's on your floor

with an airbrushed mistress

6:45pm
5/14/To Thou: Send Twelve.

A few things before moving on...

You say "God is my co-pilot."
You say "No man is an island."

I say "God is your cope-Islet."

I say "Say you, say me/ Say it in song form/ just like Lionel Ritchie"

I say, "Know your role, Lionel Ritchie.  Put down the microphone and pick up the saxophone.  You are here to blow notes and to let attractive blind women sculpt your bust.  And I don't mean with clay, Lionel Ritchie.  I mean, you're getting flabby, Lionel!  Get yourself a buff blind woman and get on a strength/cardio program.  Let's put the Lion back in Lionel."

Now, some things I've been thinking about while on the toilet.  That stuff up there ^?  That was just spitballin'.  Definitely not toilet-material.

Stuff I've been thinking about while on the toilet:

A.)  Asking vs. Accepting and the irony of asking for more than one needs, yet turning down so many generous offers – many times out of pride or the desire to control.

2    B.)  Irony.  Is A.) an example of irony?  I believe that "irony" (a great word to put in quotes) is the 2^nd most misused word in the English language.  This stands to reason, though, because the word describes a very complex concept… unlike the most misused word in the English language, which is

3        C.)  “Literally.”  My pet peeve is having pet peeves, as pet peeves basically amount to the willful suspension of empathy.  More often than not, if you choose to state your pet peeves you are trumpeting that which annoys you about yourself.  Usually it's not direct; but a reflection.  The whole mirror-thing.

      Damn it, though, if "literally" - unlike “Irony” - doesn't have well-defined parameters that people just choose to ignore.  Yes, I'm holding the mirror up to myself here, but I get weary with this word being employed incorrectly most of the time it's employed, i.e. “Alex Rodriguez literally just hit the stuffing out of that baseball.”  One of my favorite David Cross bits is about this.  And David Cross is a good comedian to bring up after I’ve just talked about lack-of-empathy.  David Cross is extremely funny.  However - although it may just be part of his act and not who he is as a person – I can only listen to him for so long before his condescending disregard for his fellow man becomes too much to stomach.

4        D.)  Speaking of "too much to stomach," how are you doing with my admission that these are Toilet Thoughts?  The taboo of shitting is something that really makes me laugh.  Toilets themselves could be viewed as the nail in the coffin of the concept of Eden and an exclamation point at the end of "Man vs. Nature."  Every other living thing consumes nature and then excretes it back.  We consume nature and then hide in a little room, try not to make any noise, and flush the result of this unmentionable act down some pipes; from our own bowels into the bowels of the sewage system.

      I suppose it wouldn't do for civilized people to just drop trou and shit wherever they are when "nature calls," but I think we are all aware of the ridiculous neurosis we have regarding the secrecy of this act.  It makes us all laugh, and so we have Toilet Humor.  Could we have Toilet Drama?  No; that becomes comedy.  Toilet Tragedy?  Nope; that's black-comedy (both kinds).

5        E.) The taboo of shit as it relates to the taboo of death.

      I'm not about to get into this right now, though.

6     F.)  Back to Literally.  Here’s an idea for anyone reading this who might be interested:  Start taking note of examples you hear of the word “literally” being misused.  Let’s use this blog as a place to collect these.  This is the first of many times that I am going to call on my artistic friends (those I've met and those I haven't yet) to start a collaborative project here.  I will not claim “ownership” of anything submitted, but may ask your permission to use your work – and credit you for it – in future writings.  What I’d like to do is to have a comic-strip of all of the collected, misused “Literally’s.”  I want people to submit the false-literally’s and, if they are artistically inclined, do a representational drawing of said Literally.  If you are not, just send in the sentence.  If you do a work of “Literally” art – I picture them being comics but they can be whatever you want – scan it and leave it in the comments.  Can an image be left in the comment-field?  I don’t know.  We’ll figure it out.  Maybe eventually they can go in some separate place.  Maybe someone can help me design an illustration-box that can be used right on the blog here… or maybe I’ll just have to make this blog part of a larger website, which I’d originally conceived of doing for this project but never got off the ground.

      G.)  First comes writer's block; then comes the part where one has jumped that hurdle and begins to write about all manner of poop as a way of avoiding the Actual Project at Hand.  The APaH that one is procrastinating due to the fact that one is a perfectionist - which one hesitates to admit because once one gets over this and posts the project one is going to see so many glaring imperfections that one is likely to return to this post in order to delete the admission of perfectionist-tendencies, as it will seem the most ludicrous neurosis that a mediocre writer could possibly have.

      *slaps self in face*

       Time to get off the Fool's Throne, remind myself of the quote I posted earlier today, and Focus on the Task at Hand.

I am real ink wishing

A wise man once told me:

"Let the stone drop from your head and into your heart."

(Роберт) Русско резонансная

Сегодня, перевести объект был размещен на сайте, проходят Runnin 'Down A Dream ...  В честь этого, вот сообщение от несколько дней назад, переведена на русский язык. Я выбрал этот конкретный пост, потому что она включает в себя список из этого блога просмотров страниц в стране (по состоянию на номера этого утра). Количество просмотров в России, стране, я никогда не имел удовольствие посетить и где нет никаких знакомых (по крайней мере, я не думаю, я делаю), был забавный сюрприз. Возможно, один человек в России снизился в несколько раз, или, может быть, некоторые из них проверены в один или два раза. Кто ты, привет!

Хотя это может показаться устаревшим для человека, чтобы чувствовать себя в восторге от моста слова охватывает культур и континентов, я этого человека. И то, что в эти дни можно не только общаться с введенных слов кто-то в любой точке мира, но легко переводить их в большинстве других языков ... что только этажи меня. Опять же, я думаю, что заявления типа ", что просто мне этажей" будет означать на других языках. Если ничего, перевести функция может возобновить интерес к концепции дадаизма. Несколько лет назад я увидел, что потенциал в случайных слов поколения используется для получения по электронной почте спам-фильтров. Я скучаю по тем. Может быть, когда-нибудь я выложу мои старые коллекции спама.

Но я отвлекся. Почти всегда.

повторное сообщение:

Четверг, 3 май 2012

Русско резонансная

Хотя Google расстраивает меня это постоянная мастерить планировки Gmail, и, кажется, стало отделение АНБ, я благодарный, что они обеспечивают стата вроде этого:

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До недавнего времени я, что моя "читателей" было несколько близких друзей и членов семьи. В последнее время, как я начал размещать больше, просмотров было шипами. Скромно, но значительно. И это удивительно интересно, о том, как люди в России и Германии и Великобритании нашли свой путь здесь. И Малайзии!   Как человек, средний возраст приближается, кто еще не выезжал за пределы Северной Америки, - но надеется сделать это - это график достаточно, чтобы вызвать небольшое волнение. Иногда я позволяю себе некоторые действительно высокие цели в отношении этого проекта. Бред величия, если вы будете. Я действительно не слишком прямые о моей цели, но они имеют отношение к становится послом мечты. Нечто подобное, в любом случае.  Скоро я буду помещать до огромных сообщение, состоящее из около стоит месяц мечты. В конце концов, я надеюсь начать собирать мечты готовы совместно сотрудниками. Меня интересует, какие темы подпрыгивая на коллективное сознание, и в формировании сообщества людей, которые заинтересованы в приближении коллективного бессознательного в духе интуитивно игривость. Вы со мной, Россия?  после повторного сообщение: Для моего нового русского друга (ов), вы должны вернуться: Этот блог о 9 месяцев путешествия - а иногда и оставаться на одном месте на некоторое время - в ​​котором я 'м отказа сознательный контроль свою жизнь мои мечты. Скоро я буду отправлять за month's на сумму снов, а затем оставить столице штата Калифорния, чтобы вернуться на дорогу.   Одна деталь этих снов, который особо отметить по этому сообщению: Утром 2 мая Мне приснилось, что бездомный и я спали на разных диванах в комнате, которая сочетает в себе элементы квартиры Я жил и дома, где тетя моей жизни. В мечта, я проснулся, потому что бездомный говорил во сне. Это то, что спящего сновидения характер сказала: «Роберт Руссо столь же большой, как и я ... иногда." Когда я проснулся, я понял, что это имя звучит знакомо. Потом я вспомнил, что Роберт Руссо был кто-то, кого я знал, очень кратко, около 17 лет назад. Он был студентом в только класс театре я никогда не взял, в Community College, которые я посещал. Он был около 40 в то время, поэтому он должен быть почти в 60 в настоящее время. Он харизматичный, общительный парень.   Как странно, я думал, что я мечтаю об этом человеке, я даже не думал годами, а, скорее, что я мечтаю о своем имени, произнес в абстрактном приговор спал бездомный человека. На следующий день мой блог-сайт обновил некоторые вещи, и я проверял новую функцию, которая позволяет увидеть, в каких странах вашего блога в настоящее время рассматривается. Я решил вырезать и вставить диаграмму в должность и написать небольшое руководство о том, как очарованный я был с этой информацией. Название должности, я чувствовал, должен быть какой-то крик из к загадочной русской (ы), который упал на побывать. Я был уверен, что я слышал термин "Руссо", чтобы указать "русский", но я проверил в Интернете, чтобы убедиться, что перед титулов после «Руссо резонанса." Сразу после того как я разместил эту запись, я вспомнил сон, от предыдущего утром около Роберт Руссо. Это те вещи, я имею в виду, когда говорю о "соблюдении разговор происходит между различными уровнями мое сознание". Я понятия не имею, что это значит, что это имя из прошлого эхом в моем недавнем сне, или почему эхо отражается от поверхности другого и вернулся на следующий день в другом контексте. Похоже, мечта предвещало простой момент, что я обычно не было бы причины размышлять. Опыта, сидя перед компьютером и пытаясь придумать название для записи блога я не проверял, но я 'M практически уверен, что «Руссо» является итальянское название. Поэтому я думаю, можно сказать, что человек - итальянский приличный - с кем я кратко ознакомил невольно посадил его имя, на мой взгляд, так что лет спустя она приходила мне в голову использовать имя в другом контексте - когда бездомный в моя психика напомнил мне имя / слово. Что все это значит, что я понятия не имею. Тем не менее, я считаю, эти связи очень интригующим, и они происходят с гораздо большей частотой, как я все больше акцентировать внимание на свои сны.