if only i were the wishing type, i’d be on about wanting to stay up even later, typing typing typing, or ideally involved in something else which would somehow still enable me to express my self without the tiny annoying tapping noises that might wake the sleeping forces outside of me keeping me now from saying, in fullness, what i am trying to say.

tequila helps. & if only i could hold my self to my new theme of social consciousness, & refrain from this descent into selfish subconsious nonsense, well, that would be good too. this would be a better blog for that, but alas, it is not.

as it is i am the embodiment of the spirit of all my own undoings, & this post will not deviate bravely from that, as most of the last few posts have attempted to do.

it is late. i am alone. any delusions of other than aloneness were purely that, & nothing further. i leave this note to my self to remind me of this, in case i wake from dreams suggesting otherwise. i often do that, you know. i live this life in my sleep wild beyond any i might hope to live awake. i have these dreams real as day, & you can not tell me they do not constitute an alternative to what we consider ‘real’ in the world. i have these dreams as tangible as anything, i really do. but it’s all impulses traveling down the synapses, everything is.

perception isn’t everything, it’s the only thing.

i have these dreams, you see.

& on occasion stay up ’till near dawn dreaming them across these keys, in a way that suggests reality but is decidedly disingenuous in doing so. & i am (in this case at least) not alone in this deception, inflammatory influences (for once) not all my own have driven these things to consume most of me & what i perceive to be my physical self. & this, i confess, is sweetness indeed. & for the moment, this moment & the ones just before it & perhaps just a delicious few more, this defines the concept of pleasure to me. but then again words are defined by other words, which means these feelings are as real as these words, & nothing more.

& so i tap them into being on these keys, in order that i may dismiss them like the dreams they are, no matter how well-documented their existence.

existence can not be documented in text, especially at this hour.

it cannot be put into words, & not just because words make typing sounds & it is not the time for that. mostly, it is because the entire pursuit is consumed, by its very nature. by futility.

words. that’s it. nothing more.

it was utterly lucid in the sense that i had control, however utterly symbolic as far as the choices i made.

i had the chance to change my life retroactive. reviewed everything real careful. decided i would move to the pacific northwest circa 1990 & like nirvana before they became popular.

so he calls me up and he says, i haven’t been sleeping more than three or five hours a night (welcome to my world) and i get these moments that feel like catholicism (yeah i know exactly what you mean only i wouldn’t call it that exactly). then he says he wants to fuck (yay!) i can hear by the squawking and barking that he’s at the pet store, so i hurry on over almost stopping at the bar for a beer but there he is standing outside smoking and we’re climbing all over each other in the parking lot decide we can’t do it out there. we discuss the likelihood of either of our roommates (it’s like a boarding school, except with a pet shop and a bar, okay?) and by this time i’m naked and we’re walking upstairs (and dick clark is not looking at my ass) but his** grandparents are in his room and his gramma makes a wisecrack about boobs and cackles like a madwoman as i back out of the room clutching a pillow. then we’re watching this comedy, it’s young and kinda urban and contemporary and it’s well-written and the actors have flawless timing and we’re laughing so hard and finally he catches his breath and asks, why is comedy so much better now? and i say it’s because we finally got rid of all those vaudevillians with their playing to the cheap seats.

fade to wake up.

** not dick clark’s grandparents. the dreamsex guy’s grandparents. who may in fact have been dead, come to think of it. yeah ’cause he said he sent them money and it came back no forwarding address, isn’t that dream for dead? hmm.

more an adventure.

during one of my bouts of email-checking wakefulness early this morning, ‘roanoke’ was suggested to my sleepy, suggestible consciousness, & upon going back to bed, what ensued was fairly … bizarre. now roanoke was the scene of some mysterious disappearance back when, right? & stephen king might have somewhat covered this at some point? which would explain the gateway to hell aspect, however our escape plans were solid, there was no real reason to worry about the passage. hell, i even broke the glass just to prove the vortex wouldn’t suck us through. with my hands, i broke it. in the meantime i got to hear a former employer explain why he liked to varnish the inside of the closet under the stairs (aside from the obvious); later there was the obligatory bloggersex, which was … quite lovely. also there were the white pants that make my ass look so nice.

all in all the sort of dream which leaves one well-prepared for whatver a day may offer, & even what it might take away.

off work @ four-forty five was it? dreams swimming through a war zone: hiding under the edge, under the tarp draped over the framework: tubing, aluminum? holding on as the thing moves over water, pulling me along, away. back on land i’d been wandering through overwhelming devastation & offering advice on letting go. i think it might have been carol burnett swinging a huge plank at the crumbling columns. until they fell. many things, many many crumbling things, some of them still smoldering. is smoldering the word? glowing embers everywhere & so forth. it seems thousands of years were destroyed here just yesterday, the atmosphere is still thick with history, or the ashes of it at least.

there is no memory of abandoning land, just the afterimage of the decision. there are conflicts here too, it’s why i’m hiding. i string a makeshift hammock underneath the tarp draped over the framework of the tubular structure of whatever it is i’ve chosen here, completely at peace in this terribly precarious place. as the water glides by below, i drift off to sleep.

& up at nine. failed to refrain from dawdling over these keys while this fell out, losing a little of the insane virtue of the whole nineteen hour workday in the process. which was actually only sixteen what with the nap & all.

& now nearly noon, & still here at these keys & still in what passes for pajamas.

so i was in debt to this fast food joint, and somehow i had been paying them in food, buying the food and giving it to the accounting department? and then i started to worry that they hadn’t been crediting my account, that they had just been finding greasy bags of food on their desks and eating them not knowing where they came from? so i went down to talk to them and in the waiting room (this was a really elaborate fast food joint, huh?), there was this big, pretty purple inflatable airplaine thingy saying ‘join the french foreign legion’ and flying back and forth across the room. i try to get pictures of it, which i don’t think will come out, and i’m thinking, you know, if i were less responsible, i’d just go join the legion and not worry about the hamburger bill. i decide to investigate. i go on a demonstration mission with them, we’re in flimsy boats in a stormy sea, and we manage to land on the beach. we have to return to the burger joint over this bridge with interesting lights, which i’m trying to take pictures of as we hike across, but my camera doesn’t have enough functions to get that kind of low light fancy stuff. on the other side there’s heavy traffic and these guys are running right across but i hesitate, feeling this feeling of urgency yet not being able to see enough of a clearing in traffic to make my way across.

finally returning to the burger joint, one of the accountants shows me last month’s trial balance, and sure enough some of my payments were received, but not all. it’s ok, i reason, since i’ve now realized how weird it is to pay a restaurant in their own food. the owner of the restaurant has a construction company, and he’s looking for painters. hey! i used to work for a painting contractor, maybe … no, i don’t know … and i wake up

#1: the bad news: i really do have radio transmitters in my head! more equipment than my dentist has ever seen! he doesn’t think he can do much about the voices in my ear, i just have to learn to deal with it. i wonder if i can make them play Tool songs?

the good news: if i concentrate real hard, i’ll be able to dial phones with my brain. it will take some practice, because i have to think the letters, not the numbers.

#2: stacey is telling me about a funny scene in a movie. as he describes it, i can picture it. ok, so this one guy says, ‘well fuck me in the eyeballs’ and then cut to a scene of that guy holding his face and screaming, and the other guy smoking a cigarette and looking satisfied.

and that’s all i remember.

so i came home from work and took a quick nap. woke up, went out for dinner and smokes and stuff, came home, ate my potato, and passed out.

dreamt about bathrooms. the girls’ bathroom had a long line for one stall but other stalls open. i wondered what was wrong with them, but hey, when ya gotta go, so, went in another one, toilet was really low to the ground, i sat on it then realized i didn’t know if there was something else wrong with it. turns out it was full of those seat protector papers, still, creepy enough. i wandered into another bathroom, it was all steamy because there were showers going too. i went into a roomy stall and was ready to sit down when a chubby, dripping wet asian man walked by, naked except for a towel that he was just holding around himself, it didn’t go all the way around. i apologized profusely for being in the wrong room and he just shrugged. back to the girls’ bathroom, where there was a bomb in one of the stalls. i quickly ducked into the next one and had this awareness of what it would be like to have the metal walls of my stall explode towards me, and how it would probably kill me. then i woke up. 11PM. went potty, answered some email, now going back to bed, wondering what will happen next.

woke up this morning early thinking it was sunday. it felt like the last day of a weekend. i searched my brain for memories of a saturday, if any, and determined it probably wasn’t sunday. probably.

went back to sleep and dreamt of terrorists. i’m not sure we had him hostage or he had us – we were in a hotel room and he had a missile and we were afraid to call the FBI because they’d think we were harboring him. he looked like an aging rockstar still sporting the 80′s big hair, though it was streaked with grey. he was very vain about his hair, kept brushing and teasing it, and kept wanting to sleep, but you could never tell if he was really sleeping, we worried. finally we called the FBI, and they chased us out of the room so we wouldn’t see the special instruments they were using on the missile. i think the terror rockstar guy got away, but we had to get to the 24 hour picnic. there was going to be a beer concession selling premium beer in small cups and i had this great idea that we should bring a kegger of cheap beer and sell it in BIG cups for the same price. there was general excitement about big cups of beer. but i forgot the cups. the end.

it is saturday right?