These are difficult days for me. I'm about as depressed as I think I've ever been. It's no great mystery as to why, that's easily seen. Nor is it a frame of mind that looks like it will persist in perpetuity, it is shifting and drifting and occasionally absent. But when it is present, when it returns, the things it is showing me are so strange to deal with.
Sleep is now a very fragmented thing, all normal rythms off line, perhaps one day in four or five a full double rem cycle somewhere on the face of the clock. Ok, survivable, I don't have many things to do that require I be somewhere at some particular time. But sleep is more than just rest for the body, it is rest for the mind as well. Sleep is the domain of dreams, dreams the outtakes of the mind maintenance going on beneath the surface. I'm doing some heavy mind maintenance, no doubt of that, and the dreams associated are hallucination grade strange.
As a matter of fact they are more than hallucination grade strange because for the most part the symbols and settings, the actions and the words that are in them are full understood even as they're happening. A side bar consequence of having practiced lucid dreaming in the past, I'm pretty well familiar with how my sub-c likes to communicate. It's a bit of a conundrum though since defending yourself, maintaining mastery of yourself in a dream means you're only partially asleep and it sends these echo-like little loops floating off to reappear later: you dream a thing, respond to the dream, and then later because you remember the dream you dream the consequences of the response. Very strange. And no, I'm not drinking and no, I'm not doing any form of drug illegal or otherwise. I'm just riding with it, and waiting.
This thing will run it's course and be gone when the reformatting work is complete. I thought that thought and a song jumped into my head. I'd like to share that song with you, it probably says it better than any words of mine.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Damn Greeks
Well, the brats are back and no mistake. It used to be a quiet neighborhood, until it was invaded by the fratrats and sorwhores. Two years ago there were a few college kids living on the street, three or four houses, quiet natured serious students for the most part. Their parties were at most half a dozen friends, easy to live with, they were good neighbors. No gripes with them at all.
Then two years ago some rich frat daddy bought a house rather than pay rent, and the situation went south. Of course the fratrat boy takes full advantage of having a huge old house built to house a large family to throw huge hundred head parties two or three times a semester, and well, of course someone from a competing house found out about the new neighborhood to abuse and had his rich daddy buy him a house at the other end of the street this year, and of course now for the permanent party folk just like for the serious students we're trapped in the middle while the revelers make sport out of seeing who can out shout the other in the middle of the night.
Then two years ago some rich frat daddy bought a house rather than pay rent, and the situation went south. Of course the fratrat boy takes full advantage of having a huge old house built to house a large family to throw huge hundred head parties two or three times a semester, and well, of course someone from a competing house found out about the new neighborhood to abuse and had his rich daddy buy him a house at the other end of the street this year, and of course now for the permanent party folk just like for the serious students we're trapped in the middle while the revelers make sport out of seeing who can out shout the other in the middle of the night.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Takiea Ch 25
Shifting ripples of light surfaced across the inky blackness of Richard Driwell’s sleep, fragments that vibrated and shuddered with terrible force. The ripples fell across themselves, braiding into convulsing knots, knot piling upon knot, shifting and melting, rising above the surface in a shadow form. The figure turned, stretched down a hand and gathered in an upwelling in the knee deep blackness, and Richard knew it now perceived him. The figure turned and beckoned, rivulets of pale blue falling from long fingered hands as the illusion of liquid failed.
Richard shifted, aware of his dream, uncomfortable with the presence of this new creature. The creature offered no threat beyond its own strange appearance, but the menace of the now vanished black water still hung thickly. Richard grasped onto the dream, awakening himself within it, pressing his will onto his own image. The creature beckoned again, urgency flowing from its form as Richard took command of echoed senses.
They stepped and the surface fell away, leaving the darkness slashed with the ribbons and blocks of light a major city shows to those who ascend. Richard took no notice of the thousand meter drop beneath him, to hang suspended in space was nothing new. The companion creature basked in the lights, floating and rolling in the glimmerings, gaining definition as highlights lifted features from the blankness. Richard held himself in the extended waiting, floating with the creature. In a short bit they began to descend, slowly at first, then with a giddy rush.
The city filled vision to overflowing, the passage compressing time into slices and fragments. In fleeting moments the creature had conducted them through a long sequence of places, doors and halls, large rooms and small. Common to them all was the sensation of desperation ingrained in the very fabric of the space. Richard slowed his flight, dragging the images out, compelling them into a more normal time frame. The companion creature did not protest, but neither did it seem inclined to give clue as to the reason for their flight. After allowing one long look into a room of people the creature lifted and soared, and Richard soared with it. As they gained altitude the creature again began to morph, features becoming recognizable. When they had resumed the altitude of the first vision the creature was an image of Sashi worked in electric blues and silvers, the high cheekbones and feline eyes beneath the flowing mane unmistakable.
Richard reached for his friend of many years, but the image moved just beyond reach. He swam in the air, in the manner learned aboard the orbiting factory, and the image moved just beyond grasp. For a few seconds he paused, and the creature paused in its flight. An effort to speak brought immense fatigue, to the depth of nearly shattering his hold on the vision. The Sashi creature seemed to understand the intent, and approached. It extended a hand, moving slowly, as if to not frighten an animal or a child. But the expected contact did not occur. The hand paused, and gnarled, and withdrew. The face of the creature shifted, battling in its form between Sashi and a man of oriental lineage. No emotions crossed the faces as they contended for the form in Richards dream, but in the heat of their battle they began to glow in shifting colors, and they began to settle: falling ever faster into the city below. Richard released his hold on the altitude, and willed himself to descend, but even within his dream, diving in full pike into lights, the creatures outdistanced him. They splattered against a sharp hillside, the iridescent colors splashing up and over the city. For a tiny fraction of time the running colors defined a landmark, and Richard sat bolt upright in his bed, eyes that had the moment before stared at the dark approaching earth staring now at the dark wall of his chambers. “San Francisco,” he said, and wondered why.
Richard shifted, aware of his dream, uncomfortable with the presence of this new creature. The creature offered no threat beyond its own strange appearance, but the menace of the now vanished black water still hung thickly. Richard grasped onto the dream, awakening himself within it, pressing his will onto his own image. The creature beckoned again, urgency flowing from its form as Richard took command of echoed senses.
They stepped and the surface fell away, leaving the darkness slashed with the ribbons and blocks of light a major city shows to those who ascend. Richard took no notice of the thousand meter drop beneath him, to hang suspended in space was nothing new. The companion creature basked in the lights, floating and rolling in the glimmerings, gaining definition as highlights lifted features from the blankness. Richard held himself in the extended waiting, floating with the creature. In a short bit they began to descend, slowly at first, then with a giddy rush.
The city filled vision to overflowing, the passage compressing time into slices and fragments. In fleeting moments the creature had conducted them through a long sequence of places, doors and halls, large rooms and small. Common to them all was the sensation of desperation ingrained in the very fabric of the space. Richard slowed his flight, dragging the images out, compelling them into a more normal time frame. The companion creature did not protest, but neither did it seem inclined to give clue as to the reason for their flight. After allowing one long look into a room of people the creature lifted and soared, and Richard soared with it. As they gained altitude the creature again began to morph, features becoming recognizable. When they had resumed the altitude of the first vision the creature was an image of Sashi worked in electric blues and silvers, the high cheekbones and feline eyes beneath the flowing mane unmistakable.
Richard reached for his friend of many years, but the image moved just beyond reach. He swam in the air, in the manner learned aboard the orbiting factory, and the image moved just beyond grasp. For a few seconds he paused, and the creature paused in its flight. An effort to speak brought immense fatigue, to the depth of nearly shattering his hold on the vision. The Sashi creature seemed to understand the intent, and approached. It extended a hand, moving slowly, as if to not frighten an animal or a child. But the expected contact did not occur. The hand paused, and gnarled, and withdrew. The face of the creature shifted, battling in its form between Sashi and a man of oriental lineage. No emotions crossed the faces as they contended for the form in Richards dream, but in the heat of their battle they began to glow in shifting colors, and they began to settle: falling ever faster into the city below. Richard released his hold on the altitude, and willed himself to descend, but even within his dream, diving in full pike into lights, the creatures outdistanced him. They splattered against a sharp hillside, the iridescent colors splashing up and over the city. For a tiny fraction of time the running colors defined a landmark, and Richard sat bolt upright in his bed, eyes that had the moment before stared at the dark approaching earth staring now at the dark wall of his chambers. “San Francisco,” he said, and wondered why.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Monday, August 8, 2011
Life at My House No. 8...
Mark my days in measured tread
Marched sentry from the start
Ward wounded from the gender wars
Laid waste to willing hearts
Left bleeding on the field of love
From front line combat starts
Between hot blades of Eros's charge
Braved Aphrodities darts.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Bars of Music...
I'm trying to break the habit of silence. For the last say three years or so I've lived in deep silence, I pretty well had to for the wife. Any noise at all and she'd lose her focus, get confused, and being confused get frightened, and the fright would often turn to anger. It wasn't her fault, but it wasn't easy on me, not at all. Still though, the silent times have shown me just how much of my life was and is tied to music, triggered by music, stored in music.
Now that I'm trying to reclaim my life, reformat my life of course there's music involved, like I said, I have so many of my emotions, so much of my history tagged to this tune or the other. What I realized is that where music makes a great marker for a life, sort of an emo-gps kind of thing it can also become a cage for your life, every song you've ever heard trying to drag you back to see the world, feel the world, as you did when the song was imprinted with a certain frame of reference. Music can be a cage just as easily as a storage locker, you really do need to be careful in that way.
After mulling this thought over from a variety of angles while working on a pint of cheap whiskey I've decided that about the only way to make sure I don't get locked in, one way or another, is to compel the feelings from the tunes into words. I free write to Hearts of Space fairly regularly, let music new to me instigate emotions on a sort of random play shuffle if you will, but I've never really tried the same technique on music that has a history for me. What follows is a ramble through 'Nos generated by a couple of recent play-lists… I suppose it would fall somewhere between emo-exhibitionism and a cyber confession. But what the hell, why not.
Now that I'm trying to reclaim my life, reformat my life of course there's music involved, like I said, I have so many of my emotions, so much of my history tagged to this tune or the other. What I realized is that where music makes a great marker for a life, sort of an emo-gps kind of thing it can also become a cage for your life, every song you've ever heard trying to drag you back to see the world, feel the world, as you did when the song was imprinted with a certain frame of reference. Music can be a cage just as easily as a storage locker, you really do need to be careful in that way.
After mulling this thought over from a variety of angles while working on a pint of cheap whiskey I've decided that about the only way to make sure I don't get locked in, one way or another, is to compel the feelings from the tunes into words. I free write to Hearts of Space fairly regularly, let music new to me instigate emotions on a sort of random play shuffle if you will, but I've never really tried the same technique on music that has a history for me. What follows is a ramble through 'Nos generated by a couple of recent play-lists… I suppose it would fall somewhere between emo-exhibitionism and a cyber confession. But what the hell, why not.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
The good old bad days...
For the last couple of days I've been suffering with a bad case of GFA, a really bad case. Why give a fuck about it, it won't matter anyhow. Anyway, I was out and about, stopped into my favorite little greasy spoon diner for a burger and ran into Chuck. Now Chuck is a buddy of mine, a few years older than I and retired. Back in the day he was a contract pipe-fitter who spent so much time at our place he kept a coffee cup in our break room, it was just simpler that way. It was good to have him around, if he piped it up it didn't leak, and when a lot of what's in the pipes is stuff you really, really don't want running loose that's an important thing. Anyhow, we bumped into each other and of course it turned into a back-when session, tales of adventures and misadventures from back in the day. Lord knows there was some bone headed bullshit piled on us by folks who didn't have a freaking clue what they were asking for.
Back then? Back then I really didn't like my work life. Of course it didn't have a thing to do with 115 degree summers or 38 degree winters or twelve hour rolling shifts where after a year or two you just forgot what being rested felt like. The fact we had near 200 horsepower of ventilator fans trying, not always successfully, to keep the mind-burning fumes sucked out didn't matter, after a while you get used to working in the eye of a hurricane, perpetual low pressure just wasn't a big deal anymore. You get used to suffering, you get used to being used, you knew they knew you had a family to feed and didn't give a flying fuck at a rolling donut that you didn't really have any choice in the matter. It was a habit, back then, to walk in the door, look around and ask the place "ok, which part of this screwed up clusterfuck is going to try and kill someone today?" Lord knows it got close a time or three. Just luck no one ever left in a body bag, just luck. By rights we should have killed a dozen or so over the years.
It sucked, big time... and yet, looking back, it really didn't suck any more than now does, not really. Just in different ways. We'd pretty well agreed on that, Chuck and I had by the time fourth or fifth cup of coffee had gone away. Don't have to sweat so much now, most of the time. But there's still way to much to worry about, and even less to be done about it. It comes up about even in the wash. I look back and realize I did some of my very best writing in those days, just trying to stay sane. So yea, here's to the good old bad days when at least there was a reason to be seen. Here's to you Grover and Dan, Oren and Arthur and WillieBob, Pecos and Pam, CajunOb and TomV and Scotty Hellraiser who'd been in the trenches with me even before they built that damn vertical hole in the sky… a toast to the good old bad days... may their likes never be seen again. Cheers!
Back then? Back then I really didn't like my work life. Of course it didn't have a thing to do with 115 degree summers or 38 degree winters or twelve hour rolling shifts where after a year or two you just forgot what being rested felt like. The fact we had near 200 horsepower of ventilator fans trying, not always successfully, to keep the mind-burning fumes sucked out didn't matter, after a while you get used to working in the eye of a hurricane, perpetual low pressure just wasn't a big deal anymore. You get used to suffering, you get used to being used, you knew they knew you had a family to feed and didn't give a flying fuck at a rolling donut that you didn't really have any choice in the matter. It was a habit, back then, to walk in the door, look around and ask the place "ok, which part of this screwed up clusterfuck is going to try and kill someone today?" Lord knows it got close a time or three. Just luck no one ever left in a body bag, just luck. By rights we should have killed a dozen or so over the years.
It sucked, big time... and yet, looking back, it really didn't suck any more than now does, not really. Just in different ways. We'd pretty well agreed on that, Chuck and I had by the time fourth or fifth cup of coffee had gone away. Don't have to sweat so much now, most of the time. But there's still way to much to worry about, and even less to be done about it. It comes up about even in the wash. I look back and realize I did some of my very best writing in those days, just trying to stay sane. So yea, here's to the good old bad days when at least there was a reason to be seen. Here's to you Grover and Dan, Oren and Arthur and WillieBob, Pecos and Pam, CajunOb and TomV and Scotty Hellraiser who'd been in the trenches with me even before they built that damn vertical hole in the sky… a toast to the good old bad days... may their likes never be seen again. Cheers!
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Calling the Ghost of Sigmund Freud...
Don't ask my why, if I even bothered to fake an answer it would be a premeditated lie, but this question popped into my head today, and sort of stuck. Is it possible for a true and full gay to be home to an Oedipus complex? Or for a lesbian for that matter to host the Electra equivalent going the other way?
*chuckle* If poor Siggy ever seriously engaged with such questions I'd be betting he'd never have said "sometimes a cigar is just a cigar," no, I'd be betting the quote would have been "yo man, you know a spleef is just a spleef until you light it..."
*chuckle* If poor Siggy ever seriously engaged with such questions I'd be betting he'd never have said "sometimes a cigar is just a cigar," no, I'd be betting the quote would have been "yo man, you know a spleef is just a spleef until you light it..."
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