/

The dream last night was me in an open office, with many work stations, and the mood in the office was one of scandal. Someone had sworn they were not somewhere, and there was a video of this person there, and we were all watching the video in a widescreen in the office. 

There were fragments in the dream, of the aircraft carrier “Lexington” being launched into space. 

Another fragment someone was talking about “Sheriff Tate”. 

Yet another involved me turning down someone’s music from my work station, using a mouse. 

I woke feeling displaced, a little lost, as if I was somewhere I had never been before, and gone were the people I worked with. 

I want to travel to some place on earth without light. At four this morning, I went out with the dogs, and the Live Oaks, ancient a mighty held a host of stars in their branches. The sky was clear, yet there is so much light from humans, it cannot truly be who it is. 

We need darkness. The stars need darkness. 

/

Drinking with a friend of mine who was the first lesbian who was the first openly gay friend of mine was a different experience. We both liked a lot of the same things in the same women. Sexually speaking, we were very much alike, as two people who shared an interest in women would be, but one thing that caught both our interest was the discussion of the scent of women, and how that smell has a profound effect on a lover’s ability to function normally the next day. It’s an immersion experience, a sense of being with the person still, wearing something very personal, intimate, unique and primal, that zings through the senses like a rare form of electricity, like sexual lightning. 

I find the feeling I get from finishing a book gives me that same sense of wearing that book within me, and remembering parts of it during a day has the same sort of lightning. 

“Blood Meridian (or the Evening Redness in the West) by Cormac McCarthy, now goes into the list of novels I have read. Uniquely and somewhat beautifully written, oddly and somewhat clunkily punctuated, the book cannot be said to be good, or not good, for it’s not a tome of which opinion should be formed. I strongly doubt it was written for readers, for it is somewhat difficult on the mind as far as reading goes, but rather, I suspect it was written for writers, in a way of warning, for this is madness, and likely transmissible, or perhaps, it was written in the way a man would make some figurine out of glass, fragile, and beautiful, yet thoroughly deformed and devoid of any translation from the intellect, an abstract whose meaning is not seen or felt or defined by anything but the work itself. 

A commonality of books is the first intimate connection between minds.

/

I struggled through Yoga this morning for the dream would not leave me. The dream itself was unfocused, vague and shadowy, unformed yet it persisted far into the practice. The more I tried to focus on reality, the more the transaction of the dream spoke to me. 

Now that I am home, and writing, the realization comes this dream is not transient of anxiety and daily woes, but it will return some night, and it asks that I prepare. 

Last night’s dream was a parade of personalities that had no form but were living ideas that floated and dissipated like clouds in the darkness. No light, no real images, but I could see them inside my head, and I could feel them, as if their very existence was nothing but feelings and free form emotions. Then towards the end, something, someone, the thing that was driving this all, came and sat down on my bed, and it its mass was real and significant. 

I woke up to discover the dream, and nothing was left of it, no real memories of what was there and what had left, as if in the dream I existed, and in waking, did not.