Mexico doesn't seem so long ago. Not at all. It feels like a few months ago.
It was one year ago.
It pains me that a year ago I was buying movies at Blockbuster and then the following day I was hopping 3 planes to glory, but this time around I'm teaching poetry on Tuesday in Syracuse and going to New Jersey for 2 days, then to Scranton.
I mean. It'll be fun. I'll like it. But it's not Mexico.
There's an ad agency in Mexico. I'm gonna apply. If I get it- I'm disappearing. No one will see me again. I'll probably quit the job and just open a store and live.
Adios.
Thursday, March 6
Monday, February 25
Further expulsions.
Music has further been ruled out as a sign-post between dream and reality.
My job involves sitting a desk and doing my homework. It is a great way to get things done. I'm locked in for about 3 to 3.5 hours twice a week. However, I spend most of time sifting through remedial tasks relating to my life (basic skimming of books, e-mail checking, hitting the same sites over and over and over), so I get kind of spaced out quickly. The giant window-wall doesn't help.
So today I go for a walk around the building. Through my headphones all I can hear is Jonny Greenwood's (mind-fucking guitarist for Radiohead) soundtrack to There Will Be Blood, specifically the track "Prospectors Quartet".
I'm walking up stairs that take 2 sections to cover one flight. I'm going up only about 4 of these, but the third one hits me. With this music, I suddenly feel like these stairs haven't ended. In my head I look over the rail and see it going down forever and upforever and briefly envision myself sprinting, burning my legs like matches, and never getting any higher.
Then here I am, back between the 2nd and 3rd floor. I believe still in reality. Yet it doesn't seem all bad the idea of a never-ending turning staircase. I'd like to give it a try.
*
In my journal I have scribblings from 2am.
I was a jockey, or at least I and a nameless, shapeless partner were taking bets against our own horse. There is a high probability that we were hustlers.
This whole scene is just proposterous. Who would ever take bets against the people who control the means to the end? It would be similar to making a bet with me about the outcome of a paper I'm writing. Only you're telling me I'll get an A, I say an F and I have yet to begin writing.
Who wins?
My job involves sitting a desk and doing my homework. It is a great way to get things done. I'm locked in for about 3 to 3.5 hours twice a week. However, I spend most of time sifting through remedial tasks relating to my life (basic skimming of books, e-mail checking, hitting the same sites over and over and over), so I get kind of spaced out quickly. The giant window-wall doesn't help.
So today I go for a walk around the building. Through my headphones all I can hear is Jonny Greenwood's (mind-fucking guitarist for Radiohead) soundtrack to There Will Be Blood, specifically the track "Prospectors Quartet".
I'm walking up stairs that take 2 sections to cover one flight. I'm going up only about 4 of these, but the third one hits me. With this music, I suddenly feel like these stairs haven't ended. In my head I look over the rail and see it going down forever and upforever and briefly envision myself sprinting, burning my legs like matches, and never getting any higher.
Then here I am, back between the 2nd and 3rd floor. I believe still in reality. Yet it doesn't seem all bad the idea of a never-ending turning staircase. I'd like to give it a try.
*
In my journal I have scribblings from 2am.
I was a jockey, or at least I and a nameless, shapeless partner were taking bets against our own horse. There is a high probability that we were hustlers.
This whole scene is just proposterous. Who would ever take bets against the people who control the means to the end? It would be similar to making a bet with me about the outcome of a paper I'm writing. Only you're telling me I'll get an A, I say an F and I have yet to begin writing.
Who wins?
Saturday, February 16
Well adjusted.
As I remain more and more awake, the details become foggy. Oddly- there were 2 dreams. and the second one is completely gone from my head. How? Where? No.
It is still my apartment, but it is my minimalist apartment. Things missing, but the basics are covered. A party seems to be beginning. Or at least, more friends than usual are suddenly showing up. People who have never been here yet. Even my ex-girlfriend is here. My roommate. Also this pudgy, bald actor. Not so much, bald, but definitely shaving his head. He might be from CSI or Law & Order. Not too sure.
The ex is on my bed with this actor, I’m sitting on my dresser, everyone else is scattered throughout my room. My room. Oddly exactly as it is, the same amount of space, only big enough for us all to be comfortable.
There’s also a woman here I haven’t noticed. She decides we need drinks. Drinks and a shot. I don’t know where, but she got champagne and very expensive glasses from somewhere. Only about five of us want the drink. We all move to the dining room.
It’s here I should point out I was reading Ellison’s Invisible Man before I fell asleep.
In the dining room, a man handed me three 100 dollar bills. To pay off my debts, get some new clothes, etc. The dream-self knew, hey, this isn’t suppose to be happening to me. That’s when I realize no one’s said my name.
Back in my room, the ex is there with the bald guy, and she tells me, “He’s wring this brilliant show.” Oh? Explain.
He says, “Every episode is about a new character with a deformity.”
I stare. Not impressed. Just confused. I can’t even feign intrigue since it really does sound like a horrible, weak idea. I’m not jealous, I’m just truly unimpressed.
“Maybe I should elaborate. This one woman, her finger is stuck like this-“ and he has his middle finger bent backward. At this point I realize that hand has 6 fingers, since there are two on either side of the tucked one, as well as a thumb still there.
She is enthralled, he is smug, I am confused as to how this is a show. Even more so because it is evident he wants this deformity to be sexual in some extremely awkward way.
The young woman comes back and hands me the shot glass and the flute glass. The mixture in the flute glass is popping and snapping. I down the shot which refills itself so I do it again. As I raise the flute glass to my face and the popping gets louder, my window blows in with glass, snow and wind. My eyes spin and then here I am.
It is still my apartment, but it is my minimalist apartment. Things missing, but the basics are covered. A party seems to be beginning. Or at least, more friends than usual are suddenly showing up. People who have never been here yet. Even my ex-girlfriend is here. My roommate. Also this pudgy, bald actor. Not so much, bald, but definitely shaving his head. He might be from CSI or Law & Order. Not too sure.
The ex is on my bed with this actor, I’m sitting on my dresser, everyone else is scattered throughout my room. My room. Oddly exactly as it is, the same amount of space, only big enough for us all to be comfortable.
There’s also a woman here I haven’t noticed. She decides we need drinks. Drinks and a shot. I don’t know where, but she got champagne and very expensive glasses from somewhere. Only about five of us want the drink. We all move to the dining room.
It’s here I should point out I was reading Ellison’s Invisible Man before I fell asleep.
In the dining room, a man handed me three 100 dollar bills. To pay off my debts, get some new clothes, etc. The dream-self knew, hey, this isn’t suppose to be happening to me. That’s when I realize no one’s said my name.
Back in my room, the ex is there with the bald guy, and she tells me, “He’s wring this brilliant show.” Oh? Explain.
He says, “Every episode is about a new character with a deformity.”
I stare. Not impressed. Just confused. I can’t even feign intrigue since it really does sound like a horrible, weak idea. I’m not jealous, I’m just truly unimpressed.
“Maybe I should elaborate. This one woman, her finger is stuck like this-“ and he has his middle finger bent backward. At this point I realize that hand has 6 fingers, since there are two on either side of the tucked one, as well as a thumb still there.
She is enthralled, he is smug, I am confused as to how this is a show. Even more so because it is evident he wants this deformity to be sexual in some extremely awkward way.
The young woman comes back and hands me the shot glass and the flute glass. The mixture in the flute glass is popping and snapping. I down the shot which refills itself so I do it again. As I raise the flute glass to my face and the popping gets louder, my window blows in with glass, snow and wind. My eyes spin and then here I am.
Sunday, February 10
Picnic, lightning.
It seemed as if I found a way to differentiate between dreams and reality. The answer was in my ears: music.
Looking back on dreams, I could never say for sure if there was music. Yet in reality- there was always music. From my computer. From my iPod. From speakers in bars and malls and elevators. Passing cars with obnoxious bass. The moments when there is music feel the most real. Right now I can look around my room, I see my books stacked on my subwoofer, a bottle of water over half-empty, a bamboo plant that is struggling, and a glass that recently held a small amount of Pepsi. Oh. And I hear Deerhoof.
Now back to the beginning. The answer was music. That changed last night (or the night before). I had stayed up until 4am determined to finish a jigsaw puzzle I began around 9 or so. Finally giving up on the bushes and sky, sleep overtook me.
I dreamed.
There was some sort of show or performance going on. What was going on, I can't remember (I need to be more determined in writing these as they happen and not listening to the voice that says, "You'll remember, go back to sleep.") Either way, I knew the show was being hosted by myself and a charming brunette. Her name? No idea. For all I know she could be the sister I never had. Only not since I feel like there was an attraction there.
Anyway- at the end of the show we take the stage and decide to play a song. She goes for drums or maybe she was at the guitar. Not sure. I pulled a bass out from behind the curtain. I'm talking true bass. Upright. Giant spike on the bottom. And I played it the way you'd imagine. Hitting the chords with a classic bum-bum-bum-bum-bum as we did our little jazz number. There were words. When she finished the line, "What does the ear say?" I sung the answer in true blues fashion. Only I forgot my line. I kept ad libbing. The ear said a different thing each time my part came.
People began to leave. I awoke feeling very frustrated. I knew my line. Why had I forgotten it?
But there we go. Once I have a concrete tool to distinguish between dreams and reality, the dream world catches on.
Looking back on dreams, I could never say for sure if there was music. Yet in reality- there was always music. From my computer. From my iPod. From speakers in bars and malls and elevators. Passing cars with obnoxious bass. The moments when there is music feel the most real. Right now I can look around my room, I see my books stacked on my subwoofer, a bottle of water over half-empty, a bamboo plant that is struggling, and a glass that recently held a small amount of Pepsi. Oh. And I hear Deerhoof.
Now back to the beginning. The answer was music. That changed last night (or the night before). I had stayed up until 4am determined to finish a jigsaw puzzle I began around 9 or so. Finally giving up on the bushes and sky, sleep overtook me.
I dreamed.
There was some sort of show or performance going on. What was going on, I can't remember (I need to be more determined in writing these as they happen and not listening to the voice that says, "You'll remember, go back to sleep.") Either way, I knew the show was being hosted by myself and a charming brunette. Her name? No idea. For all I know she could be the sister I never had. Only not since I feel like there was an attraction there.
Anyway- at the end of the show we take the stage and decide to play a song. She goes for drums or maybe she was at the guitar. Not sure. I pulled a bass out from behind the curtain. I'm talking true bass. Upright. Giant spike on the bottom. And I played it the way you'd imagine. Hitting the chords with a classic bum-bum-bum-bum-bum as we did our little jazz number. There were words. When she finished the line, "What does the ear say?" I sung the answer in true blues fashion. Only I forgot my line. I kept ad libbing. The ear said a different thing each time my part came.
People began to leave. I awoke feeling very frustrated. I knew my line. Why had I forgotten it?
But there we go. Once I have a concrete tool to distinguish between dreams and reality, the dream world catches on.
Monday, February 4
Tomorrow will not be too late.
Everything has become too real. My dreams are too real. It is unnerving to wake up at 4 am and have to try to sort out what happened and what did not. What's worse- my drinking has blurred the distinction further. When it was just dreams I could determine what was real and what was unreal. Maybe not easily, but I got it there.
Now the dreams have shifted more and more to the plausible. Roommate arguing about bills. Buying a pair of shoes. Going to Dick's for a bathing suit, seeing you there, cursing you. Monstrous behavior. Calm days. Reading things I've never heard of.
How does drinking factor in? There are glimpses of interactions with people. Places gone to briefly. These things are possible. It is possible I've done these horrible things and am remembering them. It is also possible they are just fragments of dreams.
Right now, I'm sure I'm awake and really typing this. What if right now, the moments I'm sure I'm awake, I am really the dream-self in someone else's dream? Would I have thoughts? It seems like that would be possible. If someone dreamed of me, it would be a representation of me so why wouldn't I be able to connect to that. There are 4 people in this lab. Two brunettes, a guy in a hat, and a black girl in a hat. Could one of them be having a realistic dream about doing work in a lab? Five people. I missed a girl in the corner. Is she having a dream, and in it, I've walked into the room and began typing away on this computer?
If she dreamed I died, would that affect me? I could be someone she's passed before which is why she's brought me back into dreams. Nothing romantic or desirable. I'm just an extra. Extras can die though. At any moment a killer could appear. A beast of some sort. Maybe I'm here to prevent that? If I reached into my pocket...what would I find? If I find my wallet with the pigeon smoking a cigar, my license, an expired registration, about 40-60 bucks, a poem, and a Dunkin Donuts gift card (unused), then it would have to mean that this is reality. There is no way she'd be able to dream the contents of my wallet so exactly.
Unless dreams can get linked. Mine to hers. My dream-selves becoming one so that pieces begin to fit together. She has the physical part of me, the generalities. Someone else might have me placed in a dream and that brings in things like tattoos and my ring, someone who knows me a little better fleshing out details. Then either my own dream-self or my true-self is connecting and supplying the wallet, the contents of my bag, the fact that I knew my blog name and password.
This is beginning to hurt.
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