A Stairway to the Stars

At certain times random sentences and voices speak in my mind, so only I can hear. I am, of course, insane. This is a good thing.

A sentence manifested in my mind today at work, and I couldn’t think of anything else until I wrote it down, and then I wrote down another sentence and another sentence, and from there I brainstormed a piece of short fiction. This is generally how I write.

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            He’s building her a stairway to the stars. Or, it is to say, he’s building himself a stairway to her. She’s dead, his Isa, and he, King of the Drowned City, First of the Seven Bays, Lord of the Southern Stars, cannot live without her. So, without another choice, he will find her again.

            He will build a stairway.

            At night he roams the halls of his palace, paces beneath the vaulted domes as the frescoes high above monitor his nocturnal progress, ambles through the gardens where flowers hide within themselves to escape darkness for their own darkness. At night he thinks, constantly, of the first moment he laid eyes upon Isa.

            A servant to his former wife, she was. A servant to royalty, yet still a servant. She had appeared in his chamber late at night with other servants—how many others he has forgotten, as he’s forgotten everything from that night, and from that moment, other than her. She had carried a silver tray of steaming teacups thick with the aroma of cinnamon, her dress plain and gray and matching that of every other servant, her dark brown hair ringlets down to her shoulders. She had kept her eyes to the floor, he remembers. Expected in the presence of royalty. Only she looked up, just once, at the exact moment he happened to be studying her from his seat upon a cushioned oaken chest inlaid with a maritime scene, immense serpents battling a ship and its harpoons.

            She looked up and her pale green eyes miraculously, and forbiddingly but he had forgotten all about that, found his own eyes wide with shock and astonishment and terror of what he must do.

            He had realized, then, that almost all he knew was a lie he had been telling himself for too long. His first wife was beautiful, a woman raised as royalty, a brilliant mind who understood the intricacies of court and diplomacy and her duties as a wife to the King—the Queen, Meisa. The city had loved her, and he, King of the Drowned City, had realized, in one blinding instant, that he had never shared that love. He enjoyed her presence and valued her mind and body and respected the woman for all she was and all she helped him become, but she had never loved her—not true love, at least. Not what he had felt for Isa from the first moment, what he never even had the chance to deny.

            Swept up so quickly, and willingly.

            So, at that moment, their eyes meeting for just a second before she blushed and hastily turned away and vanished out of the room, looking back from the doorway for yet another brief—but everlasting—moment in time, at that moment he had made a decision. It was not hasty; he never acted in haste or foolishness, always dissected every decision and opportunity before acting. A simple decision, the only choice, for once following a heart he could not deny.

            Meisa died a few days later. Or, it is to say, she and her attendants were murdered in the steam baths. He knew who killed her, of course. He had hired them himself, just as he hired yet another band of assassins to kill Meisa’s murderers.

            Secrets are costly to keep.

            The city wept, as cities are known to do.

            The King did not weep, as kings are known not to do.

            And despite how adamantly his advisors and attendants insisted he not, he married Isa weeks later. He was supposed to be a mourning man, and yes, he missed his late wife, as they had spent many years together, but those days of grief and misery truly stemmed from waiting to wed Isa.

            Madness, he knew and accepted and remembered how he had never acted so passionately, had never felt anything similar to this agonizing bliss. And so he married Isa, and the Drowned City, although shocked, accepted his marriage to a woman of such low station, a servant to the late queen of all things. Rumors spread, as rumors tend to do, and perhaps some nearest to the king knew a version of the truth, but none knew the entire truth; none could ever know what the king felt, how some things are destined and even out of a king’s control.

            But life is life and good things rarely stay good forever. Life takes what you need most, what you love with all your heart, and life does not care that you weep in the wake of loss.

            Life gave him Isa as a spirit from his dreams. Life awakened his heart to emotions he thought he could never feel, emotions he thought had never existed. Life had brought him, in essence, life. A true reason for living. His other half, a woman who seemed to read his mind and he hers, who somehow cherished him as much as he her. It was uncanny, even frightening at times, that they could exist in such perfect harmony. Two strangers brought together under the most unusual and impossible of circumstances, and yet, somehow, it worked flawlessly.

            Until the plague. Until he ordered every physician from his city and far beyond to attend his ailing wife, who, despite the grace of the gods, suffered the plague as so many did throughout the city. Every expense, every waking hour at her beckon, every incantation and treatment and medicine and the most outlandish ideas exhausted. And then, like that, the spirits stole Isa in the night, just as they brought her to him in the night.

            The stars burned those nights, as stars tend to do when someone suffers unimaginable heartbreak and pain.

            The stars burn every night.

            And he, a man known for his cold stares and unreadable face, a mask of stone always calculating beneath the exterior, had wept. Face buried in his hands, he had wept for hours and days and weeks, and now, today, as he builds a stairway to the stars, he still weeps.

            She’s up there, somewhere, his Isa, the woman the gods destined for him. She’s waiting for him. Destined in whatever realm.

            Every soul is a star, and when the living pass into the dead, spirits extract the soul from its useless husk and guide the soul to the true world high above. The eternal world, where souls entwine and love is never stolen in a flash. It is known. It is a fact and has been for many centuries.

            So, he, king of a city few rival and none exceed, gives everything to a dream that must come to fruition. Terror from the first moment, he recalls. To know that someone means so much to you…he still shivers at the fact, still tries to come to terms with it but knows he never will. He knows, only, that Isa is everything even still, and that this city, and these people, all part of him in the living world, fail in comparison to a dead woman, a soul and star in the sky.

            So he must build a stairway to the stars, to her. And at the end of that stairway, when he has reached the first last step and stares into the stars and feels the darkness around him and the souls so near to him and that one soul, Isa’s, nearly within his grasp, at the end of that stairway he will leap, and he will fall, and he will find Isa. He will be happy again, a man and his wife.

It truly makes the most beautiful music...

Last night fucked me royally. And I do not mean that a beautiful queen, or princess, fucked me. I wish. I was plagued with dreams for the first time in awhile. Not nightmares, but dreams…yet sort of nightmares.

A short story that’s been told a million times so I’ll tell it again: I liked this girl, and this girl liked me—these two things I’m 100% certain of—but life sucks in many ways and is too hard and things, sometimes, don’t work as they should. For now. For now? And now we’re suddenly strangers, or something near to it, which I never expected.

I really like blogging, by the way. I should have started long ago.

That’s life, I guess. Anyway, against my will, she was in my dreams all last night Not sexual dreams, you sick fucks! That was at least a few weeks ago. No matter how many times I went to sleep, I dreamt of her in some incarnation, only to wake up feeling totally mind-fucked by what is not and what seemingly cannot be other than in dreams.

I’m sure many of us have experienced similar situations—dreaming of a significant other, or a perspective significant other, or someone we just care about, only to wake up and find ourselves lost and, yes, mind-fucked, thinking about the same shit all day, nearly reliving our dreams, seeing the images, wondering why our subconscious tortures us so proficiently, finding that one thing we don’t want to dream about—and yet, we do, so much—and forcing it into our slumbers. If you’ve been reading this blog then you that I’m obsessed with dreams and that I believe they have meaning, that our subconscious, in some way, controls us or at least steers us, only now I can’t identify the meaning of my dreams and what I’m supposed to ascertain. I don’t know what I’m supposed to think, or what I want to think.

It can be an awful feeling—going to sleep only to wake up focused on a single, tender thought and thinking about it all day. Apparently my subconscious hates me, or doesn’t want me to…what? I don’t know. Not give up? Not accept silence?

Sonata Arctica, one of my favorite bands, wrote….

It truly makes the most beautiful music...
Everything it has to give....
It's everywhere, hiding the listener...
Without it...I could not live...
....Silence

In some ways that’s very true. Silence is beautiful. But in this case silence is silent and nothing more.

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I had been planning to write a piece of flash fiction tonight, as this post is just about me and really, no cares just about me other than me, and I just write shit because it’s a means to release whatever’s inside of me and just feel better. I’m fine with that; it’s better than talking, and it’s not like the world reads this blog. However, being on four hours of sleep and having to wake at 9am for the gym, followed by 9 hours of work, I feel like I should sleep. I’m tired, very tired, and although I’m somewhat sure my dreams won’t allow a full night of rest, I should at least humor myself and try.

Thanks for reading, if you’re still reading, whoever’s reading.

Footnote.

 Before reading Footnote, watch me play piano. This is probably my favorite original song to play. I hope you enjoy it, and Footnote.

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K1pKDFs25jU

Footnote

A turkey once choked on a nickel and died.[1]

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[1] The nickel was minted in the year 1892. ²

² The year 1892 preceded the year 1893, and all years following 1893. This year also marked the birth of Sir Isaac Edwards, inventor of the pillowcase. ³

³ The pillowcase is one of the most widely used and comforting inventions known to man. The pillowcase, according to The Pillowcase Emporium and Scholars of Casings of Pillows of the North Atlantic Ridge and Southern Boreal Shelf, can be found in North America, South America, Europe, Asia, Australia, India, Antarctica, and all but one of the Galapagos Islands. ⁴

⁴ The pillowcaseless Galapagos Island is known as Fig, not to be confused with the consumable: fig. Fig, what the natives call Fi (Foo) for short, is home to many rare breeds of parrots that instinctively hate, fear, and attempt to breed with all pillowcases. Hence the lack of pillowcases. ⁵

⁵ It is worth mentioning that Fig (Fi)(Foo)), not figs, is an active volcano and is consequently subject to erupt sometime in the next four years, which, consequently, will kill the parrots and possibly the human inhabitants of Fig (Fi)(Foo)). ⁶

⁶ A recent article, “The Volcanoes Within Us,” speaks widely on the possibility that figs, not Fig (Fi)(Foo)), are in fact miniature volcanoes that much of the world population consumes daily. This could soon escalate into a pandemic of which none will survive. ⁷

⁷ Due to this threat, a new term, Deathdemic, has been recently introduced by Medical Weekly. A Deathdemic is of the ‘demic lineage,’ closely related to the pan and epi demics, but deserving of far more fear and begrudging consideration. Deathdemics leave no survivors. No such Deathdemic has ever been recorded and likely never will, as it will surely kill all who attempt to record it and leave no survivors to later read evidence of why the world has perished. Deathdemics may begin slowly, or quickly, or just steadily progress. There may be no signs of Deathdemics, or, in a Deathdemic case such as figs being miniature volcanoes, one may notice their neighbors and loved ones exploding and lava spewing out of their mouths and other cavities. If one notices such an occasion, immediately contact an official, even if the Deathdemic has already begun and is soon to ravish the world. Once begun, a Deathdemic cannot be stopped, halted, slowed, contained, or confused. A Deathdemic always travels south, but will at times also travel west, east, and north, depending on wind conditions and global rain patterns. It is unknown why Deathdemics only travel south, as one has never been studied and surely never successfully will, due to the 100% mortality rate. ⁸

⁸ The mortality rate was coined a legal term in 1880 by Francis O’Neil, Irish baker of fine pastries and streusels. The mortality rate originally charted at what rate people were immortal and mortal. O’Neil’s dissertation, “The Rate at which People are Immortal and Mortal,” claimed that 35% was an above average immortality rate, but nowhere near the record immortality rate of 72.983%. ⁹

⁹ The world record immortality rate is currently held by Ned Crosby, a window washer in the city of Seattle, Washington. ¹⁰

¹⁰ It is estimated that in the year of 2019, Seattle, Washington will no longer be a city, but a district of the District of Dallas of the District of Montpelier of the District of Kalamazoo of the District of Colombia. Government power will reach to the corners and centers of the United States of America of the District of Canada of the District of Quebec primarily due to size constraints and an excess of crime in the District of Colombia. Crime, escalating to a new high not seen since the 1770’s, will engulf the District of Colombia until it seems that life will surely end. ¹¹

¹¹ This threat to life will not be the direct or indirect result of a Deathdemic. ¹²

¹² In fact, Technological Singularity will end human life. ¹³

¹³ Please refer to previous readings for further information on Technological Singularity.

Watch Me Play Piano - Yeah!

Shameless plug today: I’m branching out! Like a mother fucking tree. A big old fucking oak tree. I really need to stop swearing so much if I ever plan to teach at a college level. I’m already getting off track.

I have two real passions in life: music (especially playing piano and composing), and writing, of course. While I love blogging, I want to be a duel threat, plus I love how music offers instant gratification, so here’s my first of many uploads of me playing piano. I wrote the song myself—except it’s only written in my head and slightly different every time I play it.

As it says, it’s named Fallen.

I hope you enjoy it; comment even if you don’t, especially if you do.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BkQrmTnAQIo
 

I plan on posting more in the future, including me reading sheet music; I’m dismal at memorizing music, no matter how hard I try. It’s a really bad shortcoming of mine.

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A quick anecdote. I love tennis but I’m forced to play alone, with Tennis Wall, most of the time, since I have only one friend who enjoys playing and makes it somewhat competitive. My sister also plays, and is adequate, but she’s so fucking lazy that we’ve played once this entire summer. Once. I’m not great by any means, but I’m decent, and playing with horrible players just isn’t fun when you feel bad about murdering them, or they get pissed and quit. So I play with the wall, as it’s entertaining cardio and I like being outside.

I sound lonely.

Today I’m all ready to play. It’s sunny out, a gentle breeze, quite nice. I just came from work followed by the gym on three hours of sleep.

I hit the ball, Tennis Wall returns it, and then I hit the ball again and it soars over the wall. Sigh. There’s no net or blockage on top of Tennis Wall, of course. I usually don’t hit the ball over; maybe once ever ten to twenty minutes, which is fine. So I start again (I have a hopper of balls to practice serves) and I hit another over, and another and another and another and another, so often I have no idea what the fuck is going on and why I suck so much. After like twenty abysmal shots, I get pissed out and throw my $100 racket out of the court, and of course it gets stuck in a tree branch. I don’t even know how that’s possible, but a tiny branch went through the wire, so I had to climb a tree and shake the branch just to get my racket out, and then while retrieving dozens of balls, I kept getting bit by flies.

They really need to put a small net or fence atop the wall. I’ve been saying that for years, but no one listens to me, probably because I’m the only one who uses it.

Stay tune for more stories, and anecdotes, and videos, and other things far better than today’s blog.

Why We Write

             I haven’t blogged in awhile. Mostly because I’ve been feeling ehhh and ughhh and not much has been happening, and I have no amazing insights to share. I sort of feel like I’m running in molasses without even being sure what direction I want to head in. Other than the novel I’m writing…that’s going very well, and it feels very different from any other long pieces of fiction that I’ve written. I’m hoping that I have someone to read it after I’m done, a friend who will volunteer.

            It’s weird. I read about all these writers, and how they have such good support groups while they write, friends wanting to read their stuff and so on. I don’t have that at all. Well, a little. My mother read my first novel, the first incarnation, which sucked and has been deleted in its entirety. She hasn’t read anything else, and I stopped asking her. She’s too busy caught up in my sister’s life, which, admittingly, is both good and bad for me. Oh well. My friend Jordan read my non-fantasy novel, which pleased me greatly, but she’s not too into reading or writing, so she doesn’t give the best feedback. Even so, I’m extremely grateful. Then there’s my friend John, who is a writer I very much respect, and who I workshopped and brainstormed with at UConn. He’s a sci-fi junkie like me, and while we have opposing views on many things, he’s always great for a discussion and feedback. We’re both also brutally honest; that’s what I prefer. There’s also another friend, who insists she’s this blog’s number one fan (still, I don’t know), and has read some of my short stories, and I’m hoping we’ll get on good terms again and she’ll continue to read more of my stuff.

            It’s hard to put into words what it means to me when someone reads my writing. Even if they don’t like it, that they read it means everything to me, that they took time out of their day to read my writing, when I’m still a no one, a hack if you will, just some guy, like so many others, writing his heart out, sacrificing so much of his free time, and his life, for writing. Sad but true. It really is the best compliment I can receive—when someone says they enjoy my writing, or they actually hear a voice behind the words, that my writing even has a voice. My friend—mentioned above—awarded me the best compliment of my life; it stunned me. Thank you so much. Despite my support group being so minute, just John right now, I think, and maybe another or so, it’s extremely important to me. Rejection after rejection can really get you down after awhile, but I take it in stride. Rejection is part of life: all facets, not just writing.

            I finished Slapstick by Vonnegut today. It was good. Not his best, but good, and since I don’t currently own the two other books I want to read, I started The Dragonbone Chair by Tad Williams. It’s apparently a fantasy classic—a very good series. Hopefully.

            It begin with a fantastic author’s note, so good I immediately thought to blog it. Here it is.

“I have undertaken a labor, a labor out of love for the world and to comfort noble hearts: those that I hold dear, and the world to which my heart goes out. Not the common world do I mean, of those who (as I have heard) cannot bear grief and desire but to bathe in bliss. (May Gold then let them dwell in bliss!) Their world and manner of life my tale does not regard: its life and mine lie apart. Another world do I hold in mind, which bears together in one heart its bitter sweetness and its dear grief, its heart’s delight and its pain of longing, dear life and sorrowful death, dear death and sorrowful life. In this world let me have my world, to be damned with it, or to be saved.”

--- Gottried Von Strassburg

(author of Tristan and Isolt)

Such an amazing quote which pretty much sums up my train of thought when it comes to writing and escapism. On another note, I really should read Tristan and Isolt. I loved the movie despite how horribly sad it was. I remember, my girlfriend at the time couldn’t stop crying.

So short I'm not even going to link this on facebook.

            Today was an okay day. One of those do nothing days, which I desperately needed, so I did nothing. I slept twelve hours, which nearly equals my weekly total before last night. I also slept somewhat well, which was a first in a while. I only woke a few times—twice to hearing my phone go off in dreams, when it really didn’t go off at all, I really wish that would stop happening, and a few times to dreams. I dreamt a lot last night, but most have been forgotten.

            Last night an old friend was in town. She was up from PA, where she moved awhile ago, and I had planned to see her and some of her friends at the casino after work. But I started feeling shitty at work, a horrible, horrible headache, so I had to regrettably not go. I feel bad, since I haven’t seen her in a long time, and it’s always good to catch up with people whom you share…interesting pasts with.

            Instead, I went home, did something important after much deliberation, and fell asleep shortly after.

            Today and wrote and read, and wrote and read, and now I’m writing and reading. An hour ago I went into my hottub since I’m so sore, but it was too hot so I got out after twenty minutes and laid on a raft in my pool, stargazing. They’re extremely bright tonight, the stars, so I laid there until I got too cold.

            As an update, I’m going to link videos of me soon. Maybe even tonight if I come back and edit this. Me playing piano, that is. Original compositions at first, and some sight reading of songs, since my memorization skills are terrible.

           

You See.

Volcanoes melt me down. I’m prone to eruptions.

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Maybe that’s not true. Maybe I stand near volcanoes at the wrong times, unaware of the waking caldera. Or maybe I make volcanoes erupt, and then they melt me down.

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This is all connected, you see, through a series of events, you see, and thoughts, you see, and everything has meaning, you see, and that’s why cannonballs and pirates make me lovesick and not seasick. Everything sinks.

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Pirates of the Caribbean was only really good because of Keira Knightly, and she’s only really good because she looks like Natalie Portman, who is the reason why I saw Star Wars in theaters more than once even though the movie sort of sucks. They should have stopped with the original three.

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The look on your face was delicate.

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Natalie Portman reminds me of attractive celebrities, but she’s nowhere near Mila Kunis or Autumn Reeser. Remember Autumn Reeser, from The OC and probably nothing else? I watched that show. It made me love Jeff Buckley’s Hallelujah even more when I thought that wasn’t impossible. It’s just one of those songs. I wish he didn’t drown.

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Mila Kunis has no place in this blog, but I sort of want to see Friends with Benefits. I just have no one to go see it with.

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That song, Hallelujah, and that moment of television, The OC of all things, made me cry. I remember talking about it with my friend. He cried, too.

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It's a cold and it's a broken, Hallelujah

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No, I wouldn’t go that far, Mr. Buckley. Not in this case.

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We’ll both forget the breeze, most of the time. A line from a song, but I’m not italicizing it.

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Read me your favorite line. Another line from another song and again, I’m not italicizing it.

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Lately, during conversations, I speak in song lyrics because I’m never sure what to say or why I’m saying it. I wrote a story a few years ago about a student who had a disease—he could only talk in song lyrics. I did a very poor job executing it, but I still like the idea. Maybe I’ll come back to it, eventually.

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Eventually.

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Part of me loathes that word, but then Damien Rice reminds me that there’s always time, so pass me by, there’s always time, just give me time, and so on and so on and so on and so on and so on.

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I’m listening to Damien Rice too often. Today I floated on a raft in my pool with a wet towel over my eyes, listening to both cds. I think I’m sunburnt.

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I like being sunburnt. I hate peeling. I like living with pain. Like when I tore my hamstring and suffered severe internal bleeding, and broke my tailbone, and have a horrible scar from a bike accident, and two concussions, one from a car accident and the other sledding, and how I never saw a doctor for any of it, and how I never see a doctor for anything.

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I’m fine, really, and I’m not talking about the above paragraph just now.

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No, I’m not fine. That would be lying. I’m a horrible liar; I tell the truth, and too much of it, too often. I can’t just be fine. I’m not good at that. I blame myself, and how I live through images, memories, ideas, but mostly just images and snapshots and reflections, and how I see everything so clearly, and remember words so well, because that’s what I do, I write images and moments, and people, and how they interact, and what’s said, and what happens, and those subtle nuances, those cautious smiles and widening eyes and longing looks and despaired sighs and words spoken too quickly and awkward silence and silent silence and brief moments of weakness and truths when weakness is really strength and belief and the truth is the truth but the truth isn’t always easy so you ignore it but don’t forget it, and I dissect them, and I see people, and I understand people, and sometimes I don’t understand people, and then I realize I might not understand anything.

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It’s not that I don’t have a good memory. I just save my memories for things that truly matter, what I want to remember, and do.

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A lot a lot. I roam and work mindlessly at work, and then Damien Rice sometimes plays on the satellite radio, and sometimes I ask myself how do you think of something else when all I can think of is one thing and then I tell myself I don’t know but I should probably find out.

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And then I don’t find out.

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Cheers, Darlin is my favorite song of his, Damien Rice. I think we’re back to that again. The live videos are even better. The man is a genius; his songs are more than music. Here’s a link; he’s just acting drunk in the video—it’s a performance and a song. A story.

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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G64PoJ3A_w8

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Running in the rain. That would have been a good idea.

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Accidental Babies is his second best song.

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I enjoy wine more than beer.

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Today is Friday, but the week feels later. This has been a very long week, perhaps because I have seen three sunrises. This also has nothing to do with the above paragraph, so I guess I ruined the trend I started pages ago. It’s as if I was creating a constellation and suddenly decided to tear it apart.

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Stars rhyme with scars. We could come back to that, but we won’t, because I think we’re almost finished now, here.

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And that would absolutely break my heart.

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I hope that that’s not true, but I think, maybe, it is. So we’ll come back to that.

Nocturnal Thoughts: part one of several hundred

4:00am and not sure what I’m doing. Still can’t sleep. Not at all tired. My mind is tired, very tired and extremely sick of thinking, and my body is horribly sore from the gym, but I’m not tired.

I finished reading book two of the Sarantine Mosaic today, by Guy Gavriel Kay. Tigana, one of my favorite novels, first introduced me to him in my junior year of college. Since then I read most of his work, though I still have a trilogy of his to read.

I’m never afraid to admit that I cry, and the end of this novel brought me to tears; we’ll return to this. I think that’s one reason why I read Kay with such passion. He writes with a mindset that reminds me of my own, where the true meaning and substance of the novel lies between character interaction, how people relate with one another, the bonds we form and break, the people that affect our lives the most and how we affect them. Like me, he’s also not afraid to torture and physically and mentally destroy his characters. He’s sadistic and masochistic, like me. Reading his novels, I can’t help but think he believes what I believe.

There are only two emotions—all others stem from and lead up to. There is pain, and there is love, and they are the basis of every emotion, the building blocks, the realest and purest emotions you can feel, the core of everything, and of course the two too often blend together. Kay’s characters all struggle so much, their conflicts as much, or more so, internal than external. Those are the real battles we fight; internal struggles to understand ourselves and where we stand in the world, what we truly want, what choices will lead us to the most happiness, where we’re supposed to be, to the people—friends and family and lovers—we’re supposed to be with. While Kay does not write “romance” stories, there’s always love as much as there is pain, and the love is always so real and wonderful and natural.

Being a hopeless romantic—I suppose I must stress hopeless—I can appreciate Kay’s style. Now that I consider it, the handful of books that have brought me to tears all involved some sort of romance, or love; they are different. Wizard in Glass made me weep; it’s so horribly torturous, so sad, so real and touching that you can’t help but just sit there, stunned, reading the same thing over and over; it made me physically ill. The Notebook made me cry, which is sort of sad to admit, but the novel is touching. Too bad everything else Sparks writes is awful. Feed still makes me cry and I’ve read it four or five times now; it frustrates me as well, how someone can just turn away from something, or someone, so amazing, be so blind to perfection and true happiness. Part of A Gathering Storm had me freaking out, tears running down my face and my hands shaking, and now Kay’s Lord of Emperors choked me multiple times. It ended exactly as I wanted it to end. So inspiring, yet so sad. I’m still thinking about, somewhat obsessively, many hours later.

The novel’s end reminded me of my dream from a few days ago—the last dream I can remember, oddly enough. Remember that dream? With me on a sloop, my friend dressed as an empress, waiting for me so regally and beautifully. Dolphins, finding our souls. Such a striking dream, among the most vivid and memorable and haunting. I’m usually welcome my dreams, am thankful for them. This one…I’m not sure. I don’t like having certain things, images and words and moments, stuck in my mind when all they do is bother me.

Anyway, the novel ended with a scene startlingly similar to my dream. No sloop or wormhole, but there were dolphins and souls being found, or finding each other, and new lives formed from an old friendship. Kay finally completed the circle he began at the beginning of the first novel; I think it was the best ending I’ve ever read to a novel, competing with Feed.

I don’t know what to read next. I began a Vonnegut novel, only to realize I’ve already read it, so I found another Vonnegut novel in my room. Only, it’s apparently a love story of sorts—if you know Vonnegut you know it won’t be traditional, or anything normal in the least—and I’m not sure that’s what I want to read right now. I should go buy Dance of Dragons or whatever the new “Song of Ice and Fire” novel is, but I don’t feel like going to the book store for absurd reasons.

Fuck you, Wild Bear, for ruining my life to, as the Phantom of the Opera would say, the point of no return.

 I know the words to that entire Broadway play. I love it so much.

No story or dream today. Night was disturbingly dream free. I’m more focused on continue the novel I just started, so no story just yet.

I didn’t want to attend the gym today, but I did since it’s emotionally, and maybe physically, good for me. Turns out it’s hard to focus at the gym when there’s a several thousand ton gorilla sharing the same space. You’d like to approach the gorilla, reason with it and maybe even make the gorilla smile, but you aren’t sure how and you don’t want to make the gorilla any less happy than it already is. So you leave the gorilla alone, knowing that leaving things alone never really solves anything.

In my limited time at the gym I talked way too much, pretended I was way too happy, and then said goodbye.

Eyes are always what I remember first, and last.

Work was equally strange. Usually we’re a happy cast of semi-alcoholics and alcoholics alike. Today, the three of us seemed equally down. Ty was angry and frustrated more than not, Tess seemed depressed as she so often stared at her phone, and I was anything but happy. Sales were extremely slow, so mostly we just spoke to each other and stumbled around and told stories about all of our horrible decisions.

I hate when customers ask me how I’m doing, and even when I’m doing fine, I hate how everyone’s automatic response is good. I’m good; that’s so rarely true, for anyone. So I stopped saying good, and just shrugged, or said ehhh, and such. A very despondent looking man entered at one point—you find many hopeless individuals in package stores—and approached me at the register.

“How you doing?” he asked.

I thought for a moment, decided he would appreciate it. “Life sucks.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, humorless. “Cheers.”

Life may not suck, but at times it certainly does.

After work I head over the casino to meet Scott for burgers at Bobby Flay’s and then nickel slots so we get free booze, as if I don’t get enough of that at work. Mohegan Sun has fireworks on Wednesday nights, and they’re exploding as I’m driving over, and still exploding when I park on the rooftop. People are everywhere watching, gathered in groups and couples and whatnot. I’m in my car, listening to, what else, The Trapeze Artist by Iron and Wine—I don’t listen to other songs at night when I drive, unless I’m in a particular mood—watching the fireworks, reminded how my ex-girlfriend and I used to attend almost every Wednesday many years ago. Those were nice times. Much simpler.

Skip ahead a bit. Scott and I finish eating and we find two open seats at the bar with the slots built in. The casino is again rather empty—I don’t go very often since the atmosphere depresses me, but there’s always a surprising absence of people. We put in our money—me a $5 bill, since I hate gambling and just come to talk with friends and drink and people watch and begin conversations with strangers and get hit on by girls I really don’t want to talk to.

I find my game—Wild Bear. I’m a very simple person. I like this game because it features animals. There’s a raccoon, a deer, a crow, a wolf—my favorite—and of course the wild bear. There’s also letters, but they aren’t important. I just like to watch the animals go by on the slots and sometimes line up and sometimes give me more credits. The entire thing captivates me, while I hate other slots, and gambling in general. I just like my animal friends, and all the while I’m aware how fucked up I sound and am. I say things like “For the wolf!” and “The bear rawrs!” and “Caw!” and “You’re a coon!” and other animal puns. I’m certain my immaturity annoys strangers. As an artist, you cannot afford to grow up and be mature.

Wolves are also cool.

So I go to press the button…and I press it…and nothing happens. The fucking machine is broken, and my animal friends are just sitting still, taunting me. My money is already in the machine, and I don’t want to cash out five fucking dollars and look like an idiot, and I don’t want to move, and very soon I can’t move since the other seats are occupied, so I stare at my animal friends and keep pressing the button until my fingers hurt.

Sigh, fucking, sigh.

This should not bother me so much, yet it does. A lot. “This is just my luck,” I say. “This is going to push me over the edge. Fucking Wild fucking Bear. Fuck.” I swear more than usual all night, and continue ranting about Wild Bear fucking me in the eye socket. Everything must go wrong, horribly wrong, at the same time, and now Wild Bear fails me as well. Maybe I have no right to be so angry, but I’m sort of flipping out. I watch Scott play Wild Bear instead of me. I play blackjack and I hate it.

We leave earlier than we thought we would. I feel restless, and I keep looking at my phone, probably because I’m accustomed to texting on it this time of night, and now I’m not and it feels weird and, well, bad. My phone, and many other things, feel like Wild Bear.

Broken.

There are Dolphins.

            Double post today. Not something I usually do, but I had a dream, an insane dream, and I must share. I usually write down my most vivid dreams.

I don’t dream like normal people, as I’ve said before, and this wasn’t a normal dream by any means.

In fact, this dream needs a little background to understand it—even then it’s not really understandable. I’m reading book two of the Sarantine Mosaic right now. Nearly done. It’s by one of my favorite authors, Guy Gavriel Kay. Book lore: dolphins are heresy, taboo, cannot be represented or depicted in any art, and not to be spoken of aloud. Dolphins are couriers, they carry souls through the oceans, to a god who drowned long ago.

My dream. I’m reading my book as I’m falling asleep, and I feel myself falling asleep. I can usually tell, because my mind starts going crazy and I’m aware of it. At this time I realize I’m slipping into a dream, and it’s already somewhat frightening. Extremely vivid, to a nearly tangible degree.

I’m on a sloop, surrounded by infinite colors swirling around me, above and below, creating what resembles, is, a wormhole. I ascertain that the sloop is going imaginably fast, the colors soaring by.

 I’m near the sloop’s bow. So is a woman. She turns, and I recognize her as my friend, only she’s dressed similarly to the empress in the novel I’m reading. An amazing dress of the richest, brightest blues and greens swirling to the contours of her body, sapphires laced through her long hair, which is down, sculpted around her face, framing perfection. She glows, is beautiful, her eyes endlessly deep and peering into me. I’m at a loss for words; I just stare and nod like I understand.

The dream is incredibly vivid even still, as if I lived it, saw everything.

“There are dolphins,” she says, so confidently, her voice musical. She smirks at me, turns away.

I don’t see the dolphins, but I feel them. “Why are we here?” I ask. I’m frightened. Amazed. Frightenly amazed.

“Our souls,” she says, almost a whisper. A hint of pain, longing. “Our souls are here.” She points ahead, down the chaotically colored wormhole.

I nod, stand beside her, stare ahead. We’re dolphins, I think. Our souls.

Today

            I have slept eleven hours, total, in the past three days. This seems bad, and I’m exhausted, yet I cannot sleep. I am not tired, just exhausted. I have way too much energy when I probably shouldn’t.

            I had to work from 8-3 today, so I went to bed early, or I tried. I fell asleep sometime around three, then proceeded to wake up, like clockwork, every twenty minutes in a sort of frightened daze, until I finally woke up at 6am and stayed awake. I’m really not a morning person.

            Work—package store—presented me with a shipment of roughly 700 boxes—wines, sixpacks, 30’s, etc, etc, etc. I actually enjoyed putting it away, as being busy at work is a good thing; it focuses your mind on the task so you don’t just wander around like an idiot. Even so, I was working alone, so I had a good six hours to just think, and think, and think.

            At one point I was in the freezer for three straight hours—with short excursions out—in shorts and a t-shirt. It’s about forty degrees in there. My hands throbbed, lips chapped, and testicles shrunk. I felt them in the bathroom just to make sure.

            My boss, in passing, said, “Schrage, what’s wrong? You look lost. Why are you so silent?”

            “What? Nothing. I’m thinking. I’m a thinker. I’m reflecting.”

            Silence.

            “You’re fucked up.”

            Silence.

            “I know.” I smile.

            I didn't feel lost. I’m not entirely sure how one feels lost unless they truly are lost, and I didn't think I was being silent, but that must be the case. A lot of being have been telling me I’m more silent than usual in past few weeks. I don’t know why. I don’t think I’m being silent, but I must be if people are calling me out on it.

            I guess I’m just waiting for a lot of things to happen, and in that waiting I’m thinking. Silently. Waiting for more responses from agents and magazines and job applications, waiting to move out, waiting until I really sink into this novel I’m starting, waiting for messages to be returned, for friends to answer back.

            At least, as an artist, I’m used to failure, rejection, waiting, preserving, and of course believing everything will eventually come together. You’re fucked without that mindset.

            Regardless, my boss calling me lost took me off guard. I suppose I must to not look lost when I am not lost.

When you know that you just don't know.

            The sky was never as dark as it should have been, the stars not as bright, or as many, or as close, as they should have been. Should have. Been. Too many should haves.

            He wishes for darkness, wishes for the world to turn off just this once, had thought this thought many times as he searched the skies and wondered the questions of life—what’s out there and what’s after this?—had done so from an early age and still does, only now he asks new questions and wonders new things and finds new pain.

            The sky encompasses everything; even pain.

He lays on the ground and…just stares. It’s lonely, isn’t like it’s supposed to be, but it’s good enough. For now. He never even had the chance to see the sky in a different way, a new light. That’s what hurts most. So many hurts, so many questions, in the sky.

            He wonders if he is dark enough to see her light. The night sky, beautiful from the first time he remembers it. Not saw, but remembers. The image stuck in his mind, his heart, piercing and free and prisoning. So dangerous, as he knew and accepted and will accept and will know. So little beauty left in the world, that he holds onto those precious moments, those words, those intentionally sleepless nights, and tucks them away for another time.

            The sky will hold his secrets, his heart, and he the sky’s. There’s something here, beautiful and true no matter what the future brings. The sky does that to him—makes him lay and stare and wish.

            He hates goodbyes, yet night is fleeting and always seems to leave on the cusp of brilliance. It returns. When? When he lays beneath again, and stares above, and the stars align correctly. Not for a long time, maybe. But eventually. He’s sure of that. The stars have a way of aligning correctly when they must, when such has been written in the stars themselves. Maybe it would be too easy any other way, for the stars not to be involved. Fitting. He always wanted to be an astronomer. Shares that with someone out there.

            He holds hope, for it is all he has.

            Tonight, he knows that new stars appear in the darkness, while others, those he remembers best, those he stared at the longest and hardest, what may only be a few seconds, a minute, days, weeks, a month, two months that seemed far longer and far shorter—those stars remain, burning forever. This, too, he is sure of; true light does not fade, but finds a home within you, changes you, may even haunt you in its silent radiance. He has never liked silence. Some stars, so few, hurt his eyes, blinds him to the others. He cries when he sees them. So bright, so real; he reaches out to them, grasps them, joins with them, cherishes them, and finds his hands empty. Still reaching. Stars soften his hands.

            He wants, so badly, something to hold onto.

            His face is wet. The night sky rains, and it doesn’t.

Warp Tour: 2011

If you didn't read last night’s blog, you should. It’s far longer than this one, but you should read it.

Warped Tour 2011: I left early.

            But I had a good time! I left at about 6pm for a few reasons. Scott’s ride was picking him up and I had already seen the bands I came to see. “We Came as Romans” are okay, but I didn't feel like waiting an hour to see them, and I certainly wasn’t going to stay for Paramore. Horrible headliner.

            Scott and I arrive near 11ish. We find the schedule right away and start planning out our day. I see another friend at the schedule, but I don’t say hello for a few reasons. I want to say hello, but I don’t.

We start the day off with Acacia Strain. I’ve seen them before, possibly more than once, and like the other times, I wasn’t really impressed. They’re loud and can throw down some heavy stuff, and they have good energy, but the music just seems really simple and repetitive. They also act better than they are.

At this point I’m excited for Asking Alexandria. A mistake. Their album music isn’t bad, and they have interesting music videos. I figure they will be good live. Sadly, their live performance was rather horrible, so horrible that I wandered away in disgust, off to find Scott. I found him watching Danger Summer, who I’m sorry I missed, since what I saw of them was amazing.

Fuck.

I’m not even sure what time it is at this point and I’m rather frustrated. The bands we pass all suck horribly. Attack Attack is on the main stage, and it’s the most dreadful music I’ve ever heard. If you scream, please scream well. If you try to sing, at least know how. Also, what the fuck music are you? Techno-deathcore-emo punk pop-shit. My god.

Now I’m really frustrated and almost want to leave. The free Monster was a mistake. I hate energy drinks and I begin to feel somewhat sick, and thirstier than before I drank it.

I study the map and schedule we bought, in desperation. There’s some band playing, something about a Plague Wind or something, and I agree to watch them. But then I see…what is this?! Automatic Loveletter is here?! And playing?! Music?! I am ecstatic. I had no idea. I followed this woman years and years ago, back when MySpace was cool. She has one of the most amazing voices I’ve ever heard, is acoustic, and sings with so much emotion. So much; at one point in the set she nearly starts crying. I hurry toward that stage, just to arrive forty minutes early. The day has turned around.

At this point, and others but mostly this point, I’m reminded of the friend I saw earlier but didn't say hello to. So I text her, telling her to come see Automatic Loveletter. She will love it.

I don’t know if my friend ever read my text, since she never responded, but not long later I see her arrive and watch the set, so maybe she read my message. Or yet another coincidence? Anyway, Autmomatic Loveletter was by far my highlight of the day and made the trip well worth. She didn't play my favorite song, but that’s okay. She was still amazing.

Directly after we head for A Day to Remember, the main reason why I came. Thankfully, they put on an amazing live show. The pit is sort of weak—I’m used to death and power metal pits—but still good, and the band has tons of energy.

Following that, Scott and I catch the end of Dance Gavin Dance. I really, really wish I got to see the entire set, because the two songs I saw were amazing. I definitely have to start listening to them. The Wonder Years came on stage awhile after, and after a countryish band from Memphis who I enjoyed a surprising amount.  I decide to leave around this point, as I am spent, unfocused, and despite the good day, in a rather ehhhh mood.

I listen to much softer music on the ride home. Damien Rice. If you haven’t listened to Damien Rice, you really should.

All Yours…All of Me

            I’m finding myself surprisingly and painfully inept tonight. Today was a great day, even if all I did was wake up somewhat late and work for eight hours. I’m really fucking pissed I missed the gym. Last night I smiled more than I have in recent nights. I’m finding every day to be increasingly amazing for a single reason. This summer has been nothing like what I expected, surreal and sleep deprived and forever part of me. Unbelievable. Defining. I understand myself and my needs and desires more than I thought possible. I feel new, in a way. There have been breakthroughs; this happiness feels strange and novel and frightening.

--

            It is not easy to let yourself be broken. I fear I do it too well.

--

I was motivated earlier in the day, even started writing a piece I’m really excited about. I planned to write more when I got home from work, which is now, but now all I’m doing is worrying and wondering if my worry is misplaced.

I am an extremely blunt and honest person. To a fault, I believe. When people ask me something, I tell them the truth. I do not shy away from feelings and truths, and in doing so I realize how vulnerable that makes me. To strangers, I think I appear the opposite, not vulnerable in the least. I’ll have a conversation with anyone, but almost always in a joking manner. I love humor and use it in very unnecessary and even discourteous times. It is extremely hard for me to be serious. I have to focus, really focus, most of the time. Humor, I think, is some sort of guard I put up.

I rarely share my private thoughts and emotions. If I truly talk to you about my deepest feelings, then you must be very special to me. I’m not at all secretive or shy, yet in another way, I’m extremely, extremely private. I admittingly put up a guise. The jokester who’s never serious, who will and does say anything. I’ve had real and deep conversations with very few friends. Lately, I find myself spilling my soul to someone in particular. It feels too easy, as if it’s supposed to happen. This is alarming to me, and wonderful.

I’m beginning to sort out of the pieces.

--

Tomorrow is Warped Tour. I should be excited. Instead I feel sick. Not ill sick. Worry sick. Amazing, how simple little things, may it be no more than ten words or a span of five minutes, can so deeply affect you.

I thought I could read minds, but apparently I’m not as good as I assumed.

--

I hide things very well when I want to; I’m often an extremely happy and pleasant person, although sarcastic. But I think, inside, too much, and I worry, inside, too much, and tonight, I realize, I will not get any writing done.

Other than this.

I often sit and think and stare, or listen to music and think for hours.

I’m a very deep thinker.

I stare at the beginnings of my piece, and my mind brings me somewhere else.

I have to go now

my mind says to me.

The words resonate.

They aren’t entirely true, of course. Although I know my mind can stay a few minutes longer and say a bit more to me and help me out, because right now I’m in the dark and I hate being in the dark, I think my mind is afraid for some reason, or hurt because of my own words, a truth that I had to share, and my mind leaves. It’s angry at me.

Perhaps I’m even blunter than I presume.

I have many faults.

I would apologize to my mind, but I believe I said nothing wrong and needed to shed clarity. Clarity can be touchy. It is sometimes easier to forget certain things.

--

A few years ago I realized there’s only two things I want in life. I am, in many ways, very simple.

I want to write and be published and share my stories with the world and people who matter to me.

 I want to find someone who, for lack of more original words, completes me, makes me feel happy and alive and fulfilled. I believe I am startlingly close to both.

Shockingly, perhaps naively?

No, I read people very well, and what should happen will happen, no matter how much time passes or what happens in between.

I understand that this is a rather grand assertion, but I’m very sure—surer than I have been of most things in my life.

--

            I’m also a fool, but hopefully that plays no part in this.

--

I’m aware that I may sound insincere. I say I’m a private person, and then I admit this truth above.

Truth is, I lost my ability to sit back and watch the world live as I failed to live with it. Partly because of the chances I never took, and partly because of what I heard authors, published and accredited men and women, say to their audiences during readings and speeches and whatnot.

An altering moment in my life: I was one of the winners of a poetry contest at UConn (no idea how I won anything involving poetry but I did it twice) and I was awarded a one-on-one session with a very talented poet. I’m horrible at writing poetry. Really.

Anyway, he read my poem, and he told me I wasn’t being honest. This didn't surprise me. It was a very personal poem about myself and my fears and beliefs and loves—it was almost certainly melodramatic.There was a drowned angel in a pool, wings ripped off, and a devil in my bed. He asked me why I wasn’t being honest, why I was hiding behind my words and “Beating around the bush”, and not leading the reader see myself for who I really am.

I told him I was afraid. It’s hard to let strangers see who you really are. It’s hard to show your complete self to anyone. I believe you shouldn’t show your complete self to everyone, maybe just one person.

He told me I couldn't be afraid, that us, as writers or poets and just people in general, must live life to the fullest, and in doing so we cannot hide our emotions and feelings when they matter most, when everything is on the line, when you will look back and curse yourself for what you didn't do, your failure.

My god. Yet another surreal moment, hence the italics. Pandora radio. My favorite ambient band, Hecq, my favorite song of theirs, and a title that just gave me chills. “I am You.” This strikes me. So apt. At this paragraph, at this time, of all songs, this song starts playing. The threads of life are not as random as people believe.

We must seize opportunities and live despite the dangers and risks and the pain that may come. We must be true to ourselves and our reader, and more so, the people around us who matter most. We must hurt, and cry, and smile, and cheer, and we must love.

--

I’ve been writing this for far longer than I ever thought I would. Almost two hours. This is all train of thought, but slow thought, like my best writing, though I’m certain this isn’t my best. It just feels vitally important, for some reason. This entire blog has proved far more significant than I had ever dreamed. I began it on a whim, for pleasure I thought, but now I realize that I began it for a reason. I didn't see that reason at first, but now I do. Subconsciously, maybe I did the entire time. The times and events match up almost perfectly, just like everything else. My subconscious has been extremely forthcoming with me lately. It refuses to let me deny what I feel.

I’m far from elegant in speech, as I’ve probably said at least once already. More so, it’s sometimes hard to say everything in person to the people, or person, you really want to share yourself with. Sometimes you can’t be together in a setting proper for such things to be said. Sometimes life can be difficult and torturous and really make you work for what you want.

I feel much better now than when I began tonight’s blog.

But I’m still worrying. It’s my nature to worry, to think into things.

My memory is horrible, yet sometimes it’s perfect, remembering every word.

If you can hear my voice inside your head—and I know you can, you told me—then you know I really am speaking to you in my true voice, those of pen on paper. This is my voice. These are my words, because I’m bad with words spoken aloud. You, reader, are my muse of late, and this blog seems to be my therapist. Gods know I need one.

--

Thank you for reading.

Symmetry.

She has symmetry in her movements. He isn’t sure what that means, or why he thinks it, but it came to him, suddenly, the first time he saw her, or maybe it was the second or third or forth, but when doesn’t matter as long as the feeling and truth remains.

He thinks those words could begin a poem. She has symmetry in her movements. But he dislikes poetry apart from a few poems, and those aren’t really poems at all, but stories with form and semblance of meter.

A dance, a story, a banter back and forth between two.

He savors every moment.

--

The deer are calling him. He smiles despite everyone else’s lack of understanding, or caring. Is okay. Is his alone.

--

He is a fool, he knows, but the world is ruled by fools and only the less foolish accept their foolishness. To be a fool is to live, and he wants to live, to take chances but smart chances—chances that can tilt the world off its axis and put it back on again, make everything right.

Things have been wrong for too long. Life? No. Life was never wrong. Just things, certain things that he told himself were inconsequential, matterless, when they are truly of the most importance.

He thinks that Tom Petty once said it was good to be a fool.

--

            I keep crawling back to you

            I keep crawling back to you…

            I’m so tired of being tired

            Sure as night will follow day

            Most things I worry about

            never happen anyway

--

            The ranger came with burning eyes.

            He often wakes, surprised.

            The song reminds him every time. Eyes—there are few things better than looking at someone and losing yourself, and wanting to lose yourself forever, and being perfectly happy with that. He wonders if that is the meaning to everything and believes it is best that he never knows. The excitement fades once you know everything.

--

            Some things are forever. He hates clichés and begins to scribble this out, disgusted with himself.

--

            He enjoys terror and fear—they are separate entities (Steven King says so)—and the other emotions that make them come alive. He enjoys and hates them, knows that most things fall when they are tossed into the sky, but he acknowledges the other truth. Some things float forever upwards, find their place in the stars, where they belong. Everything does not crumble.

--

            He watches stars and thinks, wonders if they’re watching him.

--

            Even in nature there exists perfect architecture, an accumulation of raw materials preordained to coalesce and create, to build something out of nothing and make that something everything. Symmetry even in nature, between two, to form entirely flawed fucked-up flawlessness. Such things are rare, but existent.

--

            At night he wishes the world was darker, that the lights below would fade to reveal the stars above. There is more to life—he knows this and does not just think or believe. Does not know why this matters when there’s still so much here incomplete and unsolved.

--

He sees her standing at doorways and vanishing. Finds it amusing and perhaps symbolic? No. Knows not to look for symbols in everything. Does not believe that Beowulf is filled with phallic imagery, hates British women who insist otherwise.

But he knows some things, and these are good and frightening and dangerous things. They possess symmetry, and knowledge, that when things are not right and good, they will eventually be right and good. Time parallels the stars. Endlessness. Eternity.

He can wait for a very long time.

--

            He plays a chord that isn’t just heard, but seen and felt. The music continues.

I had a Dream

This morning was one of the best I can remember in a long time. I woke up at 8:30 and read for about an hour, while continuing a text conversation that took place between two people—myself included, of course—more asleep than not. Anyway, the book went exactly where I didn't think it would go, to an extremely emotional and well-written sex scene; not that smutty stuff, but more of need and love. It was quite gripping and made me think for a long time.

Anyway, I eventually fell back to sleep while reading, only to be woken up by my phone’s “lake” noise. I don’t know what a lake is supposed to sound like, and my phone doesn’t sound like a lake, but at night I keep my phone on “lake”, so that text messages wake up me. It sounds strange, but I like to be woken up at night; it helps me dream and I love being disoriented in the middle of the night. Plus, I enjoy conversing. Also, awhile ago, at a train station in DC, I first discovered “lake” when I was talking to someone for the first time. Well, I guess it was the first time. “Lake” has become somewhat symbolic to me now.

So my phone woke me, and I answered the text, and then soon found myself falling back to sleep again, but it was one of those semi-lucid sleeps when you can sort of control what you’re thinking and hearing, half asleep and half awake but nothing really makes sense, when you can dream partially awake and focus the dream’s direction. It’s not entire lucid, since you can’t control the dream, but you have some influence. This process of sleeping, woken by phone, conversing, drifting back to sleep, continued for more than two hours, as I experienced dream after dream, all of which I could and still can remember.

Thank you, practiced dream recall and lucid dreaming.

I could have gotten out of bed and actually started my day, but dreaming was far more pleasurable. Simple, snap-shot dreams filled with people—a person—I wanted in my dreams, and a reoccurring dream that I’ve been having for years. Well, the dream’s location—an enormous movie theater—is reoccurring. Different shit always happens in the dream while the location remains the same.

Finally, after realizing I could not fall back to sleep yet again, I regrettably got out of bed and started the day. A good day. Less sleeping. Less dreams.

In one of my dreams I was driving at night down a lonesome road. I was the only car, the only light, and I think I was alone in my car. I remember a depressing song on the radio, but I don’t recall the song’s title or really what it sounded like. I remember feeling alone, and that I disliked the feeling. I remember looking over, outside the passenger seat window, watching darkness pass.

I had wanted more than darkness.

This dream stemmed from my thoughts last night, while driving home from Chili’s after work. This thought always crosses my mind while driving at night—what if I just withdrew all my money, gathered my most prized possessions, and just kept driving all night? Daylight I would sleep, so as not to see anyone, to be entirely alone, sleeping in a hotel room, and at night I would drive again. Just keep driving, keep driving, and thinking, and watching darkness and how the world, all of the world, lives in darkness. I always have to resist this urge. I wouldn’t want to answer my phone, or tell anyone where I was, or why I left, because I wouldn’t have a good reason. I’d just be driving, and thinking, at night, listening to the same song on my stereo over and over again, and I would be perfectly content. Almost.