Writing of Dreaming

I had a dream last night, and I had to write it down. It’s sort of complicated. What was weird was it’s dream-within-a-dream recursion, a fake-world created entirely by those inhabiting it, who journey there from the real world, which itself may not be real. Or is it? Teasing logic like that permeated the whole thing, and I only barely understood it myself.

There was dinosaur wrestling. And pet tigers. I should speak about that. I dream things like that a lot. Rarely does it make sense, but it made a lot of sense last night. I wrote four pages this morning, and in the process I figured out how to write the story—I think. I’ve never written a choose-your-own-adventure story of any length, and I think I wrote the last one when I was four. I wouldn’t know where to start. I suppose I could start at the beginning.

It’s harder than it sounds.

Addicted to New

Dream with my Dad in it… life’s maintenance and an artistic pursuit, the same one day after day. Slapped Dad across the face to elicit a reaction, no reaction but kindness. Wake up and realize it’s a metaphor. Dad is actually Dave my manager (we’ve talked together about our own fathers, not surprising it should show up somewhere). Slap across the face was me deleting a text message that was taking up too much of his mental energy. The daily pursuit is my work at the hostel. My subconscious tells me that I’m getting tired of doing the same activity, day after day. Which is odd since I’ve only been doing it for three weeks.

Maybe not that odd. I realize later today that it would be almost impossible for a person like me to stagnate. I have no tolerance for it, nor any desire to develop a tolerence. Even staying in the same place, the pace of my personal evolution is staggering. It’s hard to even comprehend—and I don’t think I could even understand it if I wasn’t living it. It never slows, always moving like a river. S’been said before: you never have the same brain twice.

Youth. Is it youth? So far this is the oldest I’ve ever been. It’s possible that all this figuring out eventually leads one to find what one likes. And stick to it? Asserted: boredom has lots of antidotes in the 21st century. I make no apologies for our collective generational attention span, in fact I think it’s an asset. If I’m tired of it that means I’ve gotten all I can get.

Unless it’s not just boredom. It could be… me. Ever since I discovered I can manipulate events in the world to meet my goals in it (what, about… junior year?), I’ve sought out new goals. Novelty—the “for the hell of it” factor. Sure most desires are transient. Sure it leads to things you won’t enjoy. But it’s the only way to find more things you will.

And I have no plans to stop. I have all the plans in the world otherwise.

Last Night I Dreamt

I fell off a cliff. On my bicycle. It was dark out and I was following a path. I’d been riding with a childhood friend of mine and he’d gone away, though I hadn’t noticed. But I did notice the cliff — as soon as I rode off it. It took a second to calculate how high I was, calculate my chance of survival. Zero. My heart raced and I lamented the years I’d never have. Then, instead of sheer granite and the vast unforgiving sky, I was plummeting within something soft and looking at slatted wood.

And I found myself on my bedroom floormy bedroom floor…

Good Night’s Rest

PJ needs to have his eyes fixed cause he used to be able to pop ’em out. Especially the left one. Babies used to be popular Christmas entertainment in the 19th century. Children who were learning ventriloquism would place them in the tree and do tricks. Also, the Honda needs chlorine to make the engine run smoother and get better pickup. Those ‘Real Gilligan’s Island’ people (never seen the show) are having a race and they’re driving the wrong way and using the middle lane. That’s the one clogged with weeds and debris. Not a bad idea. Housing is cheaper in Sacramento but you’ll get lost in the boonies on the way there. Young musicians are more successful in the long run, because… they have more time, or maybe attractiveness fades, or something. Ask Nana she said it. Also fraternal twin bands seem like a good idea but they aren’t. And lastly, it really does suck when the rest of your neighborhood is torn down behind your back and zoned for ‘mixed use’ residences and strip malls. Ugly black boxes up and down the street.

One final bit of advice: have the cat sleep next to you, you’ll like it.

Subconscious Sublimation

Wow, that was an odd dream. I dreamt I had lots of comments, like 5-8 for each post, and none of them were spam. People genuinely were interested in my blog. Of course in this same dream my family and I were eating various stuffed pastries in a grocery store and we only paid for one kind. Dreams are frickin’ weird.

What does that mean? It means people, including myself, like nice comments. That’s only natural—social cratures, you know. Don’t get me wrong I have never done this because of the huge public demand for another personal blog. I’ve done it cause I felt like it. Just—please someone leave a comment besides my dad, ok?


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