Mmmm. Left to devices, the dream/brain takes the pen, makes the mark, it means something, it all means something. It means what it means, which is to say, it means what it meant when it meant that thing it meant, way back when.
Take words. Take them out. Portray them, with your hand. Take an instrument, make the words. Make them look like what it means. But all it means is words. And words mean what? The things in my head? Doesn't seem Likely.
When we trust,
when weee see,
there is nothing,
yet so to be,
Can you see,
with an indrawn eye,
that after the lower,
it would go so, so high.
On Xmas of 1992 my brother gave me this journal made of recycled paper with a twig pencil. I eventually filled it up sporadically up to 1995. I dug it out, dusted it off, and started looking through it today, May 6th, 2013. I've decided to reproduce the posts online. It's raw and sure to be embarrassing, but I feel enough time has passed that I can distance myself, yet find a very familiar me within these lines and perhaps find the inspiration to take up the pen again..... Thanks, big Bro.
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