7-26-93 Another World Now

Something has changed a bit, what it may be is as mysterious as the weather. It may be that I'm finally able to overcome my odd narcolepsy for a time by brief napping in the face of death's younger brother.  Now I sleep and wake at times that have no bearing upon the eve or morn.  It is another monster, self-determined and alone.

      Black light came through the boughs,
        to touch unlighted ground
      to bring forth bright and glowing vows,
        and muffle them, unsound.
      Flames leap up this trunk,
        then another crackles its skin,
      often times the fire has thus drunk,
        yet will never hunger hence again.

Once an easily scaled edifice, the mountain had grown loose with the foot of many a human and beast, tromping to the peaks with nothing more in mind than doing just that, or, in the case of the animals, unbounded constraint.

7-24-93 Melonchasis

Once there was a humble stick-wielder who, when unabashed, attempted to gain honors with his balance.  Of course, no town or burb is sufficiently a town nor burb without its standard stick-wielder.  Yet one of unkeen balance was odd indeed.

Yesterday, the stick-wielder walked through Merthle's Things 'n' Studding, looking, quite frankly, for a wife.  Not just any wife, but his own.  And don't be confused into thinking that he would find her, for he wasn't betrothed. Not only that, but none were very fond of him.

What to do when the telephone rings and you aren't expecting a call?  Don't answer.  Sooner or later, all of those other important callers will call when you're waiting for another.  Remember:  The most important people are those on your mind.  Right now.

7-23-93 It Can't Get Anything but Worse Now

What a horrible ordeal.  To see a whole possibility flash away, slowly and tediously, every step a sad moment.  It can seem pithy when compared to other natural human disasters, but it is nonetheless shame-filled, piteous, and distressing.  It is quite possible that it will run an ever-widening circle of empowerment through dread; the thing itself will gain in volume and momentum, for that is the certain result of its occurrence.

No escape, day in and out, it keeps running, and sooner than later it will all break.

       Come see the damage done
       all those happiest days are won
         in dreams and heart alone.
       The lost hope, despair,
         it all climbs a heightening stair,
         'til its reality crashed down through bone.

This is not fun, not fun at all.

7-21-93 Sobeit.

After hours of furious concentration, I have finally done what I feared possible, I have reached a doorway to a place that does not exist in any sense. What I mean to say is that there is no existence there, none at all.  There is no life, no non-life, no sight or sense, no sending nor receiving of any information to the smallest degree.  And I cower now, thinking that if I perhaps fall in or slip away, there will be no return.  In fact, it would seem that this very doorway would no longer present itself to me.

      The Conversation
               "Was I suggesting something?"
               "Yes, it was clear."
               "What was it?"
               "I really couldn't say."
               "You weren't paying attention."
               "No."
               Bitch.

I'm back now, it was an odd exclusion but my toughest of cowards came to the head and spoke.

7-20-93 Next.

While sitting in my hovel, amidst the clutter of letters and transcripts in my study, which is also my bedroom, not to mention thinking space and listening area, I happened across a bauble of a blurb upon a page much ancient when compared with its companions, yet quite infant when considering how long it was before my mind and pen formed the statement.

"Longnecker Garden"

This was a puzzling line indeed.  What, of all that I was thinking in those rapid days, could coalesce in those two words?  Believe me, it was a long time that I took to shuffle around the dips and curves of my mind, searching for a little trigger, a connection, anything to bring me close to an answer.

Was it a title? and what for? a song or play or flickerer or poem or none even of these?  Finally I pulled myself to grips with an answer unavoidable, that this person who penned this dream was one whose mind I could never know again.

7-17-93 Ledge

Well, what now?  This world will roll and roll, while all about the chaos reigns. It's scary, disturbing, sad.  Why a window?  Why?  It's a bad trap, but hard to avoid, no matter how obvious it is, how alerted to it I may be.  Hard to get around.

     Images from across the globe,
     static movement along strobe,
     a person miles away
     placed in houses on display,
     no question as to how their feelings lay,
     they never come close to turning away.
     Along the electric highway
     the dreams and nightmares come,
     shocking the mind with extremes,
     leaving us despairing when done.

Maybe some have grown to accept it all, but who are they for doing so?  What have they given up or added on to their souls?

7-15-93

I finally reached a decision yesterday.  It seems that I am, indeed, haunted in my new abode.  The arrows all point in one direction, and I have never been one to mistake the way in which one may point.  It's the Conquistador, that I know.  And though it was I myself who placed the blazing red eyes in his velvet sockets, I feel another has invested them with meaning.  I just now found a doorway above the grate between the two walls.