Something changed during the night or morning. This material world remains, and my situation within is also unchanged, but somewhere in the dreams something went right. Last night was terrible, just ugly beyond belief. Imagine cops, killer cars, and cop-like behavior. Sometimes a punching bag would be a dear possession.
Things are getting close, though. The possibility of getting things done is hope amongst the chaos. How much work needs to be done? I wish I could help, but I can't, I just simply can't anymore.
So I get something temporary to scare the ghosts away.
One more push and it was all over. I stood above him menacingly to make sure that there was no question of my intent. He'd been waiting for it all this time, yet his manner did not change. So I looked away then quickly back as my fist raced to his face. He was not really stunned, yet my mark met its pain twice more before I grabbed him.
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.
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
7-13-93 It's getting worse.
It's not getting better. As the days roll on everything is getting poorer, harder to deal with. I've spent so much time getting nowhere, it's unbelievable. Is it possible to wait for something to come along that's ripe for your experience, attitudes, or talents? Must you make your own opportunities? What of the rest, the lack of material control. Is it possible to evoke a higher power through simple duties which physically manifest themselves and their results in a way to put it all into a Goddess' hands?
March of time
trampling again
making rhyme
beginning to end,
the absence of sense
in between,
makes the fear intense,
and the relief serene.
I need a route of escape,
I need to hide
from the great hidden rape
of my self and my pride.
March of time
trampling again
making rhyme
beginning to end,
the absence of sense
in between,
makes the fear intense,
and the relief serene.
I need a route of escape,
I need to hide
from the great hidden rape
of my self and my pride.
7-12-93 Again.
Odd that I'd read of dreams in this way while being assaulted by them. When in action, they are all-consuming, and I am convinced of their seeming reality. One day it may be best never to surrender their truth to the pull of this world. Things are not looking particularly good at this time. Everything is so confused and unreadable. I have no idea what is to come, though I fear for the worst, while dreaming the best.
A mark on my leg signifies the phone call I received. A distant voice spoke of uneasy commotion at an indistinguishable location on the coast. Those gathered had long ago lost the ability to understand the events transpiring. Waves of movement or emotion crashed against the booth, and washed the phone from grasp. It hung swinging amidst the chaos before it was cut completely away by the sharp attack on that beach.
I reached to my tongue with a newly-bathed finger, and wiped the inky trail clean from the back of my calf. No message.
A mark on my leg signifies the phone call I received. A distant voice spoke of uneasy commotion at an indistinguishable location on the coast. Those gathered had long ago lost the ability to understand the events transpiring. Waves of movement or emotion crashed against the booth, and washed the phone from grasp. It hung swinging amidst the chaos before it was cut completely away by the sharp attack on that beach.
I reached to my tongue with a newly-bathed finger, and wiped the inky trail clean from the back of my calf. No message.
7-8-93 A shitty Day.
Unamusing, not Gay. Where's the easy way? Could it be that I don't know enough, what? People who know of the stuff? Recommendations, that's what I need. Acquaintances like luck. Why was the ticket not mine? I didn't want it enough. I haven't wanted anything enough, it seems. How much am I willing to settle for? It makes the difference. Where can I go? I need a key, an input, a spot of wisdom to get me in to what I need for expansion. Where do I go for this? For that? I can push myself to do, but I need the impetus, which always comes from without - both meanings.
Not feeling too poetic today, so I must continue the prose. The bottom of a page, there's impetus. One edge to slowly crawl to, sidewinding down, not at all fast. It possesses me to continue with words and folly until it seems I can go no ....
Not feeling too poetic today, so I must continue the prose. The bottom of a page, there's impetus. One edge to slowly crawl to, sidewinding down, not at all fast. It possesses me to continue with words and folly until it seems I can go no ....
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
7-7-93 Lost:
Troubled dreams like no others. Dimensions clashing, poking up from scattered surfaces, they run amok and test my sanity. Questions pop like corn on fire. So what? Can I really lose? only my pRide. Maybe I should run again.
Next page on shows another tumbling form, its limbs stretched about the toiling sand. Shifting rays run against heavy trees weighed by blocks of green. The image is quite ugly to the eye of any who are aware of perspective, proportion, or the entertaining factors of reality. Surely even on an abstract scale the piece is worth less than the planet it was planted on.
Grave metal vessel aflight
in blackness of depth despite
pricks of running white light
which catch an eye turned right
as another approaches, sheathed in fright.
Next page on shows another tumbling form, its limbs stretched about the toiling sand. Shifting rays run against heavy trees weighed by blocks of green. The image is quite ugly to the eye of any who are aware of perspective, proportion, or the entertaining factors of reality. Surely even on an abstract scale the piece is worth less than the planet it was planted on.
Grave metal vessel aflight
in blackness of depth despite
pricks of running white light
which catch an eye turned right
as another approaches, sheathed in fright.
7-6-93 Diary of a Country Preset
Sure I'm King Squid on the keys, but what good can that be? Amuse others? OK, where do I come in?" he asked in solemn tone as he kicked his feet about the stage and stared at midget spirits lined along the tow lines. "Stage left."
Stage left. That's where he'd enter, the scene packed with all trappings and trimmings of the art before him; the song, the sorrow and merriment, the horror, the endurability of it all. He looked back to when he had first read the script, all of three months ago. It was a spectacle in letters, and something quite more now that production scampered ever closer to the carrot of opening night; when he would enter to a flourish of horns, bells, and kazoos. Stage Left.
These are not tears, nor rain,
not a cloud nor pain,
could cause these drops
or shudder to the starry tops
of the hickory..
.............tree.
Blanks worth two.
Stage left. That's where he'd enter, the scene packed with all trappings and trimmings of the art before him; the song, the sorrow and merriment, the horror, the endurability of it all. He looked back to when he had first read the script, all of three months ago. It was a spectacle in letters, and something quite more now that production scampered ever closer to the carrot of opening night; when he would enter to a flourish of horns, bells, and kazoos. Stage Left.
These are not tears, nor rain,
not a cloud nor pain,
could cause these drops
or shudder to the starry tops
of the hickory..
.............tree.
Blanks worth two.
7-5-93 Beware the Idiot
He will make you sigh with silent, seething rage at his every imbecilic word. His slights are slight, his wit is dull, and his general line of thinking is that of a ten year-old, an average ten year-old, or the lacking equivalent thereof. He's like a cancer that cannot be cut away, unless totally abandoned, and that would entail no heavy price. In fact, it could be the answer to more soothing dreams and less tension about the fists.
Make a robe for me,
make it three feet high
with green lapels swinging free,
and a gangly belt that will not tie,
and a pocket for widgets and such
with my crest upon the back,
make the pouch small as to not carry much,
so I can never hope for much to lack.
♪
And that's the song of seven!
♬
Make a robe for me,
make it three feet high
with green lapels swinging free,
and a gangly belt that will not tie,
and a pocket for widgets and such
with my crest upon the back,
make the pouch small as to not carry much,
so I can never hope for much to lack.
♪
And that's the song of seven!
♬
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