Wednesday, August 27, 2008

My Dream

27 August
Last night was my first night here to dream. And of course now I can't remember the details, but they were something like this:
In the Highlands, on the columns of the house at the end of Kelly, just before Marsh hung four pictures: The three Neyman boys and myself. They each had an upturned lip like Elvis, but more "punk"-like. I had similar, but not as bold. Mine was more a smile than a scowl. I don't know why they were hanging there, but I came across old videos of me as a kid playing guitar. I was spectacular. I had one song that I can't remember the words to now, but it was fun, brilliant, and had one part that I made a hiccup kind of laughing sound going "hiugh, hiugh, hiugh." There were some girls around that I was flirting with, laughing embarrassed at myself as a young, cute kid. They thought I was cute, but I wanted to say, "Man, I used to be cute!"
I was going home after seeing this and saw a black lady painting in her yard. (Zelda from Jerry's.) I decided to stop and talk to her; I'd seen her there before. She mixed her paint with a large flat piece of wood from a tree - yellow and blue I think. I said, "I've seen you out here more lately. You been painting a lot?" She replied with something I remember being nearly incoherent. I think I could make out the words, but they didn't make much sense. (Much like asking Grandma if she was painting much and she said something about the lady in the frying pan.) I continued home and she followed. We talked a bit at the house, nothing that I can remember now, and then she began to act really strange, the details I can't recall. I told her I was going to go in and I'd see her later. I walked around the corner and back and she had a hand on the steering wheel of my car, the other beneath it, and she was squatting to hot-wire it. "What are you doing?!" I ran out and stopped her and she responded with strong apologies and that she didn't know what she was doing and she began to cry. She told me to forgive her and I said she should just go home. She gave me a hug, which I accepted, and as she pulled me close, my brain thought bad, my crotch thought good, and I pushed my penis up against her leg so she could feel it, saying, "It's alright, just go home. It's alright," becoming more aroused, wanting her more.
A while later in my dream I was on a go-cart driving through Dallas. Everyone was against me for some reason. Everything that happened they blamed on me. I was served last if at all. I was hassled. And the whole time I tried to get along with everyone and be polite. Many details of this dream are missing. I remember I sat my things on a table to sit there and a guy sat down as I was in line, pissed off that somebody else's things were there. I got my belongings and apologized and he just scowled at me. On into the dream I was scooting around in my go-cart (which I felt nerdy having after the ordeal over the table) and there was more trouble, to which the details have escaped. Eventually, I was out walking through a big field where many people were hanging out, picnics and a little-league baseball game, and a big group of kids was walking toward me. "Brian Gore!" yelled one of them, jumping with excitement toward me. I thought it was Matt Tomich but looked at the group and saw Matt Tomich noticing me at the same time. I looked back and it was Brent, whome I used to play soccer with. We hugged and said hello and then Matt came up to me and he and I hugged and he kept pushing his crotch into my leg. We caught up a bit.
(gap)
We were throwing javelins and a girl threw hers which went the wrong way and I went to get it. A group of people picnicking said something about me and I threw a large wet sock at them, missing right on purpose, saying, "I missed right on purpose because I remembered I put that there. I'm sorry." I picked up the sock and started trotting back to the group and one of the guys with a German accent said, "That's just like an American." To which I replied, "Yeah, that's why we're terrible at International affairs." (Or something along those lines.) I went back and one of my new friends who had arrived with Brent and Matt was about to throw the javelin. He looked like he knew what he was doing, but he twisted his third and fourth steps, threw it, and it went far up the hill to the baseball game. "You almost hit one of those kids!" I cackled laughing hysterically, ducking around to laugh to myself, looking back up the hill where the javelin landed - saw a kid turned a bit with the javelin through his torso - "You did" - and he fell backward.
I woke up.

Monday, August 25, 2008

25 August

I spent today pruning grapes in a vineyard. At 5:40 I woke up. It was still dark and as I got ready the sun shined its first beams over the mountain peaks in the east. It was cold outside, enough for a long-sleeve shirt and shivers. I drove to work, arrived at 6:30, and from then on until 2 I spent in the rows of grapes, picking to make wine. It made me think of Italy - of Rome - of Romans picking their own grapes long ago to make their own wine to enjoy. From what I hear, they did enjoy it, quite much.
I haven't felt creative lately. I blame it on routine. Wake, go to work, work, break for lunch, work, come home, fix a crummy meal, go into town for the night. There seems to be no spontaneity in my life anymore. I hope I don't fall into the trench I'm told is the "real world." I have so much more I want to do. Or, I don't want to do routine. Not yet. Maybe sometime, but still, I hope not. 
I'm not around creative people. That could be the problem also. Even writing this, I don't necessarily want to be, but the more I write, the more I'm glad that I am. I need to write more letters to interact with my creative friends. I need to meet more creative people. I need time. I've had no time since being here. I've had one day off work but I move so much slower than so many others that I need several days to myself. I want to go into work when I feel it's time to. I want to take days off when I don't feel like working. I want. I want. Yes, I do want, and, in wanting, I expect. There's no point in wanting something if I don't expect to get it. Empty wishes are foolish. I'm not tossing my pennies in a well. I'm going to figure out how to get things my way, at least for me.

Saturday, August 9, 2008

Friday, August 8, 2008

The Old Guitarist, by Picasso

In the blue and grey Picasso,
dirty yellow music played.
By long emaciated fingers,
frail and callaced, strings shimmered.

Fingered strings in blue,
in the mood of life ending, poor and sad,
alone, ten fingers played somber tones
by the heart of an old, bearded man.

And his head bowed for his notes,
for his sadness, for a pence.
A loaf of bread would sustain him.
For water, he drank the rain that poured nightly
                             near the somber blue-grey ocean port.

And it's by being on those streets
that these blue strokes noticed him.

Six Hour Difference

As she nears another night
and I watch spread the yellow light
of dawn in the sun's rise
I helplessly recognize

the relentless beckoning
and banshee shrieking
of Creativity's
call:

         "Bring thee to the page!
                                  Script on scroll.
           Paint the canvas
                                   in strolling strides.
           Straddle reality,
                                    it's a horse to ride.
            Dance with struggle and
                                    flirt with the tide."

Friday, August 1, 2008

Sestina: Sanctuary (in progress)

May my crimson heart bleed sanctuary
and the soul of another find peace
in my solitary war. We each fight
with mighty trials alone.
And our dark hearts bleed black tears
until we find our own purest truth.

But tears pour truth for our heart's fight
and we struggle for peace alone.
And in dark crimson twilight, tears
fall. In dark hours of regimen truth
fails. When we seek truest sanctuary
do we struggle yet find peace.

But peaceful sanctuary is not free of tears.
And celebrate we shall when we know truth.
Far from dark dour is holy sanctuary
and here we know Truth's peace.
Deep in the dark-hearted fight
we must battle the war-storm alone.

Alone, fight to know truest sanctuary,
for security in solitary self is peace.
But how long must we endure the fight
for security in ourselves alone?
By struggle and hurt and tears
will ever we know purest truth?

Yea! Truth cries tears as we fight
against our dark hearts alone
and challenge our own tears
or say they are without truth.
Cry, weep, and struggle for sanctuary.
Our undeniable cry is for peace.

Peace be sanctuary with or no tears.
Find ye sanctity in thine own truth.
The battle for self's sanctuary
is won in the crimson heart's own peace.
Go and battle your fight.
Find truest being alone.

Alone cry truth.
Fight for your own peace.
Tear at your heart; weep tears for sanctuary.