Asymptote

You have a dream that
you're running and the harder
you run, the slower you move. Or
you are ever colder, each moment
you feel is the limit but then
you are colder still. Or hot:
The bead of water
rolls down the rock face, a
wet trail on sun-burned
stria that never 
quite reaches your parched
lips. Whenever you are
about to get ahead your car
throws a rod or your furnace
coughs black. Two steps forward,
one step back. Three more to
take.

You watch a pot.

It is a week before she comes
home and several weeks pass and
it is still a week before she
comes home. There are so many ways 
I could tell
her I love her without
actually saying
it.

A Decade of Organic/Mechanic

Some­where in the last cou­ple of months this weblog had its 10 year anniver­sary. It was emo and ill-writ­ten 10 years ago, and I’m sure at least one friend would still claim that it is. For me, brows­ing through the archives offers a good reca­pit­u­la­tion of where and who I was, and how I’ve become who I am now; both in the things said, and the things left unsaid. It start­ed out as a diary and emo­tion­al release dur­ing rough col­lege times, and once in Cleve­land, I became defined by, and accept­ed to some extent, my sta­tus as a “blog­ger”. I have what web design skills I have today direct­ly because of this weblog. I spun off a few oth­er weblog projects and became slight­ly “Tremont-famous”. It was the first peer group I became asso­ci­at­ed with in town, and I’m still friends with the best of them.

Along the way, dif­fer­ent pri­or­i­ties assert­ed them­selves and I became more inter­est­ed in prac­ti­cal action than cyber-noodling. The fre­quen­cy of posts dropped off as my focus became cen­tered on my meat-space life. A few years ago this post would have been filled with detailed links to the archives, and much more omphaloskep­sis. I have a con­fi­dence now that I didn’t have then, and part of the rea­son I have it is due to this site.

Here’s to anoth­er 10 years.

Alien Queen Mother

I

You were born with a nest
full of eggs in your chest
laid by some
alien queen mother at
the dawn of time for that right 
resonant
frequency and 

when her daughter speaks it an egg will 
wobble, microwave 
words heat it to hatching and a phoenix! and
my chest is full of hot feathers pinions tickle my throat a
rush.

This gasping feeling, a tumult as claws
grip the diaphragm I want it wants to burst
forth and we will pell-mell toward her on
golden wings and the ash from your passage will
choke her throat.

So stop! Swallow, larynx burning. 
But, after this crush, to 
hear her voice!

We choose my words like unripe plums, red, round,
supple skin but still hard. This one a breast,
that the bole from which Adam was fashioned.
She returns words in kind, a code of delicate
disproportion.

II

It is too much to touch; each other, the twin bird
we suspect nests in her chest, the easy word 
like a crocus in the crack of a
sidewalk.

III

Yet not enough. 
To touch is to ripen;
flesh bruised under my fingers,
bite the hip, taste the waist.

You shall all learn that
I am my own kind of animal.

IV

Alien queen mother, strands of
molecules spun, entangled in centuries
to make us marionettes, your eggs take
little sitting in your lust
for children.

V
The right tone must not be thrown
lightly.

We're
not all strong enough to wait.

Groundhog Dream #2

One of the most inter­est­ing things about dreams is how we can hold them ful­ly under­stood in our minds but, when we try to write them down, the struc­ture col­laps­es. This not only illu­mi­nates the imper­fec­tion of writ­ten or spo­ken com­mu­ni­ca­tion, but also, more sub­tly, indi­cates the nat­ur­al illog­ic and unrea­son­able­ness of our minds. A dream with that kind of clar­i­ty would be indis­tin­guish­able from real­i­ty.

I’m call­ing my newest recur­ring dream the Ground­hog Dream, because it’s a bit like Ground­hog Day, in that the gen­er­al mechan­ics stay the same while the specifics alter with each rep­e­ti­tion. First the dream, then the inter­pre­ta­tion.

The dream always starts out in a place like Whiskey Island but much larg­er in scale, with many oth­er peo­ple. We all trav­el to the shore to hear a rous­ing speech about fight­ing some kind of Evil. The Evil caus­es a shift, or glitch, in real­i­ty and every­thing is chaos. In the first instances of the dream, I was always in a waste­land with­out food and with com­pan­ions who were just as con­fused as I was. The rest of the dreams would con­sist of wan­der­ing around look­ing for sus­te­nance. Kin­da OT Bib­li­cal.

In this lat­est ver­sion, my lucid dream­ing kicked in a bit and I made sure to pack some food before going to the speech. This time the glitch still affect­ed me, but Neil Gaiman was also aware that it was going to hap­pen and had me and a few oth­ers fall into an alter­nate real­i­ty only tan­gen­tial­ly like the Har­ry Pot­ter uni­verse. It was more like Har­ry Pot­ter by P.G. Wode­house. We end­ed up in this orrery where Neil Gaiman explained what the Evil had done, if not why (no one real­ly knows why). The solv­ing of the glitch involves help­ing as many peo­ple as pos­si­ble find their way back to their prop­er place and doing it your­self in a cer­tain amount of time. This is a bit like a video game.

We go to a train sta­tion where the only way to sum­mon a train is to lie down on the tracks (kind of like how the eas­i­est way to get sick is to men­tion how you’ve not been sick) Too­tle the train shows up and hauls us to anoth­er sta­tion, where, in pre­vi­ous recur­rences, I know that we’ll learn that one of my com­pan­ions will die. So does Neil Gaiman, so we all take a bath­room break before walk­ing past the mur­al that depicts this death.

Mean­while, I find a pile of col­or­ful con­struc­tion paper cards and deflat­ed latex bal­loons, and excit­ed­ly call every­one over to eat. These are sort of like the cards we’d have to make to send to nurs­ing homes when I was in grade school, but were sent to us as sup­port instead. We have to eat them because the longer we’re away from our right­ful world, the more pale and life­less we get, and the more we hunger for col­or and joy. We’d become unwit­ting joy vam­pires. When we eat these bright­ly col­ored stuff we become more human for awhile.

Paper and latex aren’t easy to eat though, and I find the bal­loons too hard to chew and get nau­se­at­ed. At this time a new group shows up and joins in our feast. A girl I had a crush on in col­lege appears, obvi­ous­ly with anoth­er man, who turns out to be an alter­nate uni­verse ver­sion of me (though we look noth­ing alike), which is con­firmed by the fact that he had the same web­site URL. This makes me feel lone­ly and I real­ize that my son Abra­ham has been affect­ed by the glitch too, that he’s out there alone and needs me, and I real­ize just as there are mul­ti­ple ver­sions of me, there are mul­ti­ple ver­sions of Abra­ham and even if I can’t find my par­tic­u­lar son, maybe I can find an alter­nate uni­verse ver­sion to care for.

That’s it. I woke up and it was time to get ready for work.

There’s all kinds of stuff going on here, and I feel that I can iden­ti­fy both the foun­da­tion­al feel­ing and real world ref­er­ences to explain most of it. The foun­da­tion­al feel­ing is one of search­ing for a place I belong and be, in con­fi­dence and still­ness. The train stuff is because Abra­ham talks about trains con­stant­ly, but it’s got a lit­tle bit of Stephen King Dark Tow­er going on as well. I can’t iden­ti­fy the rea­son for Neil Gaiman’s pres­ence, but the bal­loons and con­struc­tion paper is relat­ed to Abra­ham again. Alter­nate real­i­ty stuff is due to The Man From Prim­rose Lane. The game-like nature of avoid­ing impend­ing traps and the recur­rence are prob­a­bly relat­ed to the fact I’ve been replay­ing Drag­on Age 2. The crush is due to a crush.

I think this dream could be turned into a fair­ly good tale, but I’m cer­tain­ly not the one to write it.