when you were done you sat on the edge of the bed looking at yr shoes and i dismissed you by closing my eyes but your outline stayed, and a shadow, dark maroon on light maroon. my mind is an instrument that works with or without the input of light and a blind whore once told me a mind will still produce its own color projections-- what, with no optic nerves at all? If they are dead or even missing? This man was completely blind, I had my eyes closed to dismiss you, and yet your shadow was in my mind staring at the floor as if your shoes would walk themselves over and climb onto your feet, and I knew anyway you were still there.
i doubt it's true what we think of as clarity is just a point on a spectrum of perception-- that's hocus pocus; it's bullshit. there is such a thing as seeing clearly, not seeing clearly, seeing but not wanting to see, wanting to see but not seeing. what i saw when i closed my eyes for example was my vanity, my horrible insensitivity toward your innocent fantasies about our love. with my eyes closed i could see you sitting there seeing and not seeing, with your back to me, seeing me better turned away than straining your eyes to look up at my face when yr crouched between my knees. i don't really know what you knew but i can guess from seeing.
i don't even know for sure what drugs you're on or how they might affect the type of functions on a space travelling telescope that go wrong or get enhanced through fine tuning from an earth station or hits by gamma rays or junk or rock and ice mists, whatever it finds beyond the farthest layer of what we can slough off tho not too far to project signals that can travel but few scientists even know i guess if such messages are really matter or just waves of stuff that's already there hopping in a different rhythm from a chain reaction you can make with our advanced machines that supposedly started by smashing bones with different kinds of rock.
clarity and metaphoric light come from all kinds of senses of course, pheromones, the pitching of the voice or when you hear me scratch or sigh at night or how many rings before someone does or does not answer a phone or a pause in texts that someone inside you knows is different even though your main operating persona is officially a sight beast, plain talking, private man who expects everyone to keep their peace on or question their vision at the peril of loss or retribution for the antennae who knew too much and got cocky with their secret knowledge no matter how available it was the whole time; i respect by not thinking much.
Feel clear (lucid) (no emotional storming)
Speak clearly (pronunciation) (logic) (reason)
produce v. encounter
dogs feet on laminate sound like tap dancers
dancers tapping seem like gloating animals of prey
problematize/ catastrophize clarity
see: Dr. Bro. Cornell West
Clear path to objective = + ?
9:30-10:06 pm: mostly eating strongly-flavored Jelly Bellies both individually and in random combinations, twitching nose, attempting to name discrete flavors while staring at unfinished course outline
Enjoyment of fog/ privacy
attempt to spectacularize realistic flavorings and believable generic texture placeholders as example of few modern inventions to live up to childhood expectations of Future (source: A Wrinkle in Time)
To deprive, deceive or blind in order to inspire
Yellow cake flavor tricked me into drinking milk
metaphor/ simile = path to/from light?
my face smells like skunk even after my shampoo
to catch a cousin who knows my smell I roll in doo
schizoid: bad/ ambien whore: good
good: communion wine/ bad: vat of communion wine
bad: thorazine; bad: heroin; excellent: heroin; heaven: heroin; destruction of all we know to be good: heroin (crack, meth, pcp, kids smoking pcp, crack whore, designer drug, designer whore; drugged whore: good?)
Drugs that will clearly be available in heaven:
Marlboro, Black Label
Future = Heaven? Clear path = +?
Low visibility slows traffic/ grounds flight
Clarity = grounding? Clear intention = outcome?
Can happen what can picture = +/-/ Can happen what not pictured = bad?
Love of dogs> love of people/ dogs thoughts clear/ unclear?
clear = simple? gray area between simple and complicated = clear?
Light/ burn/ sunglasses/ dark/ clear/ W. Blake/ racism/ clear black = clear dark?
Blindness-sun; nightburn-? solar eclipse = auspicious/ lunar eclipse = ominous
Hell in Drugs:
Thorazine, MD 20/20, Rabies
Opposite of clear: foaming at mouth/ or you can't handle the truth
Tap dancing: produce = heaven; encounter = ?
Claws curl under to gouge at food/ prevent efficient travel on sheer surfaces
Prior to my abduction, students merrily gathered in
chambers clustered along passages, and my breath
swole all the apparatus of the university hospital clinic,
savior of wayward intelligent and other rural children.
Then blown like knots of mucus, teenagers through
crash windows, ashes rose to mix with snowflakes,
the suddenness of my absence was the bunker bomb
that saved only conspirators and their empty victory.
Now my dogs patrol with their noses in the curtain folds
Blind as moles to real criminality, claim only movement
unsanctioned, sounds that are free and wild, productive.
Dogs sniff out warm terror and target soft, darting beasts.
All day long and through the night they lay in wait at a
tractably ebbing and spiking unwakefullness, one eye
or ear, a whisker as lonely drunken antennae, the mind
sifting through other years, categories of intransigence.
I'm writing down this dream about Peg and Ted because if I try and tell it to you I'll prolly start crying. And it starts with you. In the back seat of the Galaxy 500. You sneeze, I blow on you, you blow on me, etc. but it doesn't end with violence. It's actually fun because you are your current self at your present age.
Ted is there back from the grave, why? As if there is no Ken and the same young Ted is our dad, Peg's husband even though the rest of us have grown old. Except for Peg of course who is pretending to still be as young as Ted when he died. I get into it with her about like, well, I'm sorry if you forgot, but I already told you I have to drop off my prescription on the way. On the way where? What prescription? Ted is driving us around an anachronistic Anaheim, California. There were druggists and a storefront post office.
We get out of the car and I am walking ahead still pissed off at Peg and Ted follows behind trying to place his (dead) hand on my back. He appreciates, understands my efforts with Peg. Maybe because he's no longer really there and I am. His black skinny-tie suit is way out of date.
I squirm away, feeling bad about it but can't accept his comfort. As if I blame him. Easy to make him feel bad as a way of lashing out at life. I realize it's a boyish thing to do.
Turns out we're stepping inside a yellow-brick clinic with white letters stenciled on the door as they used to do. The patient is me, and I'm on the same stainless steel table where I was born, with those aquamarine rubber sheets and gloves, and the nurse standing behind me is going to have to insert a very large needle into the back of my head. Why?
In a fetal position, I feel the needle go in and it's the most actual pain I remember ever feeling in a dream. Was it LaLa behind me in real life gnawing my scalp? It goes deep, and I hear the nurse apologizing and then gasps and says "Oh..." and starts crying. She has apparently hurt herself, but so badly that she is actually sobbing. Then I turn and see the doctor coming in, the nurse going out saying "That's the most I've ever cried-- not just at work, but ever."
It's become a little clearer why we're there. It must have been from a letter in the New York Review of Books about Syria, because I've got something like polio. And I'm a boy. With polio. And the doctor has invented a contraption where he can put me in a hanging net on a track like a rollercoaster/ centrifuge and send me flying around the clinic. In some sort of multi-purpose room. Remember those?
Then the doctor is Dick Cheney and then he's Ted again. He tells me I can pick any gift I want. I say I want this and take the thing from a box, a taped-up moving box or the one you keep Christmas decorations in. I have sovereignty of movement now, and we are rich. I sit down on a free-weight bench holding the thing I wanted between my thighs trying to figure out how it works.
Very heavy dream hangover surfacing from this. Whut? I kept saying. Oh my god whut? LaLa is by my side staring patiently but she is a bitch. In truth I'm single and I dream about my nuclear family from 100 years ago. Is that the same as having polio? Did you infect me when you sneezed? Ha ha just kidding. Mostly I'm disappointed we're not really rich.
iout9p2q83751983ngvo3inuv[03947v6n;oqwprettyieut098pictures34576n[qvuglyo3i9words4vun'qoi3nuy9p2q83751my_decaYcreates_homes_for_otheRcreatures_+WE CAN'T HELP LOVING AND WE CAN'T STOP