Showing posts with label dreams. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dreams. Show all posts
Monday, September 16
living in a treehouse journal
day #1
built a treehouse
seems sensible
since they're the only ones
who seem to get it
day #2
figured out the whole
going to the bathroom thing
that's not pleasant
day #3
snickers running low
what to do
day #4
someone walked underneath
I hid
like I needed to
how often do people look at trees
day #5
woke up with a squirrel on my toe
showed me how to gather acorns
I'm glad
pinecones unappetizing
day #6
think people starting to wonder
where I went
day #7 part 1
yup, they are
they have search dogs
damn dogs
they should be on my side
day #7 part 2
"sir step away from the tree"
day #7 part 3
ex wife says
"what are you doing up there"
I say
"I think this tree cares for me
more than you ever did"
day #7 part 4
kids say
"daddy, come down from there"
I say
"kids
you can live up here with me
I don't mind
the more monkeys the merrier"
day #7 part 5
the police have grappling hooks
guess this is the end
of tree houses
...
Wednesday, September 4
everyone has infinite value
a piece of bread
with the potential energy
of 100 calories
has the value of a few cents
your mind
has the potential energy
of infinite ideas
of infinite words
of infinite power
of infinite value
why do you allow others
to treat you as less than infinite
why do you allow yourself
to treat you as less than infinite
I see your infinite value
it blinds me
this world of billions
of supernova
how different the world looks
when you see everyone’s value
like stars in daytime
as no one is worthless
do not let anyone give you
nothing for you
you are worth infinite value
you are worth living
you say, “how can we be
worth infinite value
we are common
like sand”
I say, “water is infinite value
in a desert
your mind has infinite value
in this universe”
you say, “what of the ones
who treat me as less
than infinite
what of them”
I say, “why believe them
they believe you are worthless
believe my infinity
as I believe in yours”
...
Saturday, January 22
A Kind of Immortality
I get haunted by ghosts all the time.
Now before you call Ghost Hunters, I'm talking about the abstract kind. These are the empty husks of memories that follow me around and punch me in the gut when I'm doing something else. I'll be minding my own business, driving to breakfast while listening to my wife and kids, and I'll see a soccer field, and all of a sudden I'm possessed, and apparitions from when I was a scrawny kid with acne will bombard me. I'll be back in time when I was a wallflower, and I'd avoid the ball, until the coach told me to get more aggressive. With sweaty phantoms of blue and yellow all around me, I will growl, just like I did on that grass. I will be angry. I will be an animal, and I will kick that goddamn spiritual soccer ball in that goddamn ethereal goal.
Until with a jolt, I must stop the car, just like how the referee said, "Hey kid, you can't growl, that's a warning. You do it again I'll kick you off the field." I am no longer bewitched, and the ghosts have faded.
Though I can still feel them, as they swarm beneath the surface, and all of the people I've known, who are dead and gone to me now, who are just figments of my imagination, will continue to live on through me. Perhaps there is not a heaven. Perhaps there is not a hell. Perhaps there is no where we truly go when we die, and everything we've ever done will mean nothing in the far distant future.
For now, however, those who have passed on from my life exist in me, and one day, when my physical form is gone, just as I have been haunted, perhaps others will be haunted by me.
Now before you call Ghost Hunters, I'm talking about the abstract kind. These are the empty husks of memories that follow me around and punch me in the gut when I'm doing something else. I'll be minding my own business, driving to breakfast while listening to my wife and kids, and I'll see a soccer field, and all of a sudden I'm possessed, and apparitions from when I was a scrawny kid with acne will bombard me. I'll be back in time when I was a wallflower, and I'd avoid the ball, until the coach told me to get more aggressive. With sweaty phantoms of blue and yellow all around me, I will growl, just like I did on that grass. I will be angry. I will be an animal, and I will kick that goddamn spiritual soccer ball in that goddamn ethereal goal.
Until with a jolt, I must stop the car, just like how the referee said, "Hey kid, you can't growl, that's a warning. You do it again I'll kick you off the field." I am no longer bewitched, and the ghosts have faded.
Though I can still feel them, as they swarm beneath the surface, and all of the people I've known, who are dead and gone to me now, who are just figments of my imagination, will continue to live on through me. Perhaps there is not a heaven. Perhaps there is not a hell. Perhaps there is no where we truly go when we die, and everything we've ever done will mean nothing in the far distant future.
For now, however, those who have passed on from my life exist in me, and one day, when my physical form is gone, just as I have been haunted, perhaps others will be haunted by me.
Wednesday, October 28
Meditation is Boring
I've noticed that I tend not to write about things going on in my life on this blog. Sure, you see the occasional photo of my kids, or something tangentially related that deals with a comprehensive universal theme, however, I really try not to make these posts read something like:
9:05-9:16 The kids jumped on me until I got up.
9:16-9:45 I shaved and took a shower while the kids watched and Justin told me about insects.
9:45-10:35 I dressed myself and the kids. Justin wore a skeleton long sleeve shirt, and Harmony had a rainbow sweater.
10:35-11:25 I took the kids to Hawaiian BBQ as a treat. Justin ate noodles and Harmony had rice stuck up her nose.
And so on...
I'm assuming the reason why I don't write like that is because I'm by and large bored with reality. I tend to live in my head, and there is generally a disconnect between what I want to think about when given a blank canvas, and what I am forced react to when the tangible world is thrust upon me.
I've had an entire lifetime dealing with ennui. I take the kids to the playground, and my brain is idle as I stare at the branches of trees. I'm reminded of my youth, when I hid in the shelter of my room (or else my mom would make me do some tedious chore), lay back on my upper bunk bed, and stare at the asbestos on the ceiling.
It's not so much that I see visions and hallucinations as I'm dealing with the real world, it's more that I don't, and my brain gets grumpy. I would prefer to have something to think about that's like, "I wonder what rocket boots would look like," and less like, "Man, I'm wiping boogers off a kid's nose again."
Don't get me wrong, I love my kids. I find contentment in taking care of them the majority of the time, especially when we are on an adventure, or they do something relatively cute. However, they are not really what I'm talking about: I'm describing my global aversion to the cosmos of perception. I would much prefer to live inside my head, with a steady stream of new ideas and thoughts, while churning out my own conclusions.
Though if I ever got what I wanted, and found myself as a brain in a jar, I might reconsider, especially when one thinks of quadriplegics like Stephen Hawking that would give anything to go for a stroll. Perhaps I am being too hasty in dismissing this existence, particularly those spaces in time when I can stop and watch the breeze at the park.
9:05-9:16 The kids jumped on me until I got up.
9:16-9:45 I shaved and took a shower while the kids watched and Justin told me about insects.
9:45-10:35 I dressed myself and the kids. Justin wore a skeleton long sleeve shirt, and Harmony had a rainbow sweater.
10:35-11:25 I took the kids to Hawaiian BBQ as a treat. Justin ate noodles and Harmony had rice stuck up her nose.
And so on...
I'm assuming the reason why I don't write like that is because I'm by and large bored with reality. I tend to live in my head, and there is generally a disconnect between what I want to think about when given a blank canvas, and what I am forced react to when the tangible world is thrust upon me.
I've had an entire lifetime dealing with ennui. I take the kids to the playground, and my brain is idle as I stare at the branches of trees. I'm reminded of my youth, when I hid in the shelter of my room (or else my mom would make me do some tedious chore), lay back on my upper bunk bed, and stare at the asbestos on the ceiling.
It's not so much that I see visions and hallucinations as I'm dealing with the real world, it's more that I don't, and my brain gets grumpy. I would prefer to have something to think about that's like, "I wonder what rocket boots would look like," and less like, "Man, I'm wiping boogers off a kid's nose again."
Don't get me wrong, I love my kids. I find contentment in taking care of them the majority of the time, especially when we are on an adventure, or they do something relatively cute. However, they are not really what I'm talking about: I'm describing my global aversion to the cosmos of perception. I would much prefer to live inside my head, with a steady stream of new ideas and thoughts, while churning out my own conclusions.
Though if I ever got what I wanted, and found myself as a brain in a jar, I might reconsider, especially when one thinks of quadriplegics like Stephen Hawking that would give anything to go for a stroll. Perhaps I am being too hasty in dismissing this existence, particularly those spaces in time when I can stop and watch the breeze at the park.
Tuesday, October 27
The Troll's Cavern
Something about fall makes my Unseelie side advance.
I want to grow my nails into razorblades, cultivate my scruff into a scraggy beard, complete with a crow's nest. I want to eat and eat and eat and fill my belly into a mound of lard, then retreat into a dank shadowy cave with the grubs and worms. I would curl up in the straw, let the fleas feast on my flesh, while my rotten attitude and irritations fester, and I crush Englishmen's bones into powder between my yellow teeth.
Do not enter my cave, for I am hibernating, and the cascading leaves are my insulation. This frosty draft is my breath, and the fey of the night dance on my doorstep, and we are all servants of Mab.
At least until spring.
I want to grow my nails into razorblades, cultivate my scruff into a scraggy beard, complete with a crow's nest. I want to eat and eat and eat and fill my belly into a mound of lard, then retreat into a dank shadowy cave with the grubs and worms. I would curl up in the straw, let the fleas feast on my flesh, while my rotten attitude and irritations fester, and I crush Englishmen's bones into powder between my yellow teeth.
Do not enter my cave, for I am hibernating, and the cascading leaves are my insulation. This frosty draft is my breath, and the fey of the night dance on my doorstep, and we are all servants of Mab.
At least until spring.
Monday, October 5
A Self-Referential Post About Posts
Since I've been brooding over writing, I've been curious as to the nature of a blog. Will I ever run out of worthwhile things to say? Can I maintain the discipline required to compose something nearly every day? (There have been many days thus far where I exclaim, "Screw it! I've got nothing important in my brain," and then I come back the day after with some kernel of an idea and bang out a half decent paragraph or two.)
Certainly, eventually I'll decide that this isn't worth it. Either I'll die, or become an alcoholic, or colonize Mars, or invent some other half-baked excuse and this blog will fade from existence. Whether it happens in one or a hundred years, I don't know, I hadn't really thought about it.
I had started this exercise with the premise that there were an infinite different ideas to explore to begin with, so how could I ever run out of things to say? Besides, it forces me to write, even when I don't want to, the hungry maw of the internet remains ravenous regardless of my pitiful justifications. This rectangle simply must be fed with large quantities of words at regular intervals, until my fingers cramp up from arthritis, and I break my back shoveling phrases out of my skull.
However, I doubt that axiom at irregular intervals, especially when I am frantically searching my thoughts for something meaningful to share: there may be an infinite number of ideas in the universe, however, the number of good ideas is certainly fewer than that (though possibly still infinite) and the number of interpretations I can make is less than that, and most definitely finite.
Though all I am doing is linking writing with an unforeseeable end, and in theory, blogs have no end. This might carry on for all of eternity, until everything itself ceases, and the cosmos contracts to nothing, and we figure out once and for all if there really is an Oblivion, and whether it's as nice as we all had hoped, or it might end next week if I get hit by a bus.
That optimistic daydream is what compels me to write, that this might continue on after I kick the bucket, at least for a little while. Perhaps it's naive. Perhaps it's starry eyed to presuppose that other people give a damn about what I think about a myriad of topics. Though what is the alternative? To remain silent and twisted, as these images and visions conquer my mind? Such a fate seems worse than simply letting the horde gain entry into this world, one blog post at a time.
Certainly, eventually I'll decide that this isn't worth it. Either I'll die, or become an alcoholic, or colonize Mars, or invent some other half-baked excuse and this blog will fade from existence. Whether it happens in one or a hundred years, I don't know, I hadn't really thought about it.
I had started this exercise with the premise that there were an infinite different ideas to explore to begin with, so how could I ever run out of things to say? Besides, it forces me to write, even when I don't want to, the hungry maw of the internet remains ravenous regardless of my pitiful justifications. This rectangle simply must be fed with large quantities of words at regular intervals, until my fingers cramp up from arthritis, and I break my back shoveling phrases out of my skull.
However, I doubt that axiom at irregular intervals, especially when I am frantically searching my thoughts for something meaningful to share: there may be an infinite number of ideas in the universe, however, the number of good ideas is certainly fewer than that (though possibly still infinite) and the number of interpretations I can make is less than that, and most definitely finite.
Though all I am doing is linking writing with an unforeseeable end, and in theory, blogs have no end. This might carry on for all of eternity, until everything itself ceases, and the cosmos contracts to nothing, and we figure out once and for all if there really is an Oblivion, and whether it's as nice as we all had hoped, or it might end next week if I get hit by a bus.
That optimistic daydream is what compels me to write, that this might continue on after I kick the bucket, at least for a little while. Perhaps it's naive. Perhaps it's starry eyed to presuppose that other people give a damn about what I think about a myriad of topics. Though what is the alternative? To remain silent and twisted, as these images and visions conquer my mind? Such a fate seems worse than simply letting the horde gain entry into this world, one blog post at a time.
Friday, September 18
Top Secret
When I was a kid, I wanted to be a plant, mostly influenced by reading this book.
Like the boy in the story, I wanted to discover a formula that would unlock the key to human photosynthesis, so that no one would ever go hungry again, and so that we would never, ever have to harm any other life form for any reason.
I wanted to stick my feet in the dirt, and share the ground with the worms and bugs, and say, "Hey Mr. Bug, don't worry, I'm not going to harm you. Let's be friends." And the squirrels and birds would live in me and make nests on me and conceive babies in my leaves, and crap on me, but hey man, who cares? I'm a tree.
Someday, will science fulfill my dream, with solar power across the landscape, and stick my brain in a cyborg box, like Nixon on Futurama? Will I live forever as a man/machine symbiote, harnessing nourishment from the sun? Do the prophets and heavens and aliens, the warmongers and peaceniks, the meek and the strong, only have a chance at tranquility when we cast off the shackles of our locomotion and gullet?
Though I'm sick of the cliche, I'm also equally sick of being the scorpion.
Like the boy in the story, I wanted to discover a formula that would unlock the key to human photosynthesis, so that no one would ever go hungry again, and so that we would never, ever have to harm any other life form for any reason.
I wanted to stick my feet in the dirt, and share the ground with the worms and bugs, and say, "Hey Mr. Bug, don't worry, I'm not going to harm you. Let's be friends." And the squirrels and birds would live in me and make nests on me and conceive babies in my leaves, and crap on me, but hey man, who cares? I'm a tree.
Someday, will science fulfill my dream, with solar power across the landscape, and stick my brain in a cyborg box, like Nixon on Futurama? Will I live forever as a man/machine symbiote, harnessing nourishment from the sun? Do the prophets and heavens and aliens, the warmongers and peaceniks, the meek and the strong, only have a chance at tranquility when we cast off the shackles of our locomotion and gullet?
Though I'm sick of the cliche, I'm also equally sick of being the scorpion.
Monday, August 24
Muses Aren't Amusing
One of the disturbing things about what I do is that I don't have any idea where it comes from. I've taken classes on "creativity" and more often than not, they focused on what to do after the initial kernel of an idea has been germinating in your brain.
Flashes of inspiration seem to be relatively random, however, the more time I leave myself to think without distractions, the more opportunities for creativity become available. That doesn't mean that I can hide myself in a cave and only think, since the interplay with established creativity is also important. Without a periodic intake of fresh ideas, I end up retreading the same paths over and over again.
The other frustrating thing is that a lot of what I think about cannot be accomplished by me (at least in this lifetime). I'd have to be a specialist to bring forth some sort of advance in whatever field I happen to be thinking about. Sure, I can make superficial contributions, or bring together aspects of different fields, but I will not be the best computer programmer, actor, physicist, or what have you, since I lack the focus. I'm not saying this to be self-deprecating: I understand that it's not my strength to single out one avenue for my creativity.
However, it doesn't mean that I don't get discouraged when I have an idea about spacetime, or a neat piano riff, or a particularly visual dream that would be great as a painting, movie, or video game. I'm not going to have the skills necessary to bring many of these kernels to maturation.
That's not the same as saying I don't have the skills to do anything (which sometimes my mind can get trapped in when I'm depressed). I can do lots of things passably well. But I don't mistake writing some electronic music with being a concert pianist. It's a matter of scale. (Pun intended.)
Added together, both of these impediments combine together to tie my creativity up in knots, until I'm so twisted that I can barely write a sentence. The fact that I don't know where and when it's coming from, and that I don't know what to do with it once I've got it, means that sometimes I get sucked into distractions, like video games, t.v., and the world wide web.
Though I highly doubt that I'll find what I'm looking for in any of those places.
Flashes of inspiration seem to be relatively random, however, the more time I leave myself to think without distractions, the more opportunities for creativity become available. That doesn't mean that I can hide myself in a cave and only think, since the interplay with established creativity is also important. Without a periodic intake of fresh ideas, I end up retreading the same paths over and over again.
The other frustrating thing is that a lot of what I think about cannot be accomplished by me (at least in this lifetime). I'd have to be a specialist to bring forth some sort of advance in whatever field I happen to be thinking about. Sure, I can make superficial contributions, or bring together aspects of different fields, but I will not be the best computer programmer, actor, physicist, or what have you, since I lack the focus. I'm not saying this to be self-deprecating: I understand that it's not my strength to single out one avenue for my creativity.
However, it doesn't mean that I don't get discouraged when I have an idea about spacetime, or a neat piano riff, or a particularly visual dream that would be great as a painting, movie, or video game. I'm not going to have the skills necessary to bring many of these kernels to maturation.
That's not the same as saying I don't have the skills to do anything (which sometimes my mind can get trapped in when I'm depressed). I can do lots of things passably well. But I don't mistake writing some electronic music with being a concert pianist. It's a matter of scale. (Pun intended.)
Added together, both of these impediments combine together to tie my creativity up in knots, until I'm so twisted that I can barely write a sentence. The fact that I don't know where and when it's coming from, and that I don't know what to do with it once I've got it, means that sometimes I get sucked into distractions, like video games, t.v., and the world wide web.
Though I highly doubt that I'll find what I'm looking for in any of those places.
Thursday, August 13
Memories as Ghosts
I live in my head often, where I am unanchored, aimless, purposeless, floating in the chaos of things that have been, might have been, and might come to pass. This jetsam reminds me of the Bermuda Triangle, where the ships and planes of my experience have crashed and sunk to the bottom of my subconscious sea.
If I pause, I can hear them. If I stare at the ceiling, I can see their faces mouthing words in the asbestos ocean. I've had a conversation with Abraham Lincoln as he strained in the plaster. Hundreds of faces coalesce into a caviar monstrosity, each wailing a soundless cry.
Sometimes they take on a reality again, with an email washed up on my shore, or a passing gossip from a friend of a friend of a friend. At this point, these ghosts are as real as Mars, which I have never been to, and yet pulls on me lightly from afar.
Sometimes these poltergeists can paralyze me, shackle me to the bed I have made, and again I am thrashing in a hurricane of my humiliations and embarrassments, the wreckage of my regret battering my psychic self. Nothing pierces my skin, and I am in such pain, these billions of ghosts, everyone who has ever lived and died, everyone who will ever think and feel becomes an infinite wave and I am so small, so insignificant, and I am lost, annihilated under their tragedies and triumphs.
Then a real life ghost appears, shrouded in a blanket. He smiles and growls, "I'm a monster!"
I say, "I love you kid," and I am exorcised.
If I pause, I can hear them. If I stare at the ceiling, I can see their faces mouthing words in the asbestos ocean. I've had a conversation with Abraham Lincoln as he strained in the plaster. Hundreds of faces coalesce into a caviar monstrosity, each wailing a soundless cry.
Sometimes they take on a reality again, with an email washed up on my shore, or a passing gossip from a friend of a friend of a friend. At this point, these ghosts are as real as Mars, which I have never been to, and yet pulls on me lightly from afar.
Sometimes these poltergeists can paralyze me, shackle me to the bed I have made, and again I am thrashing in a hurricane of my humiliations and embarrassments, the wreckage of my regret battering my psychic self. Nothing pierces my skin, and I am in such pain, these billions of ghosts, everyone who has ever lived and died, everyone who will ever think and feel becomes an infinite wave and I am so small, so insignificant, and I am lost, annihilated under their tragedies and triumphs.
Then a real life ghost appears, shrouded in a blanket. He smiles and growls, "I'm a monster!"
I say, "I love you kid," and I am exorcised.
Sunday, July 26
Dreams
I have a difficult time believing that dreams are special. I suppose some of the dreams we have could be our unconscious brain trying to tell us something, however, the mechanism for this communication is inherently flawed.
How exactly am I supposed to ascertain the difference between a worthwhile piece of information and an utter piece of crap? I mean, last night I dreamed that a giant flying space alien squid wrapped one of its tentacles around Ron from Harry Potter and then ate him.
What is my subconscious trying to tell me, and how do I separate such meaningless dribble from anything that might actually matter?
Now I'm not saying that dreams are unworthy of study, because maybe down the line science can help us decode these night vomits. Right now though, I'm loath to give dreams any credible weight, unless I want to drive myself crazy and start acting on these scenarios: maybe I'll erect defenses against space monsters and send in my application to Hogwarts.
How exactly am I supposed to ascertain the difference between a worthwhile piece of information and an utter piece of crap? I mean, last night I dreamed that a giant flying space alien squid wrapped one of its tentacles around Ron from Harry Potter and then ate him.
What is my subconscious trying to tell me, and how do I separate such meaningless dribble from anything that might actually matter?
Now I'm not saying that dreams are unworthy of study, because maybe down the line science can help us decode these night vomits. Right now though, I'm loath to give dreams any credible weight, unless I want to drive myself crazy and start acting on these scenarios: maybe I'll erect defenses against space monsters and send in my application to Hogwarts.
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