The Flowing Dream

Posting a great deal today, I know. I blame the dream. 

Last night’s dreamisode had me spilling out out of myself. See, I was me, and the hairy flesh-colored white male that I am, except I spilled out like mercury, flowing over sidewalks and streets, splashing around buildings, plants, and fire hydrants.

I’d been walking through a warm, sunny day in downtown Ashland when this began. I didn’t understand what was happening at first, and then, I panicked, because, oh my God, I’m all over the place. I worried about people walking on me, or having my liquid flesh clogging the sewer drains and drowning others. In a fit of Lucille Ball-like comedy, I scrambled to collect myself and return my mercury-ness to my corporal existence, scooping up handfuls of myself and shoving it into my shirt and jeans. But I couldn’t hold onto myself. It just flowed through my fingers. As my efforts to collect myself wasn’t working, I just let it flow.

Then I was sitting, trying to understand what was happening. Settling back, I watched me flow across the land. My body, like went around others, but didn’t kill them. They embraced it with surprise. As I sat on a chair by a table on a patio and watched myself flowing out, I saw that there was more, that I wasn’t everyone, that I was spreading, but I was still there. I wondered, how far do I go?

With more astonishment, I saw that where I flowed, other things grew and flourished. I wasn’t killing anything at all. Whether the light had changed or my vision was clearer, the day seemed brighter. As I watched, I realized that I was growing even as I sat. From where I sat, I began to see over trees and houses. Soon I saw across the valley and then over the mountains, to the beach and the sea.

Then, in a part that brought tears to my eyes in the dream, the sun was rising wherever I looked. Even as I thought, that’s not possible, I saw, but, yes, that’s what’s happening.

The dream ended.

***

I’d forgotten the dream until I was walking and thinking about my character, Anders, and who he was. In a flash I remembered the dream. I was walking in Ashland, and for a startling moment, I felt like I was in the dream, and experienced this bizarre sense of duality. As that passed, I sharply aligned with Anders and who he was. A black teenager in America, I was trying to get a handle on him, but then saw that I was tagging him through the prisms of my experiences.

He, though, doesn’t think like us, not because of his skin color, but because of his generation. His parents are black, and he loves and respects them, but their experiences don’t shape him. To him, that’s an old way of being. The new way is to shape himself. He eschews and shuns much of popular culture because of that because popular culture attempts to normalize him and push him to conform to a popular conception of who he should be, what he should buy, and how he should behave. Anders rejects and resists that.

As I explored him and his friends, I saw all of this, and how it applied to them. We have stereotypes of our segments of culture and society, from the one percent down to the homeless, from the self-proclaimed Greatest Generation through the Boomers and the rest. Anders and his friends are resisting being called a generation. They’re seeing and seeking fragmentation, breaking old norms and behavior. They don’t want to build something new; they just want freedom to find for themselves if there’s something new out there. 

They think there is something new. They can’t see it, but they’re looking through other’s eyes. It’s not until they can find their own way of seeing that they’ll discover their own country.

***

After all of that, it was a powerful and liberating day of writing like crazy. I know that it’s silly, but I felt privileged and flattered to have experience that dream, because it felt so empowering. I felt special, humbled, and amazed as I wrote.

The session is over. Time to go on to other things.

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Without

he’s an edge without a blade

rain without a cloud

a dance without a song

a steak without a knife

 

he’s a foot without a leg

a beard without a head

pupils without a face

fat without a bone

 

he’s an object without shape

sweet without taste

sour without texture

swallowed without chewing

spoken without thought

buried without mourning

morning without light

coffee

without beans

 

 

Infloofuencer

Infloofuencer (floofinition) – a housepet that influences other housepets by their actions, sounds, or behavior

In use: “At seventeen, he was the household’s first and oldest pet. Joining them when he was just three months old, he was an infloofuencer on the other pets. Wherever he went, whatever he did, the others would do the same, just to see where he was or what he was doing.”

Undefined

don’t judge me wit crayons

or color me

on Insta

Face

tweet

 

you adult you

 

e’s and blue screens

ceilings and fans

t.v. and sports

song and dance

coming and going

 

in

fan-tah-sy

compa-tish

shun

 

hiddin by a fence

you see there

i see it

don’t

you correct my words

for-gettin’

’bout my

 

e’s and blue screens

ceilings and fans

t.v. and sports

song and dance

coming and going

 

in

fan-tah-sy

compa-tish

shun

Petty’s Song

trans

pan

bi

straight

another city

another country

another –

face

none this is me

i’m all this

don’t try to touch me

don’t seal me with a kiss

touch on skin

touch on lips

touch on face

touch on spit

touch on love

touch on hate

touch on kiss

touch on grace

touch on

touch on

touch

on

touch

Wednesday’s Theme Music

Oh, those dreams. After those, I was hunting for an energy jolt. After reading some Dave Grohl comments about Billie Eilish, and thought, yes, she will work.

I like her work because it’s a change, although, honestly, “Ocean Eyes” (2015) was weirdly Enya-esque, prompting thoughts about cycles.

“you should see me in a crown” (2018) doesn’t remind me of Enya. It reminds me of exploration and alienation while sourly mocking invitations, judgments, and expectations.

Count my cards watch them fall
Blood on a marble wall
I like the way they all
Scream
Tell me which one is worse
Living or dying first
Sleeping inside a hearse
I don’t dream

It’s musical art, an expression about a generational segment, in my bones. Don’t mind the spiders. She doesn’t.

 

 

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