by ·Comments Off on Cinder block in moss

I dreamt of the woods again. Those are such happy and peaceful dreams. It seems like the rhythm and movements are slowed to an almost frozen state.  The air itself seems slow and heavy.  Not heavy in the way that burdens you, but just swaddles you into some careful warmth and presses gently into your skin.  It was a sunny day, and everything was starting to wake up.  It was a dream of spring, and a day of life warming up and beginning to come above ground.

The trees, the deciduous trees had started to get red at the tips, so you looked through the mass of branches, and the red hue lite up the tops of the trees but it was such a nice color.  My eyes knew that this was the sign that the trees knew it was almost time.  The world was getting ready to wake up and the trees were pushing into the air and testing the weather.  Not ready for green, but shoving the red growth out.  The reverse of fall, and the green turning to red, the red would turn to green.

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by ·Comments Off on Ten pennies face up all

It was focused on dreams of copper. It was everywhere, and kept showing up on surfaces. Shining and sharp in color, it showed on so many things that it must have meant something.

It made me think that I have noticed my dreams aren’t of gold and silver, but copper comes again and again.  This one seemed to see plates built of copper, and pennies.  Strange that something so common can stand out so clearly.

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by ·Comments Off on Extended noise

I have been spending the last few days trying to figure out what is going on.  I can’t tell if this is a prison, or if the whole thing is just a dream that I can’t wake up from.  I noticed that the dreams i do have never seem to show my face.  Never seem to show a reflection in anything that you would normally expect.  I know that I should see my face back in a reflection in a window or a car, or something, but there isn’t anything there at all.

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by ·Comments Off on Touch through edges

My mind keeps going into itself.  I keep returning to these same thoughts over and over.  Like a note that keeps playing in my mind.  Everything i do to distract myself from this thought seems to end up pulling me back.  So maybe that is something.  Is this what i am supposed to think about?  Will it stay in my mind until i have looked at it from every angle?  Smoothed out the rough edges and sanded it down to a sphere?

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by ·Comments Off on Scratching and beetles
Staircase

I was breeding beetles last night.  I had buckets of them.  Buckets of larva, crawling and seeking food.  Buckets of pupae, turning into something new.  Buckets of beetles, scratching and scritching looking for mates.

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by ·Comments Off on The birth and the scent

It is fading.  Already it is fading and falling away.  So strange how the moments like this fall away.  The sounds and the smells seem like the would never leave my mind.  Like I would spend the rest of my time on earth thinking of this one thing.  Over and over, and repeating in my mind that moment. But it washes away.  Sooner than I think it would go.  Where does it go, when it falls away from my mind.  What falls away first.

I keep wondering what i lose first.  What part of the dream, what part of the memory fades first.  It seems the first thing i lose is the sound.  I remember so many memories, and find myself filling in the sounds around what I know the sound must have been. I remember what rain sounds like, and my brain just puts the sound of rain into my dreams.  But this, the first thing going is the feeling.  The touch and the sense of pressure.  I remember from just a moment back that I could feel the pressure of my stomach and the feeling of tightness and skin.  Now though, i can’t remember the exact feeling.

The smell though, i remember the smell.  It was coming from this white spread across his skin.  He smelled like new bread.  Yeasty and fresh.  The smell of all growing things, of a health i can’t remember anything in the world smelling like.  If this was a smell of the beginning and the smell of all wholesome thing.  It is so hard to explain.  So hard to put some basic things into words. How to explain something so pure and unique.  It wasn’t like yeast and bread, but my brain thought that was the smell.  It reminded me of earth, but that wasn’t the smell.  It smelled clean, but also not clean.  How can one thing have so many different descriptors.

This memory like everything else is receding.  Falling away and slowly becoming background.  Memory that will still be tucked away, but like a silent movie.  No sound or feeling or connection, just this thing there sitting in my mind.  I remember reading a book somewhere that tells that the more that you think about something, the more it isn’t real.  Your mind can’t remember all the details and starts to replace things.  The sounds weren’t right.  Then your mind goes about convincing you that they were that way the whole time.  Then you can’t remember anything but what you inserted into the memory.

I know this is what is happening to me.  As i speak, my mind is filing away all these moments, and is replacing them with things that are false.  And then my brain can’t remember that they are false, and goes about rebuilding them and convincing itself it is true.

Will i forget my son?  Will i forget the smell of new bread that came off his skin so clearly?  What happens to this, and was this real in the first place?  Can someone bring this back to me to remember.

by ·Comments Off on New things are born
Into the Mind

This was a dream that stood up on it’s own.  Like something out of someone’s life that wasn’t mine.  It must have been someone else, but It is harder and harder to tell the difference.  I saw it all so clearly, so perfect.  I almost felt the emotions, but there was this wall of glass between what was happening and what I was feeling.  Like looking in on something in a fishtank.  Swimming and living, and distinct.  I remember the feelings though, and the smell.  Like a list of characters, and words.  Symbols of what I was seeing and what was attached to each event.

I have to remember this, and start to put it into some form that stays in my mind.  Things seem to slip away sometimes, and they should be there, but they aren’t.  I know that I need to remember this, but at the same time if it fades like the other memories, i feel like i will still have it with me.  It needs to remain, it has to feel burnt into place.

I remember the feeling of the birth, the body and the pain.  I remember the feelings of my stomach pulling itself inward.  Pain was so sharp, but after so long, it was like the pain was who i was.  I couldn’t remember a time when i didn’t hurt, and it was now just a core part of me.  I remember also this sense of peace.  Like this was right and this was human.  Something that was beyond my understanding and also so pure that it didn’t even need to be understood.

I remember the feeling that somehow I was a string, and i was in the process of tying another piece of string to mine.  Like I needed to badly tie a knot between us, and let this string start to unwind from me.  But at the same time, it was connected to me.  It threw my mind back, and I realized that I was connected to a thread, and so was that thread.  We were the warp, the woof was everyone passing along the thread to hold it in place.  The warp was unending and timeless.

But then the pain, the feeling of being too tight.  My whole body felt too tight.  Like the skin couldn’t hold what I was doing in any longer.  Something was bursting out, and needing to be freed or I would rip apart.  Come apart at the seams and fall to pieces.  This feeling was something so new, and so primal.  I couldn’t tell you how long each burst last.  It seemed timeless and too short at the same moment.  Something so much a part of me that I knew i couldn’t forget.  At the same time though I knew that my brain was washing itself in a way to make this pain fall away.  Something to keep the moment at bay.

My son was being born.  I remember that moment.  The moment it came back to me what was happening.  What was being done.  What was going on, and what it meant for me and every thread going back down the line above me.  Every line that would be held in place by his.  Something was happening, and I could feel it so clearly.

This memory seems so real.  I just need a moment to think, a moment to reflect.  Maybe if I close my eyes for a minute, the details will be clear.  The moment will seem real, or i will know if that was me.  Did I have this memory?

by ·Comments Off on Tin and the hallowed ground

It is here again.  I heard it.  Farther away this time.  Down the hall?  Why do i feel like the sound is in a hallway.  I was laying here on my back.  Always on my back.  I heard a knock.  Again a single knock.  It echoed down a long room, or a hallway of some kind.  The sound was bouncing in the quiet, and something like that seems so much deeper and significant when it is the only sound you hear.  I remember exactly what i was doing.  Normally this would have taken all my concentration.

I was noticing my fingers.  I could feel the edge of a nail catching on the sheets over my hands.  I had never noticed something like this before.  It seemed rough, like a nail was cut wrong, and the edge was sharp.  This gentle tugging of fabric against my nail.  Just enough of an annoyance that I can’t get it out of my mind.  Like a tiny splinter in your finger that keeps snagging against your pocket.  But this one was in my nail.  The thing that I can’t figure out is how the pressure against the sheets changed if my hands never move.  Did my hand move while i slept?  And how did my nail get a rough edge.  Were did that come from?  How did it get cut.

Then that knock.  That sound.  It sounded like a hand on wood, but my door doesn’t look like wood.  Are there more doors of materials that are different than mine.  Maybe mine is wood too and I just am not seeing it correctly.  It would be so much easier if i could stand and open the door.  See what lies beyond this place, see what is in the hallway at least.  See something beyond the walls and the ceiling.  To escape dreaming for a moment of movement and freedom.  Can a sound really die down.  Is the sound moved from the source into the objects it touches.  Slight vibrations shifting the outer layers of atoms, moving them slightly faster as they absorb the kinetic energy of the sound.

If the atoms of my walls speed up enough, maybe they will shatter away, or slowly dissolve into gas, or vibrate into nothingness.  I don’t know what would happen.  How many knocks would that take, how many hands on doors would it take till the walls themselves have enough energy to open up.

That nail though.  Is that something i can keep track of.  If i remember it today, but after waking don’t feel the pull of the sheet, does that mean my hand moved?  Does that mean someone moved the sheet?  Cleaned and trimmed my nails?  Removed the nails all together.  Would it be a sign that I am changing in this place, or that the place around me is changing and I can change with it.  The nail might be everything I need to change where I am, or at least move my hands.  I know that or the nail will pick at me, and i will feel the sheet pulling against me forever.

by ·Comments Off on Refractory and splintered images

Something occurred to me this morning.  At least i think it is morning.  I can’t really tell anymore.  I don’t have any windows, and the lights never change.  Well I should say the brightness never changes, since I can’t see any lights.  Everything just is this even whiteness that says florescent lights are somewhere here.  However, from what I can see, I don’t see any bulbs.  Or fixtures.  It is like everything just is bright.  Like the objects themselves emit light.  Wait, this isn’t what occurred to me.  I can’t remember if I have already talked about the light.  Regardless, it isn’t what I was thinking about while i lay here this morning.  Who is keeping me clean?  I realized that my skin for what I can feel of it, seems smooth and polished.  No rough edges, no dryness or cracked fingers.  Nothing seems out of place.  I don’t think i can smell myself, but I don’t have a good point of reference for what I would smell like.  So it seems that someone must be cleaning me in some way.  Someone must be here while I am dreaming and washing me right?

This makes me stop and think that there must be a crew in this place.  I have never seen a cobweb in my view.  I haven’t seen dust floating in the air.  I never smell any food or anything living.  Other than the single knock, I don’t feel like I have heard any sounds.  No clocks, no feet in the hall, nothing human or even machine.  Why can’t i hear the walls creaking, or the sounds of water flushing somewhere, or anything that would go with the sounds of a living building.  It seems that there would be some sound or smell that would give away something.  Could it be that all the maintenance happens while I am asleep?  Maybe that is the answer.

Could it be that while I am dreaming a whole cast of people come out and take care of the conditioning of the building and my body.  Maintain the building and dust and wash.  I haven’t really thought about that, but maybe that explains the quiet.  Maybe this isn’t the morning.  Maybe I wake up at night, when the quiet of the place jarred me awake and makes me try to figure things out. Maybe my dreams are the lulling sleep of the movement of all the life in the building and when everyone is here, i am gone.

Back to my hands, that is what makes me feel like there is something to this, my hands are too smooth.  The skin feels flawless. No roughness and no issues with my nails.  Nothing to make me think that they aren’t well cared for and clean.  But I know that I am not cleaning them, and I don’t remember the feeling of anyone washing my hands, or trimming my nails.  Wouldn’t that wake me up from my sleep?  Wouldn’t someone holding my hand while they cleaned it move me?  Maybe the movement is so gentle that i don’t notice it as I dream my dreams.

by ·Comments Off on Dank and fertile

I dreamt of life and smells last night.  So many smells mixed together, but the one that stood out more than anything was the smell of wet earth and life.  It smelled like freshly tilled soil.  Something that is as much a part of the plant as the sun and the wind.  It was almost crawling with life.  But at the same time, it was sleeping.

My dreams seem to be streching out more and more.  The time frames of them are beyond what I remember from before.  From before I was here. I still think these are someone else’s dreams that have made their way into my mind.  I keep having flashes that my mind is this bank.  Not a bank of money or of a river, but something hard and unyeilding.  I know it is so hard to think of terms that pull in what it seems like.  Why can’t I remember what I look like anymore?

I know that something is present in these moments when i dream, some fragment of a memory.  Some bit of me is in these moments, but they always cut away before I can see myself.  When i try to catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror or a reflective surface, i see light.  Only a blurred light, and I don’t understand why.  How long has it been since I have seen my face.  Why don’t I remember what I look like?  What if i have seen reflections in the distance, but couldn’t tell it was me i was seeing.

The dream though.  The earth, the feeling of the soil, the sensation of my hands in the ground.  I can feel my hands plunging into it.  Reaching into the ground and the earth surrounding them.  It was cool, and warm at the same time.  Soothing, and rough.  And the smell that rose from the ground was something I can’t describe.  I read once that the smell is a bacteria.  That when it is disturbed it releases a chemical signal.  A warning alarm of some sort.  I can’t remember if that is true, or another dream.  Is that smell that comforts me so much a scream of the dirt.  It can’t be that our brains are tied into that smell so closely.  I still wonder if I was a farmer.  What did i do when i wasn’t here?  When i wasn’t dreaming all the time.  Dreaming in this room and this bed.  Stuck in this body.  I can’t have been a farmer could i?  I must have done something, but I can’t remember any of it.  I know i had a job to do, and work that was mine, but it isn’t something I dream about.  I can’t remember what it was anymore.  I can’t remember so much of what was happening before I got here.

Today was disjointed.  All the thoughts I had are tumbling around, working their way through my brain.  Like a scramble of thoughts, where each one is there as a picture or a thumbnail of the underlying idea.  Nothing major or themed in any way comes through, but each is trying to get free at the same moment.