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Tuesday, April 20, 2004

Crooked Little Man (dream)

There were houses, an entire neighborhood of them. I and my son were there, with a realtor. Everything was pastel rose and white; pale greens and soft colors. My son played in the driveways while the realtor talked to me about buying houses. There was one house we came to while the realtor was away that was locked. The old woman within had died long ago, I knew, and the house was up for sale. My son went in through the basement somehow and unlocked the front door. We went inside. It was like stepping into the 30's. All the pastel colors were still there, but there were also beds and lots of small bedrooms. It was a typical house for back then with tiny square feet and old fashioned furniture - the lower middle class kind. The beds were made with dark bedspreads; they were the only dark colors in the place. There was a room with dolls hanging on hangers in one of those movable closets. Doilies decorated a dresser. I wanted this house. I was madly in love with it. The realtor came and I mentioned buying it, even though I knew I had no money. I'd want it even if it is right by the highway, I said. The realtor said that I wouldn't want it, that it would be difficult to get in and out because of the traffic which was zooming by at incredible paces. I didn't care, and inside I even built a map. I know a way to get in and out without worrying about the traffic. Well, I suppose if one must live without a home, dreams will sometimes try to soothe you.

Thursday, April 8, 2004


1:20 AM There were five people in white button up shirts, and we were having a good conversation. Then 7:30 AM There was a point in the beginning in which I told myself to record this. I had a companion with me - and as always I could only see a glimpse of him or her from the corner of my eye. It's rough being blind. The story began inside myself, which is to say I was telling my companion a tale. Now that I am awake, I see and understand the metaphors I had to use. Oft I wonder how the other perspectives catch them and how they translate, for there were many visuals. I narrated very little. It was the early American wilderness - swamps - before wooden towns and cartroads - the travellers were crossing into the deepness. There was a young boy who was leading his subculture behind the higher ranked. We could not see the higher ranked in this; they were only known to be there, and they were not even leading the expedition in the end. The boy was leading them all, for all he walked in the middle. He was a slave, and he considered himself to be leading his brother. People crossed bodies of water in flatbottom boats covered in strange markings that were carved into the deep brown wood, and when they reached the tiny pieces of land where they would spend the night, they slept in pools of water (which the mortal part of me thought an odd metaphor). The waters were usually stagnated or filled with baby mosquitos. The higher ranked ones promised that when everyone reached their destinations, the pools of water would be clean and fresh. The boy had short, white-blond hair and a strong physique - he was the stereotypical hero figure. He was a slave, understand, yet he would be lead even the leaders through the wilderness? The slaves' bodies were covered in red tattoos - things I had not thought to see, that old language - and wore red sun-kilts with red disk at the front. More strange markings adorned the cloth; these people loved sigils, it seems. The rest of their mortal bodies were bare. The boy cared only for the welfare of his brother, and near the end as my story began to close, the party crossed the swamp waters to another island where water sat in one of those vinyl pools for toys. It was filled with baby mosquitos, silver fish and another animal that I cannot remember nor name. I said, "Let me clean this water." The boy had disappeared, and it was I that pulled down the side of the pool to pour the critters on the ground. The people watched, waiting and hoping for a clean place to rest. I grabbed a waterhose and took off the spraygun to thrust the running thing into the pool. Someone approached me... one of the leaders... and somehow I was called Wonder Woman, but whether that was from the large one (the leader) or my companion, I cannot say.

Tuesday, April 6, 2004


Dreamed of the gathering of souls again last night. It's a recurring theme in such dreams. Either we're gathering and preparing or we've gathered, not going to take it anymore, and the government comes and shoots our children.

 This time is was a campout gathering in the woods such as subcultures have on occasion. I was reminded of Walking the Thresholds, which I've attended two or three times. At first I wasn't there, I was in my backyard where the trailways grow wide in the realm of dreams and split. The trees spoke to me, especially the big one, but dammed if I remember what was said. I followed the water outwards, to the highway, and my car broke down.

There were people I knew - one of them was my mate - who was too busy partying to be serious and help. My father was also goofing off. Furious, I went home without them and seethed.

 To the gather, then, where the boy children were hidden away in one area and the girl children in another. There were werewolves, but this was not a bad thing, as I travelled from area to area as I do. The leader of the gather resented my presence - some really old bad blood - and the two women who followed him eyed me angrily when they could find me to see me.

There was a microphone where people got up, and sometimes they sang. Dreaming Squirrel got on the mic for a moment, even. His was the only face I recognized that evening. The microphone was near a small fire in a sheltered copse.

 I offered to tell a story, and the people running the gather said perhaps later - during storytime. I wanted to sing - I have a voice, a good one, and I never get to use it. But I could not think of a good song for them. I walked away, disappointed that they would not let me share this part of myself, and through where the boys slept.

 Little Indian (red like me) Children with glittering black eyes, I crawled past them. Someone was with me, I do not know who they were, that matched my pace. A friendly person; a werewolf maybe. I smelled wolves right about then, and I vibrated to match the wolves. Camouflage.

 I was walking down the main trail, just walking, when the leader in furs and antlers came around the corner behind, just past the boys. He glared at me, I looked at him, then he entered his tent. The emotion of "You are not welcome" was strong. The two women - one was blonde - followed him in, and they closed the flap on me.