Saturday, May 14, 2011
irrigation ditch wedding proposal.
born: 5/13/11; 8:47a
that’s so strange.
there is a new project I’m going to be starting on once this weekend is over. it’s going to debut on a different blog which I can’t yet register. I’m pretty excited about it. seems like it’s going to be hilarious. it’ll be productive as well, once I can actually start getting a roll on it. but knowing my attitude on the subject, it’s going to remain extremely funny (at least to myself) for a good amount of time. my main issue with the progress of the project will be that I tend to have little to no consistency in long term projects. and while this won’t be solely a writing project, I’m depending on some kind of inner inspiration and drive to keep this one going. it seems that it’s going to be drawing some energy of my two favorite mediums as of right now to inspire the theme. enough vague tapping. I’ll be revealing it as soon as I’m able.
i woke up in the midst of the thickest pool of REM sleep extract around 4:14 this morning. I reached for the dream journal, but i instantly started feeling the phantoms scattering towards the seams of the walls. I backed off. laid back down, started swimming through it. it felt like a good trip on the verge of going bad. the way the capes of the bottoms of your friends’ shirts start to turn from jellyfish to leeches. I felt it turning bad, way wrong. from a spring sticking out in my atrocious temper [wow. I forgot the word I need.] temporary [how does that happen] bed. let me retype. --- from a spring sticking out in my atrocious temporary bed, one of my ribs fell asleep, so I had that odd numbsparkle feeling in my side. what the whispers said is that there is now a hole in my system, all the excess spillage filling the skin of my gut, spreading necrosis. a piece of my brain is listening, reacting. pulse is rising, breathing is getting hasty. I’m watching this happen, patiently. I watch myself in the third person start to sing. some loud, operaface. and I step back slowly and I see I’m resting in, first, the husk of a dead snake, and then it turns into my rib cage, and I’m curled up in it like a bed of crescent moon. still singing. and I’m suddenly tasting what my mouth tastes like, getting nudged that it’s because I’m slipping into coma due to the death the insides are dealing. I push and push to sleep, letting the arms and hands of demons become a canopy.
i wrote my dreams down every night for over a year. whether in my phone, on this laptop, in a notebook. whatever the case was. I compiled them twice, passed them around. I started to notice though, that I would use this recollection of my dreams as a form of creative outlet. and while it seems to have a bit of help in getting the fingers moving every day, it does take a bit out of actual work that I am creating of my own accord. because, really, I can’t take credit for any of the dreams I catch. it’s just mindwar journalism. I want to take some of the visions and interactions I have under the veil and use it in fiction, or have it inspire me to reach out a bit. to communicate it a bit more in real time. I don’t see myself stopping the documenting, but I definitely see it as becoming more source material than standing on its own as a body of work.
also, this was a big deal to me.