Dream Journal Volume 8796

So, here’s a lame story.

I had a sex dream the other night.

Only, instead of sex, we just cuddled.

And then I woke up and felt cold.

Happy Thanksgiving!

I gnawed on a biscuit. It tasted vaguely of yeast and biscuit. 

"It's the love story of the century. Mom got a phone call from the police station. Collect call from a friend of a friend. Illegal immigrant, some small-time dealer and coyote. And that's how she met your dad."

"Cousin Danny's out of jail. Remember him? He tried to blow up his wife by blowing up his house. He ended up just mostly blowing up himself. And the house. That's gone too."

"...wait a minute! That was one of our relatives??"

I got another biscuit.

Description of a Man on the Train

Silver and white running shoes. Blue jeans. "Danke" black backpack sitting in his lap. Green denim jacket. Blue longshoreman beanie. Big headphones, a cheap brand. Stylized with a blue jagged skull on one side, a spiky bird like creature on the other side.

Square Asian face. Light wisp of Asian stubble. "Hapsen Suru" written in a stylized font on the right index finger.

Two Brief Descriptions of Strangers

A slim black youth. Braces with green rubber bands on his mouth. A hard, cold face. Curly hair trimmed short, but a lack of clean lines. A simple white t-shirt covered by a heavy red sweater, despite the fairly warm weather. Tight black track pants, stripes running down the sides. White boat shoes.

------

A moderate standing lordosis. High and tight shoulders, slim frame, slim breasts. A face of permanent consternation. A plastic, waxy quality to facial animations. Pale, almost sallow skin. Elf-like ears, but rounded. Hair worn loose, hanging around her shoulders and over the front of her face. Yoga pants with an iPhone tucked into the front band. A pair of pink flip-flops paired with painted pink nails.

A description of a girl with reddish-pink hair

It was a bad dye job. Neon, with purple streaks integrated in the back. Her natural brown hair color showing through throughout. A portion of the hair pulled into a small pony-tail resting above the rest of the hair. Her glasses were leopard print around the lenses, with the arms being a pseudo-gold cutout of the words "MICHAEL KORS". Plugs in her ears, seemingly a half-inch in diameter or so. Multiple other piercings per ear, including a cross-ear bar. The bar is studded with pink gems on each side. Thick and long, bright and deep pink fingernails.White skintight cotton shorts, simple black flip-flops. A surprisingly full-sized set of panties is outlined prominently underneath the shorts. A flimsy black "curtain" shirt, paired with a black push-up bra. More of her breasts exposed than covered by either the shirt or the bra. An iPhone cased in something orange-pink but not quite salmon. Perhaps an unhealthy salmon who had died of mange or something. 

I counted at least half a dozen tattoos. A green four-lead clover on the left calf. Indistinct cursive scribbles of some sort of name on the top of her left foot. A cutout of California merged into a lopsided heart on the left shoulder blade. A small yet colorfully and intricately patterned crescent moon with a spade resting in the crook on the right wrist. A feather at the base of her neck, on the left side. A complex mandala on the forward left clavicle.

A noticeable hunch to her sitting posture. Fairly slim, but an overall flabbiness/jiggle to her entire structure. The pale skin of her face had a red glow, but the freckled and pock-marked nature added years to her appearance.

Emo musings in d minor

There's plenty of fish in the sea. Everybody has heard that notion. Out of a world of seven billion people, there's bound to be somebody who's a match for you. Let's do the math and see if that applies to me. 

By dint of cultural differences, we should probably count out anybody not from a western culture Amero-Euro society. I'm not going to find anybody to love in China or India or Korea or Japan or somesuch, or really anybody who isn't at least an L2 speaker of English. So, most generously speaking, we're down to eight hundred million people worldwide. I'm a largely heterosexual male. That instantly disqualifies about half the population. Down to about four hundred million people. I can't imagine being with somebody with an unexceptional intellect. I don't need a genius, just somebody very smart. 80th percentile seems like a generous enough estimate here. We're now down to less than eighty million potential people worldwide. Among that eighty million, you can count out all the people who are opposed to my particular ideological idiosyncrasies. No right-wing people. Down to forty million. No people who want to have kids. Down to ten million. No people who are already married or in committed relationships. Down to two million. No people who already have kids. Down to one million. No people of a drastically different age. Down to fifty thousand. No people who would reject me for failing their own set of criteria. Down to five hundred people. No people for whom there's an inherent biological rejection, such as smell or lack of connection/attraction. Down to twenty people. No ex-girlfriends. 19 left. No people I will never meet because our paths will never cross. One person left. No people where we meet but things just don't work out. Nobody left. There was never actually anyone there. Every man is an island. 

Description of a woman on a lunch date

She wore a black patrol cap, with shoulder-length auburn hair spiking out from under it.

A blue shirt tied at the front to become midriff-exposing. Black skintight miniskirt that hugged every curve tightly.

Too much eyeshadow, darkening her eyes beyond the point of accentuation. Simple silver bracelet and necklace. A large greyscale tattoo of a branch with a leaf falling off of it, covering most of her right forearm. A not-unattractive face that wouldn't be winning any beauty contests or landing movie roles any time soon. Teeth with just a little bit too much space between them. A general lack of muscle definition, but still a distinctly feminine and thin form. Modest breasts that fit her frame.

She put on deodorant at the lunch table. 

Description of a waitress at a restaurant

Tall and thin. Eager-looking, a face bright with enthusiasm. Her eyes were like Steve Buscemi's. She walked with a slight hunchback. Plain brown hair pulled back in a tight bun and secured with a floral yellow headband. Pale, sallow skin. Perfectly straight front teeth, with a solid centimeter of empty space between them. In her back pocket, a single yellow glove, "Kirsten" carefully pencilled in pink marker across the center. Slightly-too-big black work shoes, making her movements somewhat clumsy and slippery.

Description of a Woman I met at the Store

It was like a composite of a lifetime of anti-smoking advertisements had managed to congeal into something resembling a blonde-haired woman.

Skin prematurely crisped into a cheap leather.

Your average person can generally be described as "like [x] celebrity, but uglier."

Sung to the tune of a song you've never heard

Poke poke poke.

Fiddle fiddle.

Wriggle writhe and shudder.

Thoughts on a Coffee Shop

While unemployed, I discovered something rather interesting- men don't go out and about during the day. Coffee shops, diners, bars. Grocery stores, department stores, supermarkets. All full of women and seniors. Groups of women. Single women. Women with children. Outnumbering men ten to one, easily.

There's something about two people talking over a sheet of paper in a coffee shop that always screams "full of shit" to me. 

Keeping it short. Like my self awareness.

I'm starting to believe in the fruit of knowledge and original sin.

Metacognition is a dangerous thing. Thinking about thinking doesn't give you control over thought, just awareness. You're still trapped in there with you.

Poems

The articulations of my work have begun growing increasingly more abstract. I often fear that I look like a madman, waving my hands around in intricate yet rhythmless patterns and cycles. Thank you for coming. Gift bags are under your seat.

Deep Thoughts on Writing

Adjectives are just the worst. They make you lazy. The best adjectives are nouns.

Dream Notes

Travel to large house for party-type situation. Older-style house, heavy on deep wood colors (mahogany, etc). Cody Moore is there. Lots of drunken college students, escalating escapades. People jumping off balconies. 

Eventually escalates into violence against myself and my family.

Masked/robed men and women. Highly arrogant, seemingly unaware of their own mortal nature. Not quite human physiology- no bleeding. But still very much dead after being disemboweled.

Leaving the Island occurs when the military arrives. People are sent off in coffin-like structures. 

Musing on Work

The best thing about science fiction is that you can’t just make stuff up. Well, you can always just make stuff up. That’s the “magic” of storytelling. If I want people to know something occurred in a story, I tell them it happened. If I change my mind and add in details, I can continue to do so. In a movie, doing something like that is often costly and complicated. Digital editing allows for a certain looseness, but only a writer can completely excise and rearrange things at a moment’s notice without disastrous repercussions. Repercussions can always end up being disastrous, but the more intricate and precise the medium, the more costly each revision is.

Science fiction is actually an attempt at realism. There is an implicit understanding that the logic of the story must remain consistent within the established laws of your universe. You always have to follow the rules, but non-scientific fiction often assumes that basic rules of the universe can be disregarded.

This can be somewhat problematized by the realization that most science fiction stories have nothing to do with science, and everything to do with fiction and fantasy. It might be tempting to say "It has a robot. Robots are science!" and label something science fiction. But, really, robots are older than the concept of machine-based intelligence. The first robot was called a Golem and was powered by blood magic. This, however, doesn't really negate its robotic nature. It is simply a non-science based branch of thought. Fantasy, or religion, depending on your preference of terminology.

Having a pre-rendered set of rules limits the scope of your potential creativity. The easiest way to make a choice is when you don't have very many options.

Capital P Pragmatist

"Just a little while longer..." She whispered under her breath.

She had been with her boyfriend for nearly five years now. Five years of doing his laundry. One shirt folded. Five years of buying his groceries. Five years of cooking his food. Five years of cleaning his room. Five years of keeping him financially above water. Two shirts folded. Five years of watching him fuck other women and telling herself she was his number one and he'd settle down eventually.

But, this was just temporary, She knew that. It wasn't that She had to do any of those things, it's that she chose to. She's a Pragmatist. Capital P. A Planner. Two shirts and a pair of pants folded. She was doing what she had to do to succeed. She knew that the chores and duties weren't falling on her because he was unwilling. He was just in a bad position. He had school and work and those other women. Where would he possibly find time to do those chores? When he finished with school... When he got a job with less demanding hours... When he was ready to commit... She knew all those things were coming. After all, she loved him and he locked her, how could they not be? The basket's almost fully folded. They'd be fair and equal then,  they'd have to be. She put so much work in, and she was a Pragmatist.

He rushed into their room, knocking the laundry basket over in the process. He searched the room, trampling clothes underfoot.

"Where's my black hoodie? Sorry, but I'm in a rush. Kaitlin wants to go to this new fancy restaurant, and you know how it is..."

Before She could reply, he had found the clothing, and was out the door. She bent over, and started picking up the spilled laundry, folding and piling it back into the basket. The tiniest of grimaces appeared on her face. Nobody but her was around to see it.

"Just a little while longer..." She whispered under her breath.

Voight-Kamph

 Imagine yourself standing at the top of a long, winding staircase. The stairs are tall and heavy, seemingly spiraling down forever. You hear a rhythmic clacking, interspersed with footsteps, behind you, and turn to see a large, old-fashioned stroller approaching. As it pulls up alongside you, you see the tender infant nestled in the basket. Immediately afterward, you see the small, harried woman who was pushing the stroller step aside and look up at you.

“Hello! I hate to trouble you, but could you help me out here? I need to get this stroller to the bottom of the steps as fast as possible. I don’t think I can carry it down by myself, but with your help, it should be a piece of cake!” she begs.

“As fast as possible, you say?”

You walk over to the stroller, lift it up above your head, walk to the edge of the stairs, and throw it over the railing.

An Old Post, an Old Joke

When Moses returned from the mountain, Aaron received his brother with great joy.

"My dearest brother, I am so excited for your return. While you were busy praying in the mountains, I also wanted to show my devotion to Yaweh! Everybody agreed that your inspiring trip up the mountain was inspiration for us to give of ourselves! We all sacrificed some of our wealth, and I used it to craft this statue of one of God's greatest gifts, the calves. I thought it was a good way to show our appreciation for what he has provided us. Hey, what's that in your hands? Did you make a gift for God too?"

Aaron, in his loving joy, did not notice the look of self-righteous anger growing on Moses's face. Without a word, Moses threw the tablets to the floor and ground them into dust.

"Now, brother, why would you do that? I'm sure that God loves all our devotion."

But Moses knew the truth, that their God was a God of hate. So he stormed to Aaron's bull and destroyed it on the spot, making sure that not a trace of the love or craftsmanship remained. But Moses knew it was not enough to simply destroy the calf, Aaron and the Israelites had to be punished for breaking a rule they had not yet been given. So, Moses made the people drink rancid gold dust water for reasons that are extremely unclear. Never let it be mistaken that Moses was a merciful prophet, for this was only the start of his mad spree. Moses ordered his people to go on an indiscriminate killing spree, slaughtering women and children alike.

Moses, with his black heart, knew that death was too great a mercy for his brother Aaron. No, nothing less than torture and mockery would be appropriate for a man who dared attempt to show him up. And, so Moses set to scheming, producing the cruelest irony he could imagine.

"So, wait, brother. Let me get this straight. That handful of rocks that you brought was actually a set of rules from God? And it specifically said we're not allowed to create ornate and elaborate tributes to him and that's why everyone had to die?"

"Correct."

"But you destroyed it and all proof of this anyway, meaning we have to rely entirely on your word?"

"Correct."

"And despite the aforementioned rule against elaborate and ornate idolatry, I have to create an extremely elaborate and ornate box that costs more than 40 golden calves?"

"Correct."

"...to carry around your rock dust? And if I don't, I'll be put to death, written out of god's book, and labeled a heretic?"

"Correct."

Return to the Void

This story starts out like so many other stories do- with the author saying "This story starts out like so many other stories do". It's not the best of starts, but it's a start, and sometimes that's just what we have to settle for.

You were used to disappointing beginnings.

I may have posted this elsewhere in the past. Regardless.

I pull into a dimly lit lot of a shopping center. It's cold and windy. I grumble to myself that I'm not sure why I agreed to come to this. Regardless, I march over to my destination- the only lit up store in the whole place. No sign, but the dull orange glow emanating from the windows is all I need.

The place appears to be an absurd combination of a rustic italian restaurant and a medieval hobbit hole. The squat ceiling and limited floor space meant that it would be "cozy" on the slowest days. Today is not one of these days. The bulk of the room is occupied by a clump of loosely-connected individuals. The gnarled wooden tables are pushed up against each other almost haphazardly, with only the spatters of interaction making it clear that this is a unified party.

Well, that, and I know who these people are for the most part. It's your family. They're here for you, as am I. Damned if I know why, of course. Lord knows all you ever did was screw me over when I needed something from you. That might be why I agreed to come when you called me up, practically in tears, begging me for this favor. For once, it wasn't going to be me on the ugly end of the favor stick. I have no intention of repaying your sort of generosity, but it'd always fun to watch a spectacle.

As I look around, the number of familiar faces continued to increase, leaving me disquieted. James was sitting in a chair, head down and quietly texting. Burt appeared to be hitting on a pair of middle aged women. I had only agreed to come here because it was local- only a twenty minute drive from where I lived in San Francisco. Many of these people would have have to have devoted an entire day of traveling to get here. What exactly was going on?

I don't have much time to think about this. As I'm pulling up a seat, you walk to me and grab my arm. Your hand feels soft. Softer than it ever did before, actually. I shrug it off, literally and metaphorically. I poison my mind enough on my own, no need to enable even more stupid thoughts. Still, we talk. It's mindless blather. The most interesting and salient topic to come up is that you had taken up swimming. I couldn't care in the least.

Your father walks up. Always a big man, time seems to have bloated him into a massive man. Or, perhaps he just regressed into that state. Maybe time was going backwards here. It sure feels like it. He suggests you stop talking to me, that you focus on the rest of the guests you've called together. You get angry at him, begin trying to pull me outside the restaurant. I give a reluctant look and a half-hearted shrug to your dad, and follow you out.

The weather has not improved in the five minutes I spent inside the building, and within seconds the icy wind becomes irritating. I begin formulating excuses to rejoin the main group, but your next statement takes me by surprise.

"Give me a cigarette."

"Uhm, you know I don't smoke. And, as far as I know, neither do you."

"Not what I said. Now hand it over."

I sigh, and pull the pack out of my jacket pocket. There's no way you could have known about it. Nobody knew about it.

As you take a long draw off the cig, I take the opportunity to ask one of the questions burning in my mind.

"I checked the faces of every single person in that room just now, and I didn't see, you know, her. Where is she?”

You thrown the butt on the ground, stamp it out with your foot. A massive cloud of smoke flows from your mouth, surrounding your head and curling around us.

“Shut the fuck up.”

I expected that response. I breathe in the sweet smell of the smoke. Cherry, pine and chocolate. And that indescribable acrid foulness that accompanies tobacco. Sometimes I call it the taste of suffering. I love the combination. You wear the scent well, it matches you. Was that insulting? I don’t know.

You light up again. I launch into a string of questions while I have the chance.

“What’s going on here? Why did you ask me to come? Why did you ask any of these people to come? What do you want from me?”

“Why is it that nobody else can ever get you to talk, but with me you never seem to shut the fuck up? We’re going to go back inside, you’re going to do what you need to do, and then I never want to see you again."

Your response makes me laugh. I forgot that you were actually pretty damn insightful. Resentment does tend to blind a person, I guess.

“I thought that’s what you said last time?”

You march back in without saying a word. I scramble after you. And, I’ll be damned. You were right.

Figment of My Imagination

There's this girl at Trader Joe's I'm kind of in love with. A cute bottle blonde, she's always there when I come to shop. It's kind of disconcerting, as I arrive at the most random of times. She always has a frazzled look, like she's just on the border of a breakdown. I think that's what makes me love her. I don't know if she's like that because she apparently lives in the grocery store, or some other unknown trauma that haunts her. I don't actually want to know. It would probably kill the appeal. It's not like I could do anything to actually fix her life. Or that she even needs some stupid ass coming in and trying to "fix" her. The very notion is an idealistic conceit born pity of arrogance. Why the fuck would my worldview or lifestyle be the way to guide anyone? Her name is Katy. Just learned that today. Not from talking to her, though. Didn't really have the courage to do that. Just happened to catch her nametag as I was passing by.