can't sheep

I can't sleep because, as the mind does, I'm replaying the moment when Rudy seriously asked me if I dream. Odd that he comes back to me years later with the question that would keep me from dreaming, but he had asked me out of sincere disbelief when I told him that dreams came to me as often as toe-nail clippings, and even then they were so lucid and overt that interpreting them wasn't illuminating. One that stuck out was an adventure I took on a sailboat, an adventure in a swamp, in which I took my vessel out of the water, floated above the treetops, landed on the I-10, navigated through traffic, and woke up. Isn't it obvious? Not dreaming is keeping me up because it supports the scary thought that I'm vapid. Pillow is wet.

And in true Lynchian fashion the secondary characters of my play, the acquaintances and passing fancies, surface in my dreams in a way I feel is self-condescending because the faces only denote how repressive I am, forcing me to grapple a persona, no matter how incidental, and the fear or attraction they induce. In dreaming I cannot hide from the feeling, slapping myself asleep and showing a photograph--"admit you're obsessed." The purest, dreamy part of me may only come through in unrestrained doses of REM, the release of what lies asleep during the waking cruel day. I've been deliberately sleeping longer, finding coolness for my arms beneath the pillow , waking, and staring into the wall to talk myself into the day's commitment. My search for personal sincerity is constant and tiring. I'm tired, so tired, ready to nap and find my honesty residing in the blackness behind the lids, the riots of shapes and colors before, in a sense, dying-- drifting below the surface, my dream waiting for me.

Spectacular Origin (The Lone Danger)

Spider-Man's powers make him confident, so when he swoops into my bedroom he has no reason to think my bat might hurt him, that I might subdue him with chloroform, that I might suck at the scar for the transcendent venom. Aquaman struggled, now floating in a jar in my closet. Batman hangs by the ceiling fan. I have The Flash on a hamster wheel. A recording of me crying over alienation was all it took to draw them in.

Symptoms of aging as of....now.

1. Left shoulder is a constant bother, a bottle cracking over it whenever I help my mom with the presents.

2. Knees pop and scare kids.

3. Feeling dumber by the minute.

6:26 12/25/11

4. Speech is an exercise in focus.

5. Jokes worsen.

12:34 12/27/11

6. ai, fuck what the fuck just exploded in my chest?

12:56 1/3/12

never autonomous like driving a car and masochistic

Fast is young. Speed and flash! suggest fleeting youth, its brevity and abandon, so if I'm reveling in the vibrations from the pedal to my pelvis, I'm welcoming my mortality. While curiosity lets anyone's eyes wander from the road and to the street post, guard railing, or boy scout troupe at the corner, it takes masochism to start convincing yourself that the crash would be worth it. I convince myself often while driving, but I pull back when I consider the little pleasures I take with each day, whether I recognize them or not, and that however decrepit I may become, this car will always be able to crash at speed.

edit post

this is me (you) on December 22'11 trying to keep us (you) pure. whether we(you)'re pure isn't to be discussed, because right now I (you) can't bring my(your)self to reach into its(its) bottom. but for the sake of reminding, I (u) struggle with being cruel and vapid. I (we) hope it's resolved by the time this is forgotten and then remembered, that when it's read it'll stand as less of a reminder and more of an embarrassing moment of immaturity. We hope we grow.

Silver Beads

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and at the end hangs a black pen.

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V

Dear Dearest,

You find me in good health. You find me in high spirits. I love you.

Mauricio Le Sage
Dictated but not read