Finally a new friend!

Woke up at 4:15 in the morning smelling cigarette smoke in my bedroom and feeling sickened of course and momentarily wished with the purest sincerity that every cigarette-sucking dolt on earth would suddenly turn into a tiny puff of black carcinogenic dust and drift away on the solar winds, never to be thought of again my any member of humanity.

Then I sent a surprisingly gentle message to the landlord.

Got back to sleep finally around 9:30, woke up at 11 and hopped the route 4 bus to the cathedral for an oatmeal and yogurt breakfast. Hung out there for 45 minutes reading The Tolkien Encyclopedia and making a bunch of notes re the D&D hosting business.

Had excellent church-made soup for lunch, with bread, hopped the route 2 bus to Helping Hands Mission where I was expecting to see the Flaming Liberal (who has actually bailed for the Green Party, the little nutter) for the first time in at least five years but he never showed. Met some swell other folks though and chatted about nursing and volunteering and North Bay and game nights and did some more reading and note-taking and at 4PM I bussed it back home and thankfully did not run into the the Diabolical Smoking Duo who will probably view me as Enemy Numero Uno for a few days before caving in again to the finance-based behavior pacifiers of the all-powerful Marginalized Persons Economy.

Pretty darn good day by my standards and I am still buoyed by last night's dream which I still remember well:

I went to visit pal Earth Writer at the hospital where she had recovered and was being discharged and her roommate who was also being discharged was an Italian Greyhound or Whippet-looking dog and he and I fell in love and he followed us out and came along and we drove Earth Writer home and then the pup, bursting with excitement, came home with me where we knew we'd live happily ever after.

One of the best dreams I've ever had. So there.

My dreams of you

The last four dreams I've had which were recalled by waking memory were all dreams of old friends: writers, gaming buddies and such loved ones as Earth Writer, Aqualad and Dog Whisperer. Covid has insidiously revealed, to my surprise, a capacity for loneliness.

Some friends (and family) I may have inadvertently alienated long before.

Facebook had become a force of unbearable toxicity to me and in a period of desperation, when it had become a source of anguish to my troubled sensitivities, I began severing connections. Stupidly; very very stupidly, I unfriended those who were avenues to subject matter I could no longer bear to think about. There were such better logistical solutions to deal with that but I was not very savvy at the time, and somehow did not consider that I might be insulting them. I had no such intention. Before long I realized my mistake and was too cowardly to go around apologizing. And a short time later I just left facebook altogether, which probably should have been my initial act.

But later the new "Scooterville Tigers" Marketing and Media gig seemed to necessitate that I embrace all social media and so I returned. Since then I have learned how to use facebook more positively, sparingly and safely.

It's November and NaNoWriMo has begun, hampered of course by the pandemic. My world now is small. My confidence is small. Health recovery is my only real bag. Commitments outside of that would be monstrously daunting. One step at a time.

But my thoughts are joyfully with writer pals this month and I hope to do some vicarious living through them, and one such friend is Sick Boy; a victim of my facebook purge. I don't know how well apologies might be received, but if you're reading this, Sick Boy. I hope you are still running the HamNaNo group. I will be coming around online to say Hi to everyone; not to participate though, and for what its worth, I love you and I miss you. And I'm very sorry.

Seaside

Help 4-yr old Daksh be reunited with his Canadian-resident parents

Now or never, once again.

A colourful sunshiny landscape constructed primarily of Smarties candies with vague cartoony characters leaping around and diving into colourful pools. A giant mouth - the one from the Scream mask, perhaps. moving forward through a dark tunnel, threatening to consume everything in its path. What else? That's all I can remember. I was sleep deprived today, as usual lately, and so I experienced many waking dreams which I call dreamettes. They're always lightning quick. Do other people get those? I presume you do. Though if you don't experience sleep deprivation then they probably don't register consciously.

I haven't slept well for a couple weeks due to illness, which struck about the same time I found out that the Liberal Theologian has not triumphantly defeated her cancer after all. Wave One took a beating from the chemo, surgery and radiation, but here's a surprise second wave and Wave Two is - What can I say? Wave Two will not take a beating. Docs will do what they can to slow it down. My friend and excellent housemate will suffer until the end. And I can't do a thing to stop it.

The nice thing about sleep deprivation is that the brain doesn't function very well so it's rather easy to mentally procrastinate. My brain doesn't want to deal with this business right now and so it doesn't. L.T. has been in the hospital the whole time and I can't visit for all the coughing so... no pressure to deal with it.

She could finally be home tomorrow. So I'll have to start dealing with it, which is good. There are a lot of people in my life right now that I need to be strong for. Like Dog Whisperer says. I have to look after myself first, if I'm gonna be useful to others. She's right of course. When the cabin depressurizes, it's your mask before your child's. I know that. And that means taking care of my health. And that's gonna be a lot of work.

I can't take any more holidays from life. Do I have what it takes to get this train back on the rails? I have serious doubts. I have a bad record.

One step at a time? I need a plan. And I need inspiration. Here's a good sign maybe: Neo, World Citizen, Jazz Lion and the Thoughtful Educator have all come out of the woodwork just lately, wanting to get together. Good timing guys. I had one date, scheduled two more and expect to see Neo some time soon. And Dog Whisperer was very generous with her time tonight. I've been receiving wise advice lately. And the poets speak to me too. Discipline, they say. Not my strong suit. But I'm blessed with the finest associates; these and others. My love for them is really the only thing that keeps me in the game. And if I ever start winning, it will be to their credit.
  

N is for Neurons

I don't know precisely what neurons are. As a poet I need to know about things to the extent that they affect my living experience. As far as unwitnessable scientific properties go, that falls under the nice-to-know category. And if I may be permitted a lame generalization, I do find science both interesting and useful.

My understanding is that neurons for the most part are brain cells and we probably have billions of them and they are divided into colonies, or perhaps, agencies is a better word.

[Editor's note: Billions? Try a hundred trillion.]

I know that neurological activity goes on constantly. There's a whole lot of it and it's going on outside of my conscious awareness.

I know that these agencies are always communicating. And I know that they are not communicating in English.

Nor, I suspect, are they communicating in the same language in which my consciousness thinks. Otherwise my consciousness might eavesdrop, might it not?

But I suspect it is a very similar language and here's why:

I have a theory and like all my theories and other understandings they are of original construction though I would never suspect that they are unique to me nor that I am the first to come up with any of them.

I sense that my consciousness does in fact eavesdrop and that it does so constantly, or at least, always has the opportunity to, but that the communications, being in a different though similar language, are wildly mistranslated by the consciousness. And I very much suspect that this is what we experience as dreams. Which is why dreams often make little or no sense yet seem to mean something.

I think that we dream all the time (because the brain is in communication all the time) but that we only ever notice the dreams when our consciousness is in a specific state; where it is active yet unencumbered by any input of greater significance; such as while we are awake and overwhelmed by the input of our senses.

It's like looking out a window at night. If the light is on in the room, then the window is like a mirror. You only see the inside of the room. When we are asleep, the light is off and we can then see through the window into that dream world; that outsider's view of the secret brain.

Switching back and forth from night shift to regular hours every week, I am very frequently tired. And thus I'm often falling slightly asleep for a second at a time. Each time this happens I catch a couple frames of some dream (always different) that seems to have been playing for some other audience - like walking past an open door to a cinema and catching a glimpse of a movie but without context. I think of them as dreamettes. This is why I can't help but feel that we actually are dreaming all the time.

Anyways.. It seems to me like a fairly obvious explanation.

.

Me and David

Had one of my epic dreams last night. It’s been a while. This one lacked the common Bradbury/Orwellian atmosphere and was much less surreal then usual but It was sinister and it dragged on forever.

So as not to bore the rare brave soul who hasn’t already bolted from this post – I shall note only the brief highlights:

I’m in some building after hours and stumble upon some sophisticated crime in progress (I’m hazy on the details). Being a witness, I’m to be killed but I do some quick talking and am led to ‘the boss’ where I pretend to have intentionally sought him out, seeking employment.

The boss is none other than David Bowie. In my dream world he looks and sounds the same but is not a famous musician; just a plain old crime lord.

He takes me on as one of his henchmen but is very sly and mistrusting of me and constantly tests me and promises I will die if I fail to carry out any of his orders successfully. It seems as though he intentionally orchestrates my failure through sabotage or through separate orders that ultimately conflict. I’m a resident (prisoner) of his compound and always accompanied on my criminal excursions by other lackeys who clearly hate me and look for an excuse to off me. Somehow I find tricky ways to pass these tests, complete my jobs and survive.

Fast-forward – We’re in a new and bigger compound and I have climbed in rank to Bowie’s right-hand man. We behave as confidants but there are sinister undertones to his intimate gestures. The others are diplomatically friendly and respectful but I sense that underneath, everyone would rather I was dead. I’m still biding my time, looking for a way to escape the whole mess.

Bowie makes startling confessions to me as he is changing his clothes in his palatial bedroom. I’m watching, confused, suddenly unsure whether he is actually a man or a woman (I’m not making this up, I swear)! This concerns me because I’m beginning to sense he (or she) has some (gulp) romantic interest in me, which might even be fueling the repressed hatred that I detect. His confessions concern some kind of substance addictions for which he desires treatment and his wish to end his life of crime. In essence he wishes to be captured by authorities but without warfare. He cannot admit this to the others and risk a lethal mutiny.

He sends me on a mission to deliver a thick envelope bearing confessions, evidence and a plan for his surrender to the authorities. Apparently there is no phone or internet in my dream world! But as I leave the compound I’m detected and an entourage is forced upon me – ostensibly for my own protection because I’m such a big-shot now.

As we drive away in some SUV limo or something I begin to panic. I realize that the package I’m carrying will make it look like I’m a traitor acting against Bowie. I’m convinced that I’m trapped and will be killed by my own men and am left wondering whether this was Bowie’s plan all along when I awaken to the alarm clock.

If anyone subscribes to dream theories I’m curious what you think this means. And if it means that I’m a psychopath or sex pervert then by all means – let’s hear it!

Nocturnal brushes with death

This is a dream I had last night. I’m dredging it up now because it was very typical of the kind of dreams that I have and I’ve always been curious if others dream similarly or if this is unusual. Also, I don’t normally retain memory of dreams very long but this morning I could recall plenty of it and I’ve purposely replayed it in my head a couple times so as not to lose it.


Here’s the dream (or as much as I recall):

I’m in some kind of commercial outlet that is apparently open for business 24 hours. It’s the middle of the night and I’m alone here. I am a caretaker of some sort. There are no other employees on the nightshift. It’s perhaps a bank and customers have access to the teller machines or perhaps a post office and customers have access to their post office boxes. Something in that realm. It’s not defined.

I’m holding a large handsaw and I need a piece of wood. I have vague knowledge that there is a small child that wants a toy sword and I am to carve one out of wood. A large handsaw is not the best tool for such a job but in the dream that does not occur to me. I seem to sense that the child is a girl though I’m not sure about that. She never appears in the dream and the relationship between the child and I remains unknown.

I walk out the front door of the outlet to go looking for wood. There’s a large parking lot. We’re part of a very large plaza and apparently the only unit open for business overnight. The lot (or as much as I see of it) is vacant of cars.

Fast forward: I’m moving along the walkway past closed up shops back toward the outlet where I work. I haven’t found any wood. It’s still dark. There’s a car in front of our outlet and as I approach within a few units of it another car pulls up. I tip my head down and am conscious of my appearance. I’m a big man in dingy work clothes carrying a handsaw - in the middle of the night. I hear a car start up and pull away. I do not know whether the first customer is now leaving or whether the second customer is frightened of me and has immediately retreated without tending to her business.

Fast forward: The environment has changed. I’m in the outlet alone but it’s daytime and the outlet is clearly not a place of retail business. It’s a crowded warehouse lit only by the daylight coming through the front door. ‘Crowded’ is an understatement. At least 90% of the floorspace is packed with some kind of stock/supplies - I don’t know what - to a height of eight feet or so. It’s all covered in tarps. I’m standing on top of this stuff. In order to do my work I must do so on top of these tightly packed tarp-covered unknown materials. I must tread very carefully as this “floor” is extremely uneven below the tarps. It’s not clear what ‘my work’ actually is. I’m more concerned about the toy sword I must create.

There are a few narrow gaps between sheets and I reach down at one such place and discover there are planks of wood beneath. I pull back the corner of a tarp and pull out a wooden plank and surmise that it will make a good sword. I start to cut it with my saw and discover that my saw cuts through it effortlessly - like butter.

I don’t get finished carving the sword. I’m suddenly troubled by what I see below me where I’d pulled back the tarp. I can’t describe what I saw physically. I only have the knowledge that I’ve looked and seen something troubling. That’s the thing with my dreams. I often experience something conceptually without actually visualizing the particulars. I’ve realized that we’re housing something we shouldn’t. Something unlawful. Something like toxic waste perhaps or illegal arms. I’m aware that my employers are not nice people. Mafia types perhaps. I’ve learned something I’m not supposed to know about and now I am in danger.

There’s a seamless shift and I’m not the caretaker anymore but one of the employers. The ‘danger’ feeling has not changed. I’m some kind of crook and things have gone wrong. The ‘caretaker’ has discovered our crime and I’m in double jeaopardy. When the authorities come down I will take the fall. But worse - my crook superiors will take my life for allowing this fuck-up. I’m screwed.

Fast forward. I’m unloading all the ‘goods’ from the warehouse onto a huge flatbed truck. I must destroy the evidence and silence the caretaker.

Another shift and I am no one. I’m watching the scene from divine view. The crook has got the truck loaded and is backing away from the warehouse which is still part of a plaza but it’s a giant industrial plaza now with warehouses surrounding a great stock yard full of materials and industrial vehicles. But there are no other people around.

The crook’s truck comes to a halt as the load has begun to tumble off the truck. I see a lot of wood planks among the load and the remainder does not materialize for me. It remains ‘fuzzy’ - dark space if you will. The crook is going berserk. He starts using the truck as a bulldozer to plow these materials around the yard. It seems like he is clumsily trying to distribute the contraband to all his neighbors as if to pin the blame on them instead of he. In the process he is running into other property and vehicles and doing massive damage all around.

Another shift and I’m the caretaker again. I’m in a long corridor with orange walls lit by indirect daylight. The commotion in the yard has gone silent. The crook is suddenly in the corridor confronting me. He carries a strange metal mechanical object with various arms and wheels and gears. We’re face to face but he’s walking toward me so I must walk backwords. I realize he’s going to kill me with this object somehow.

I raise my handsaw in defence and discover that it is now a butter knife. I stab the crook in the eye and it slips in easily (like butter) sinking well into his head. Blind in one eye, he seems unaffected and continues toward me. I raise my half-finished wooden sword but it too has become a butterknife which I plunge into his other eye. He still approaches, zombie-like. I’m still walking backward. I put forth my hands to fend him off. He takes hold of my fists and with his long nails he scratches at the skin of my knuckles. I feel the pain of his scratches and I awake. It’s morning.


I immediately checked my knuckles and found them unscathed. It is very unusual for me to sense pain in a dream. Extremely rare.

But the violence, the manner of shifting in and out of the various ‘characters’ and the theme of being pursued are all extremely common. Any thoughts? I don’t subscribe to there being any meaning in dreams but if you do, and have insight I’d love to hear it - unless it's something sexual and embarassing - in which case - keep it to yourself. Thanks!

FWG