Night Writings

Strange dream

About some conjoined twins. Scads of them, all good looking young women. I borrowed their plastic legs, they were happy to let me. I went out and got lost in a parking garage, then wandered around a neighborhood looking for a bus to go home. But there was no home. 

I found home. A little bungalow in a working class neighborhood. I came home to an empty house. Not even a cat. I opened the refrigerator. There were cans of a soft drink I had never heard of, and I was afraid to drink. Upon opening the pantry I found mouse droppings, so I threw everything away. 

My purse was left at the restaurant, but it was ok, because there was nothing in it.

I read about a friend who I had met and had a crush on. He met someone on the internet. Now they are engaged.

 Almonds wrapped in dark chocolate.  Went home to leftovers in Styrofoam. 

Oceans away there are people. People who you will never meet. And people who can still hurt you, so many countries away,  they wield a hatchet with your blood on it. It slices a hair from your head that splinters into a thousand hurts. 

The screen was left open overnight. The cat brought in its bounty. Bats and the bones of bats. Pythons still alive and waiting for a sudden move. It’s skin is left and makes a stain on the carpet I just paid for. 

I’m getting up tomorrow and making instant coffee. There is another day right here, right now. The shadows of the night walk with me and are washed away in the shower. Down, down, down, the drain, a thousand wrecked trains I dodged but only barely. The tiger waits in the hall, silently.

So I carry the paintings to the freight elevator. I have to phone for the man. The man comes politely, making conversation. Delivery. I see the stairs I climbed 1 month  ago up to the roof.

Should life be contemplation and creativity or a flurry of activity with constant conversation? What will bring fulfillment?

The quest for purity. For honesty What are these things? Authenticity and the meat of the matter, the marrow, the soul. The poetry of forgiveness and the slaking of thirst. The hunger for a true experience that overcomes the sham. How long in the woods do we wander in  somnamblulance only to awake at the wrong moment, the wrong place and wonder, what place is this? And what time? I seem to have misplaced my very being. 

A Place in the World

Everyone wants a place in this world. Not off on to the sidelines, but a true place, with meaning and substance. A place where one feels the ground beneath one's feet, and where one can look up at the stars and feel like all is in order. There are days when this place feels assured. We're happy with our niche in the universe, and we walk through the day with confidence.

Holidays, even the minor ones like Memorial day, can bolster one's view of this happy world.  Or, as many of us know, cast us to those very sidelines where we have to watch what the world does when all is in order. Families with their flip flops and hats, going to the pool. Balloons attached to mailboxes to indicate a cookout. And there are the celebrations this time of year. Graduations, weddings, confirmations, first communions. More balloons. More cars parked on the street and laughter from back yards.

So from the sidelines we remember when it wasn't like this. When we had the balloons and the backyard laughter. When kids were running through the house with their dirty shoes. People were alive back then. Now they reside in our memories and in a photo album. Gone. Underground and and in the heavens, all at the same time. Odd, isn't it?

I stepped into the world of order and meaning this weekend to celebrate a birthday with friends and cosmos and cake. I was in a back yard with laughter and barbecue grills and presents.

The next day the sidelines were still there. But its ok. I can still watch the world spin.