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.