These Dreams

I’m totally bogged down with work stuff that I have to do, but I’m taking a few minutes for me, right now.

Dig it.

I had this dream the other night, where I kept finding all of these extra rooms in the house I was living in. I found a door inside the washing machine, and when I went through it there was this huge room. The door off that room led to this short hallway where there was another door to this huge room.

I remember thinking in my dream, “man, I can put so much stuff in here.”

It was as if the former owner of the place had completely forgotten that these rooms were there – and no wonder, being you had go through the washing machine. There was a chest of drawers and a television; the random detritus of a quick move out where what’s not necessary gets left behind.

This dream left me feeling hopeful, I can’t say why. I also had the feeling that if I were to do some investigating into the meaning it might break that fragile little feeling of hope.

So you think that I would have known better than to go to work trying to hold onto that.

Yeah, blah blah work, blah blah you hate your job, blah blah some nimrod in another department did something incredibly stupid that will unfortunately effect you and your team badly, blah blah someone in charge, instead of going about fixing things rationally, is taxing you with fixing this problem in the most inefficient way possible as if you were the guy with the shovel made just to use when someone else poops. Blah blah…

So… I’m up and getting ready to head in at round abouts 5:30 this morning, already feeling the seething come in. It had rained last night, but was clear and cold. There was this sliver, this shaving of ice, this baby’s fingernail of moon hanging over a big, dark pine tree. It threw off enough light to just touch the clouds and excite ‘em a little bit. And a few bright stars, the light blending in with the cold air... It was shockingly beautiful. I could feel everyone asleep around me, and I began to wonder if wasn’t still sleeping as well, feeling the cold because I’d managed to kick off the blankets again.

Now, I don’t like to spend a lot of time up before the sun (and with the coming winter I don’t have a lot of choice), but if they could all feel like that, it wouldn’t be half bad. I put the seething away for a bit, tried to remember that early morning scene, and those extra rooms.


Zeptember Song of the Day: “Baby Come On Home”.

The Curse Of Lono

I was standing in the backyard, waiting impatiently for that moon, way too large and bright for its own good, to rise up over the trees. I could make it out between the branches, I could make it dance when I swayed myself, but the damn thing just wouldn’t get any higher. But oh, that PBR tasted good.

I got to thinking about the last time that I had a backyard. It was back in the early nineties, when grunge was ripping through the world, and I was slowly realizing that Santa Barbara was not the place I needed to be at that particular time.

The backyard wasn’t ours necessarily, and it was long drop from the back porch. The downstairs neighbor claimed that part of the yard, we got the scrabble of dirt and the occasional pop up of wildflowers that came from a drunken toss of seeds one fine afternoon.

There was the three of us in the house, and Raf. Raf was an older, womanizing, Social Security cheat that didn’t partake in the inebriating excess that we did. The three of us were trying to figure out what it was we were. Part of me loves that devil-may-care, try anything attitude – part of me desperately needed to travel the road to get where I am – but mostly I feel like we were trying too hard.

I was spending a lot of time drunk and writing truly stream of consciousness pages when I could. What little money I could scrounge went towards whiskey. I once, at the daring of one of the others in a moment of figuring out if I was a shoplifter, stole a bottle of Jack Daniels from the liquor store.

One thing that Corado and I decided to try being was dog owners. We went into this with the same amount of preparation that went into most everything else we did at the time; none. “We should get a dog,” one of us said stonily. “We totally should,” the other answered. And off we went to the pound.

We got ourselves a black lab/pit bull mix and we named him Lono after the Hunter S. Thompson book The Curse of Lono. We were all Thompson fans as he made being an inebriated smart ass seem like a logical career move.

Lono ate my hat. Lono spent about ninety-five percent of the evening hours barking his face off. When I took him on a walk one afternoon after class, he went apeshit and tried to attack a Hispanic gardener up the street, the dog literally dragged me across the asphalt while the man ran for his life. Lono welcomed one of Raf’s aggressively under aged girlfriends with wagging tail and doggy smile, only to corner her in the doorway with bared teeth and the sort of emanating growl that spoke of tearing out a throat when she attempted to leave.

I guess it would have been a good idea to pay attention to the Humane Society’s warning that Lono had attempted to maul a kid when he was the dog formerly known as Lightning, but we figured hey, we don’t have any kids. We didn’t take into account Raf’s proclivities.

We also didn’t take into account that we were irresponsible, drug addled, wannabes who had no business owning a dog.


Zeptember Song of the Day: “Heartbreaker” followed by “Living Loving Maid (She’s Just A Woman)”. I hate to seem them split up, it hurts a bit.

Dot Dot Dot

This poor blog, it’s like I’m in a depression and this blog is my general hygiene and appearance – ignored.

Truth be told, I am fighting a depression, but this has nothing to do with why I can’t get it together to post something, it’s the job.

Again with the job, I’m tired of talking and writing and bitching and moaning about this job.

The funny thing about this depression, is that I seem to be getting better at handling them. Instead of months of closing myself off in a room with cigarettes and Cure albums, I go through a few hours, half a day, of absolute despair and then clue in that I got some pretty good shit goin’ on. Positive movement, right?

You’d think so, but each time I’m able to crawl out of my boiling pot of self pity, I think it’s over, that I’ve concurred this demon depression. Then the next day I’m cock smacked in the face by it all over again

It feels like falling down a hill, limping back up said hill, just to have some hairy stranger pee in my mouth.

It’s not really like that at all. But then I start to think that I only see the negative of this situation because I’m fighting a depression, and then I get dizzy with the vortex my head begets.

And then I think I might need a haircut. But then I think I sort of like where my hair is now.

Then I think about those fish deep in the ocean, with the glowing dangly things that come off their heads and lure unsuspecting fish to their mealtime deaths.

Then I think about getting all done up on Ouzo, laying out in a field somewhere and laughing.

Then I think about the fact that with fewer postings here, I hesitate in typing out something just off the cuff and bizarre.

Then I think about how we should all be in Greece right now.

Then I think about how it’s Zeptember, and the Zeptember song of the day is “The Rain Song”.