I slept in. I dreamt long and intricate. In the dream, I met a miniature dragon. I never met a dragon before. I'm not sure, but the dragon might have had four wings, not just two, like in the pictures. It had really vicious looking teeth. Yikes!
Maybe it was a toy breed of dragon, like a yorky terrier, but I think it also was young. The human caretaker (I hesitate to use "owner"), seemed impressed that it took such a liking to me. She said that that was highly unusual. Her name was Marti. The dragon acted very puppy-like. It fluttered in front of me and licked my beard. Must have had some food stuck in there from dinner or something. I didn't know what to do, when it was fluttering near my neck with that happy-toothy look on its' face. We happened to be going somewhere, across the street and she sent it to wait on top of a building. It caught something to eat on the way, and I got to see dragon dinner manners. To think that thing was just three inches from my neck-oid artery. Shudder, brrrr.
The dream was interesting from another angle. It was basically about another character, probably a doubleganger of mine, an alter ego. His name was Leopold. He was something else, let me tell you. Oozing and dripping charisma, that one. Very unconventional and unreliable. Basically I was running around doing damage control for his sake. "The show must go on", comes to mind.
There is a lot for me to contemplate, in that dream. All sorts of attitudes to try on, like in a clothing shop; humm, wonder how this looks on me. Plenty of stuff to fill the vacuum in between the ears, today. I understand that I need to internalize this character, claim him as my self, else he will run around in his unreliable way, making promises and flippantly breaking them. If I can manage that, then I get to also claim his extraordinary gifts. The dream as a warning and a promise. Good stuff for a Jungian therapist. Lots of work for me.
The leaf on my floor has moved to a high traffic area and is rapidly decomposing to dust and crumbles. It is laying in the very spot where I stomp around to cook and wash dishes. It's a goner. I have drained it. Next, it gets the broom treatment, when I am overcome with another fit of cleaning. That could be weeks, though. I have to go to the doctor to get some meds for this shameful condition. I just hope none of my friends ever catch me in the act.
How about a single leaf before I leaf you:
He said: "Forgive them Father, they know not what they do." I admit, I don't know what I am doing. Can I forgive myself, now, finally?
Au revoir, my precious ones.
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About Me
- roberto kiam borderlineartist@gmail.com
- I live in a quaint, little town, plagued with the specter of speculation and commerce. I am trailer trash,with wishes for good dishes. I shoulda died long ago, but like a rescue dog, didn't. I am indescribably scattered. I speak three languages. I walk a tenuously, true path. I am lucky. For myself, for others. God, it is said, protects orphans, widows and the innocent.
3 comments:
sometimes it is enough to get your creativity fix from another source. not the same high that you get from your own creative outburst, but in some ways, sweeter and more satisfying.
i guess that is why so many people watch the toob. i just don't find it creative overall, or i would watch it too. it is formulaic. poor oprah. what if she spelled her name harpo for a while, would she break out of the formula.
we are mostly infants. we find a formula and it works so we cling to it until our eyelashes fall in our soup. look at danielle steele.
don't worry rrrr, i am not comparing thee to she, not by a longshot. you don't use the net, that is why your writing is so interesting and it is my creativity fix. because i am needing to do other stuff.
i like being addicted to someone elses gift because it gets me off the hook to express or god forbid perform. anything that smacks of a performance is not interesting to me. i like the verb performed but not the noun performance.
okay, are we ready for the performance? too rehearsed. let us perform our daily practice and the "performance" will become a "happening" with less formula and more interesting and less predicictable form to it.
this is why i tune in to your blog site.
i like to hear about your daily bread and the rhythms of your day make sense to me. they seem to me very honest. i don't believe that honesty is absent of fabrication. the fabric is convinicing because it is based on truth. one's experience from somewhere in time.
if i watch a trapeze artist and i become the trapeze artist, i am one with the experience. the observer and the observed are the same. i watch murder and i am the murderer by having watched it, even if it is on the toob. it is now living in my mental scape like a mini dragon with a growing appetite. malignant.
i would rather wear toob socks and start runnin.
my maw is hard wired.
she eats bent over the sink.
she would rather garbage food than to give it to a neighbor
who she stares at from behind glass.
her beaks is red and wet.
with every peck she shrink wraps me.
her house is a hermetically sealed coop.
electrically lit around the cock.
she hovers.
a nit picker.
scouring for lint, flaws, cracks, fissures.
severance pay.
it isn’t nice to want to wring your maw’s neck.
you want somehow to soften her.
you want to wrap her in cocoon of feathers and angel dust.
she is a faraway continent, a drifter.
she is incontinent.
way wobbly.
my maw is a h ard wi her.
i try too hard to lover.
i am a hare.
i thought you wanted to talk about dragons?!!
doesn't anyone else have dragons?
not even mini dragons?
what a drag.
ok, here is one more.
my sis,
she sez:
ya know i really think i could be friends with katie couric. sometimes i dream that we are good friends.
wow!
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