Monday, September 30, 2013

This Time

This time it wasn't my name whispered or softly spoken into one or the other ear. This time it was Bob! called sharply from behind me. I turned in my stool at Dublin's, but there was nobody. The tone had not been that of someone recognizing me, for example. It was pointed, almost a bark. An admonition.

And this time it wasn't the light and loving pressure of hands lain upon my shoulders. This time they landed considerably heavier, like a stern father's upon his son's, coming from behind, heralding a message that best be heeded.

Related, finally found the song I'd been waking up with. Had the lyrics wrong but close enough to find it's called The Middle, by Jimmy Eat World. Regardless, the lyrics only amplified what I figured the message to be about.

Interesting video.

Last, in the found object department, I came across scripture, on a piece of paper, much like a fortune cookie fortune; it happened to be 2 Corinthians 9:8.

Sunday, September 29, 2013

Dear Diary 3

Back to it tomorrow after two weeks off.

Finished Boots (save for the typing) in Lockhart and will FADE IN Tuesday, then get done what I can each day. Didn't take it as a bad sign when the young rodeo cowboy who looked like Bryce Harper sat across the aisle from me on the flight from Austin to Phoenix. Straight from central casting, from the boots to the brim of the felt Stetson, including jeans and buckle and blue and white checked shirt. His left hand was in a cast due to torn ligaments. He's a bareback rider.

Mom and I drove down toward Pleasonton to visit Nancy and Noah and look at a couple properties she is considering. Enjoyed the stretch of toll road 130, where you could do 85. Seems eight of ten vehicles is a truck.

I watched baseball, some Alaska State Troopers, and a few westerns on AMC. We played four games of scrabble. (I had a 134-point word.)

Twin had Independence Brewing Company's "Stash" IPA and I enjoyed a few of those. In other words, the usual, basically, and I enjoyed the rest.

Jay has done a very good job with home improvement.

Got some good rain the first couple days, which was great. Opened the door and watched it pour. Ate seemingly non-stop, per usual, don't know what it is. Blue Bell vanilla every night. Walked into town one morning and sat in the bakery with my double-espresso. Found a postcard and sent it to Rex.

Wednesday we drove to the airport for my flight home and hers to San Diego. Sarah and Sean gave Abigail a baby brother, Alexander, who arrived on the 23rd. I trained down Friday, we visited them in Tierrasanta, where I held Alexander and chased the devastatingly adorable Abigail around, then back to the hotel on near Old Town, then I bused yesterday from downtown San Diego to Irvine for the train to Union Station. Noticed Staff Sergeant in San Diego (where I took pictures of the tile work because it reminded me of the mi casa dream) and we chatted awhile.

Straight to Dub's when I got off the red line. Molly was working. I mentioned the dream. And drank one too many Stones. Or two.

In at the office now with rain and thunder in the headphones, a slight hangover, a fresh espresso and an intent to step out as best I can the beats for The Cabin, which I've been throwing notes at lately and will get to full steam ahead when Boots is done. 

Missed Dave. Strummed his guitar. Got a lot of work done in his room.

Denise sent me an email telling me about a documentary, Shepard and Dark, and I watched the trailer.. Mr. Shepard's particular brand of restlessness is part of what resonates but a chord was struck also when he halts while reading a letter he has written to Mr. Dark, recalling walking through Jessica Lange's hometown with her early in their courtship. They are, apparently, no longer a couple after a relationship of almost 30 years. He laments that his "life is falling apart" and recognizes that he keeps making the same mistakes. 

Oh. Yeah. The The heart shape thing reached a new level when I found a rock in mom's driveway. I took pictures with my phone camera (and of Alexander and Abigail) and will add them later. 

Saturday, September 14, 2013

walking in

walking in this morning to take a chisel to chloe and tom, i saw a sparrow on the other side of a chainlink fence. i was walking along hope toward 8th. he (or she) had nabbed a full-length cheeto and had it by one end in its beak and assumed a stance as i approached, but stood still, letting me pass without incident, wielding its bounty like a fire-orange styrofoam  club.

home run, i told it. 

walking away i considered the sparrow was more on the lookout for a pigeon. walking up the hill i saw a pigeon parked near the curb, just plopped there, probably sick. dying. regardless, situated away enough from the curb to put it at risk of being turned to a feathery stain on the street by an assault of front and rear tires.

good place to get squershed, i said. 

perhaps its intent.     

and two occasions, not including the usual heart-shaped breadcrumb, yaaaawn, of purple popping upon me pondering that purplish palatial place. i was remembering it, kind of like trying to get back to it, part of an attitude adjustment to bring to the desk, and, as soon as i conjured it, purple showed, both times.

the first purple petals, three, a trio asleep on the sidewalk outside the starbucks at flower and ninth; i was across the street from the ralphs. then, at grand and 7th, waiting to cross, looking up at the bolder purple of the 7 staring back from the club there.

i karaoked there one night a few years or so ago. harry nilsson's everybody's talkin at me.

Friday, September 13, 2013

Thursday, September 12, 2013

Wednesday, September 11, 2013

Monday, September 9, 2013

Lucid Dream: Flight, Mi Casa

somewhat of an office setting but more casual, like a library. anyway...

balancing self-consciousness - hey, i'm awake in the dream - with a kind of surrender mixed with intent. "playing" with it at first, extending the lucidity. "looking" for things, as innocuous as detail. running. feeling of an easter egg hunt, sorta.

then i "escape" the place, which suddenly has in fact become a battle zone. i make my way under rolling tanks, then out into the street and, as suddenly, a neighborhood, middle-class leafy.
(reminds me of the leaving little big horn dream dynamic. and, as in that dream, a stepping away from/out of a "hostile" environment into something more pastoral. and a rather sudden transition at that.) 

oh. forgot. and whilst inside i decided to, given such an in-the-driver's-seat perspective, pull down with my left hand a certain someone's black (again) halter top; her breasts fell out in the shape of an upside-down heart, landing in my hands. (so, more fun with heart shapes, too.) displeased with the exposure, she promptly put them right back and walked away.  at any rate, confirmation, and an interesting aside made more so by an aspect of a part of the end of the dream i had almost forgotten. (and that my hands were on her shoulders then reminds me also of another hands-on experience just as i lay down last night, two hands, lightly on my shoulders.) 

outside, i walk along but not too long before i decide that i'm going to try to fly, because i remember a dream from awhile back in which i willed myself into brief bursts of flight, like a bird, learning how, knowing i can and that the "power" is faith-based.

so, i aim my fist at the clouds and jump from the earth into flight.

i fly upside down awhile, just because. and then i decide to gain some altitude and up and away i go, surveying the homes below.

i want to find My House. and concomitant with this is a decision to be flown, so to speak, in that i will make myself something of a feather, to be taken and guided, and so i am.

i float higher and higher above the neighborhood below which, interestingly, is also gaining in elevation, and the homes on what are now hillsides are increasingly impressive, opulent, and i remember the Big House dreams, a subject unto themselves, and still i climb before i begin to descend, in lotus position, being lowered into the warm waters of a jacuzzi. and not just lowered but lowered then moved just that much, as if into the proper position, just so, like a quarter-turn to the right. "perfect."  

and i know that i am home and that the back of the hilltop home i am looking at  - large and mexican-style, for lack of a better description; i'd rather embed it some before trying to describe it - is mine. there was a kind of a purplish hue to the stone. (when i wake i am reminded of ricardo legoretta.) this place, like they all are, is architectural digest-worthy, to say the least.

actually, from my point of view in the jacuzzi, featuring marigoldish and blue tilework - gorgeous and intricate -  i can really only get a glimpse of the place.

there is, by the way, a cool-water jacuzzi adjacent to the one i'm in. i take a walk, there's an outdoor shower below.

then i come out of it.

Wednesday, September 4, 2013

Sunday, September 1, 2013

Outpost 8

They had walked home from church and were in their bedroom on opposite sides of the bed and they began to undress. It was hot, underwear sweat-soaked, and thus they were quickly naked.

They had held hands and talked all the way home about the sermon. A woman from Dallas had come in because the regular preacher's mother-in-law was gravely ill in Shreveport. The woman had mentioned Mary Magdalene in reference to the cleansing of demons, and they had discussed addictions within that context. They had walked slowly because she was in heels and stopped to buy lemonade from six-year-old twin girls who'd set up a stand on the sidewalk outside the coffee shop. Their mother, the owner of the coffee shop, observed from inside at a table next to the window, waving and smiling when they paid the two dollars and left. They had paused their conversation during the exchange then picked it up again when they turned the corner onto their simple street.

But now they were finally wordless, after having pulled the last of their conversation up the steps, across the porch, through the front door and into the kitchen, where iced tea had stopped it. When they had tilted their glasses to drink, he'd watched her throat move and she had admired his jaw. Both wiped their foreheads with the cold glasses. They had set them down simultaneously, neither completely empty, and gone to the bedroom to change clothes.

He began to harden and rise. She touched her breasts. Both considered things still new, even after a year and change, and indeed each confessed to finding new things about each other's bodies. She was no longer self-conscious about the scars and in fact enjoyed his fingers upon them. He had gained weight over that year and change and so was bigger than ever, and softer, and aware of it, but also healthier without the drink and smoke. She put a knee onto the bed, and then slowly the other, then both hands, and crawled to him.

She was the one who had suggested trying the church. A friend of hers had told her about it, about the preacher, and dared them to give it a try, because, the friend said, if they went once they'd go twice. And so they went and had returned four times in the five months since. They'd both gone as children - she'd been raised in Methodist home, his churchgoing family were Baptists - but not in decades until that Sunday.

She looked up at him and he at her and took a length of her hair in his hand and dropped it over her shoulder so that it fell touching her breast. And then with the other hand, more hair, in front of the other breast. He bent to kiss her and they kissed deeply and when he stood she reached and took him in her hand and then into her mouth. The hair he had so specifically stationed he now put back behind her so as to take her breasts into his hands. After awhile he went around to the other side of the bed after touching her shoulder, to stay where she was.

The train arriving from Del Rio blew its horn approaching town. He took her hips in his hands. Saturday's paper, missed the day before, landed like a fish on the neighbor's porch, a hundred degrees despite the shade. The screen door opened then slamming shut. He entered slowly and slid in until there was no more room.  A coach's whistle from football practice at the high school. The percussion of flesh and sweat, springs and headboard completing the urgent orchestra. A name called out, the other's spoken in response. Words never whispered in church.