As of 5:47 pm today, I will be 43 years old. (If someone uses this to steal my identity, he’ll be quite disappointed–I’m on disability, am still an unpaid employee, and have the stigma of mental illness! And I’ll just turn around and steal his–might be fun to “be” someone else!) There is a very old poem, called “Monday’s Child”. It lists attributes of people, based on the days on which they were born. Of course, it’s nonsense–having even less validity than astrology. But I must admit the line for me is quite accurate: “Thursday’s child has far to go!”
Archive for March, 2009
What is accomplished, in speaking, that is not already accomplished, in thinking?
I woke this afternoon, in the midst of a dream, remembering something I’d said, verbatim. I thought it might make a good line for a poem–specifically for my writers’ group–so I wrote it down. Then I returned to sleep. After waking again, I looked at what I’d written down, and concluded that it just wouldn’t make sense in a poem (too vague/subjective)–but that it would work in a blog post (there’s alot more freedom, in blog-writing). So here’s the dream:
I’m back in the 9th grade. The school is controlled by a massive computer–there are no teachers or other authority figures. The computer recognizes me, then directly links to my brain, so that I control it. Now I notice the other students. They walk and sit around in a daze, and I realize I have control over their minds. So I take the prettiest girl home, and have sex with her. Then I return, and do the same with the next-prettiest. I continue doing this, having sex with one pretty girl after another–until one of them stops, just before we leave the school. She says nothing, but looks at me in a way that indicates I have no more control. Then I hear sirens, and dash outside, it being nighttime by now. The cops have arrived! But just before they get out of their cars, I find myself in a different place and time.
Here, I am 42 again. This huge building is a bar, a restaurant, and a supermarket, all in one. But there are no bartenders, waiters, or salespeople–so everything is free! I grab a box of Fruity Pebbles from a shelf, and wolf it down! Then I chase it with beer! Now I notice the other people there. They all sit at banquet tables, in rows. They’re families–men, women, and children. They’re dressed in 1950’s attire–and the background music, though pleasant, is 50’s-style instrumental. They watch me guardedly, as I prowl the rows, searching for single women. But there are no single women–and it becomes clear that I am not welcome. So I wander outside, into the streetlit darkness. I notice an all-male gang of teenagers, on the sidewalk, hanging around a fire hydrant. They, too, are dressed in 1950’s attire–but are different from the people in the building. They are rebels, like me! They look at me, with approval, as they converse with one another. So I approach them. When one of them asks me my name, I reply, “I was Freedom, before they modeled you.”