is wondering if one starts to think in facebook blurbs. is really not obsessed. is really o really just dandy! fuck. a lovely day, a lovely night, a lovely insomniac early morning jaunt thru time... only to lead to a crap ridden night. some things are unavoidable... so, now i have a glass of federweine and I tip it to you and you and you mates!
strangest early morning dream. after i retired about 6am, again, I dreamt a dream. I was in a familiar village. All was new and old at once. The road to the village had a steep incline A Swiss village no less. It was on repeat. I kept heading up to my point of arrival only to continue up the hill again to the dreaded story. The story included a small girl. Left for whatever reason with her grandparents. I loved the girl. She was mine. She was abandoned. She was sick. She died from neglect. I only realized this on another hike up to the house, thru ancient Swiss paths and ways, knowing that the house would no longer hold her. The parents never arrived. But I knew she was gone. I was so angry. So unhappy. I could not reconcile her absence, while the rest seemed relieved by it, smoking and continuing on in conversation as if she had never existed. The story forgot her, the story no longer included her. It was painful. And the road just began and the road never ended. The fucking snowy road! I hated that road, I hated the pristine perfectness of the village, the very fact it rested on the hill. I hated that these people would not realize this beautiful small girl-child was important enough to exist and they failed her. I failed her too in my apparent unreaching of the house, the girl,-- the first story-- in time. As she was the story in its first draft, all other writings and drafts forgot her. And whenever I would really start to think about her, the road began again. Shortly before I had awoken I read a list of names, most began with H, most were the same name, HER... repeated over and over. Hermione, Hersonnisus, Herod, Herodias... HERSO... names of poems, of she, I finally awoke, I lost her, I couldn't save her.
The Star-Makers (by Nin Andrews) - Lately I’ve been thinking about how my father used to say, There’s no such thing as the self-made man. Think about it. It was one of my father’s ongoing ar...
9 hours ago