4ooHz
I had a dream about Katie Katy Kathryn last night.
I remember waking up this morning, and thinking it would have been a good idea to chronicle it.
It had multiple arms-- like chapters in a book. They all tied together, but loosely. And trying to reconstruct the scattered images, now... it's obviously a fruitless endeavor.
Why don't I write shit down?
It makes me think of that quote from Memento Mori:
Here's the truth: People, even regular people, are never just any one person with one set of attributes. It's not that simple. We're all at the mercy of the limbic system, clouds of electricity drifting through the brain. Every man is broken into twenty-four-hour fractions, and then again within those twenty-four hours. It's a daily pantomime, one man yielding control to the next: a backstage crowded with old hacks clamoring for their turn in the spotlight. Every week, every day. The angry man hands the baton over to the sulking man, and in turn to the sex addict, the introvert, the conversationalist. Every man is a mob, a chain gang of idiots.
This is the tragedy of life. Because for a few minutes of every day, every man becomes a genius. Moments of clarity, insight, whatever you want to call them. The clouds part, the planets get in a neat little line, and everything becomes obvious. I should quit smoking, maybe, or here's how I could make a fast million, or such and such is the key to eternal happiness. That's the miserable truth. For a few moments, the secrets of the universe are opened to us. Life is a cheap parlor trick.
But then the genius, the savant, has to hand over the controls to the next guy down the pike, most likely the guy who just wants to eat potato chips, and insight and brilliance and salvation are all entrusted to a moron or a hedonist or a narcoleptic.
The only way out of this mess, of course, is to take steps to ensure that you control the idiots that you become. To take your chain gang, hand in hand, and lead them. The best way to do this is with a list.
It's like a letter you write to yourself. A master plan, drafted by the guy who can see the light, made with steps simple enough for the rest of the idiots to understand. Follow steps one through one hundred. Repeat as necessary.
It's such a great quote because it's true.
So why don
't I just, y'know, fucking knock it off and start taking mementos of my dreams? Of my ideas?
Because of laziness?
Or hubris?
I've begun to dread trying to wring my brain out in the evenings, lately.
I find writing non-poetic prose sort of cathartic. But difficult.
It's not unlike my exercise, y'know? It requires actual effort, but I usually feel better afterwards. I can look back and see something that I made.
It's different from my letters to Kathryn. In those, I was sort of streaming someplace between my subconscious and my emotions. Just letting it flow out of my mind and into each entry.
Hrm.
I still think of Kathryn every day.
(will I ever grow tired of saying that phrase?)
And I wonder, more and more, if I've just been slowly being bleached out of her memory.
I know I, myself, am struggling to keep the tones of her pictures unmarred.
I still try. But without my little creeping tendrils of connection-- with those tiny arms all cut off, a piece at a time by the very woman I was trying to reach-- I'm running out of ways to preserve the image.
I thought about texting her. Or, I guess, emailing her, rather.
I don't know what I would say, to be honest.
I don't think there's anything I could say that would ... change anything?
.....
I remember part of a conversation we were having, not so long after she started reading.
I asked her, "So, he's The One, eh?"
"Yeah, I think so" she said, in turn.
But it didn't really sound that convincing. It sounded a little lamenting. A little attacking.
Like she wanted me to believe it.
I wonder if he still loves her gently, the way she always claimed he did.
Wasn't that the main reason she forced herself to love him? Because he treated her with the gentleness and love that she always dreamed she needed?
Hm.
I took a nap this evening. 10:30 p.m., and I come home, and lay down in my torn jeans and radiation shirt. Belt on, teeth unbrushed.
I slept fitfully for half an hour.
When Ruth came to wake me up, I remember being only partly asleep.
And after she did, I lay there for a while. 20 minutes? Just staring into the dark room, and into the back of my eyelids, alternatively.
I felt wrong inside.
Literally like there was something wrong with me.
It wasn't nausea. It wasn't sickness. Not a headache or pain.
I just felt... "bad". Like... as though I was only halfway existing in this reality. And it made me very uncomfortable. I didn't feel "good".
I tried to fall back asleep, but that didn't ease the jarring feeling of not belonging Here.
Finally, though, the longer I stayed awake, the more in-tune with my surroundings I felt.
It was unreal and a little alarming. The whole time I was experiencing it, there was this terrifying, surreal feeling of dread.
I actually pondered whether or not I was going to die, in those long moments.
That isn't meant to sound dramatic or overbearing. I just.... the feelings was so alien, I couldn't help but wonder if it was a precursor to an embolism or something. A stroke?
Something.
Hrm.
I keep scratching down prose ideas, but I can't seem to flesh them out enough to "start" them. They all just sort of... are words. Or something just a concept. In my head. But I can't get them to coalesce into sharp, glistening words.
Some of the concepts are too complex for me to bend and alchemize into poetry. Not with my amateur skillset.
And some of them simply aren't inspired enough. It's like trying to act the part of a mortician; painting up a dead body (the corpse of a transient) so that it looks better than it should.
Pffthhhbbt.
I dunno.
I'm tired.
I'm gonna go to bed.
And I wonder if I'll dream of Katie.
12:40 a.m. - 2014-05-11
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