Mechanism is not yet working. I still have dust in my eyes, sleep dust, and I have only a few sips of scolding coffee to make it go away, to shun sleep like fallen out friend. Well, I’ve written of this feeling before. It did not go far. It did not become a poem or a snow globe containing artificial flakes of my life shaken up by an artificial lover, an invention of a narrator, the delusion of a lover, and the tiny cityscape in there. All contained and well symmetrical. But fake and dead.
The feeling is of waking up and feeling a tinge of regret for this or that day passed, person ignored, love lost. Well, I know writing of regrets is unhealthy as revisiting wounds reopens them but this is great material. Those old wounds are skeletons arranged poorly in the catacombs of my memory I can arrange into bone-art. Into skull and cross-bones or mandalas leading the eye to the center, the vacancy where the breast plate belongs but is empty and wonders where the heart went. Maybe the heart left with the sight of the porch maiden. There was a coffee mug, a wine glass, a book, long tangled reddish hair, some new blooming rose, or fresh blood, or more orange, if mixing paint and come across the red of new blood and the orange of tangerine and adding a dash of “brightness” as if a concept such like that could be bottled up and sold and squeezed out of a tube.
So did I wake up entirely? I know what I wish of myself. I wish to record and release some music under the selfsame moniker as this unread blog. So then I can have two unlistened to projects going on simultaneously. Ha! Well, I won’t lie about my joking, yet there is a blockage in me that makes such self mockery somewhat honest, my insecurities long and drawn out because I have the music, I have the equipment, I have the ideas, yet the plunge, man, the diving in of unseeable voids, the first time swimming without a life jacket… Okay. Soon I’ll figure out what motivation means to me. So I can keep the writing up and not let a drunken frolic of a weekend hinder me. Soon I’ll know the technology to record my musical thoughts. Then I look for internships in publishing houses or radio stations or museums or ecological studies with fish or whatever. I have the passions yet the execution is so fucking impossible sometimes. What is that? Edge of the abyss syndrome. Retrograde amotivational stress disorder. Foot in the door fallacy. I place pennies in different label jars in the hypothetical cloud of my disparate projects but these jars never seem to amass any true weight or monetary value. I have been collecting coins as an irrelevant hobby, it seems.
I had an anxious dream. Something crazy. Based in Paris with my mother. Where we went for a few days because I know enough of the language to get around and she has never been. We were near the Sacré Cœur and she was adamant to find the hotel and I wanted to climb and look over the city. To show her a sight worth seeing. We left our bags at the airport to retrieve later. Somehow we encounter my sister and she is smashed. Perhaps my mom and I knew she was coming. I don’t have the logic involved in these flashes. I don’t know the thread. My sister is trashed, my mother cries, we have to look after the sister and she finds friends she knew in high school somehow and they go to a small, small dirty apartment, nearly speechless because they are so high, I ask them questions and they say nothing. It is stifling and odd and my sister is the only one talking because my mother is outside on the phone. I go talk to her. She says that this trip was designed, she knew my sister was coming, and there is a special therapy/procedure from a Parisian doctor that could cure her worries without further damaging her brain, yet the procedure needs a willing and sober recipient. Sober for days otherwise it wouldn’t work. She was to slightly manipulate my sister into accepting the therapy. Outside the stifling apartment were other American tourists in a pool. And we sat sheltered along the side of it. I couldn’t sit. I kept asking them if they wanted to go explore the city yet. Why would we waste our time here? This is not the city. This is an escape. And the American tourists started to get annoyed at me. They sat in their inter tubes and yelled up at me in English. “Why don’t you relax kid. This is the vacation. Take a xanax and float in the pool with us. this is the whole point of the vacation.” Not for me! I yell. “Don’t think you’re better than us, kid. Here we can see the French sky and all the clouds pass over the sights you desire to be nearer to. We can daydream the exploration of the city with the contemplation of the sky above.” Bullshit I say. We are always under the same sky as France and all other countries. “Whatever. Quit ruining our fun. We want to sit and be vegetables and float and drift and accomplish nothing.” (some such dialogue. pool people angry and I am frustrated with their laziness.) Eventually I admit my anxiety is caused because I am an artist, I say. I want to get out there and experience the city, the world, everything it has to offer, so it can sit in my mind and expand like a garden. Then they all changed mood and said “Of course!! this makes sense. Let me get your contact. I’ll buy your art. Now get out of here!”
Something about the dream woke me up. Perhaps it was my cough or it was too real or turned sour. I’m not sure but I know I had a nightmare I can’t remember attached at some end to this. Maybe I dreamed of Paris for the collective consciousness terrorism causes in our modern world.