dreams

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6.II.96 {. . . . DO you know how drained I feel?} Imagine after dinner morsels, sitting coma-toast on the carpeted floor, slipping into a shambling pile of non-descript body parts, loosely barely held 'gether. But the worst part is the E-line, The EEG which barely reads above conscious, as if a big eraser has come and wipe all enthusiasm away. 'magine an 'vironment, perfect in 'pearance, yet devoid of all oxygen. No sparks of life here, only the staid everlasting, everpresent now. Are there no more dreams? Are we at our wit's end? But what does this all mean?. . . . Yaauh Hey! So I was going down the street . . . {"Have to design. . . Haawve to dish-sign . . . !?!??"} That's the panhandler architect I always pass along the way. Don't give him any money; all he wants is the opportunity. He begs for commissions. Graphite clogs under his fingernails. He works the old ways, . . . the "old school" ways. Boy, while I can whip a thousand graphite tensile rods up with a flicker of my thoughts, he has to go outside his thoughts and physically represent . . . a form, or a space. He draws pictures, so other can see what he sees. SO many steps in between. It's a matter of perculation; thoughts that drip like a runulettes of coffee, making its way down through the grinds, coming out at the end as some dark opaque liquid, complex in flavor, but essentially creaky and old fashion. Like alittle bit of handy-kraft. That old geezer is some piece of work. Still believes he can do it, make a difference . . . . There was a time when his kind were like heroes. Conquer and create. 'From this fresh-cut tabula rasa, I will make my stamp, I will cut my path, I will make the world', that was their slogans; their rallying cry. But now what? . . .

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june 1996