A Random Image

Archive for January, 2007

|| January 6, 2007 || 12:38 am || Comments (3) ||

(I miss you.)

flushed from the wine, but settling in

:: the necklace, as modeled by the random drunk ::

I may be riddled with the terrible and ignoble, but

This morning I got caught up in

The sensation of a solitary drop of water

Rolling off of my eyelashes and hitting my foot:

This is the Not One-Tenth Of One-Tenth

We hammer one another with….

My soul is noisy and hopeful,

My passions are overwhelming and inordinary;

My song is these gestures,

Framed up in words

Inequal to the task of expression but

Willing to give it a shot nonetheless.

|| January 3, 2007 || 12:34 am || Comments (2) ||


There are two kinds of insomniacs, in case you didn’t know. There is the kind who can’t seem to find sleep and then there is the one that avoids sleep if at all possible, for as long as possible. Those of the deprived variety can blame any number of factors for this: mental, emotional, spiritual, physiological and sometimes a random cocktail of one or more of those.

Those of the avoidant nature put off sleep because there is something waiting in there that makes the notion of sleeping something akin to holding a penny in your mouth for a long time; it becomes tinny and bitter in taste….and that’s just the notion of the thing. The actual thing itself becomes more noxious in the act.

I have, at times, been both types of sufferer. There is something that happens to a sleep-deprived brain, way down deep in there, that even the insomniac can’t quite place a finger on. I earnestly believe that over time, an insomniac’s head spaghetti is permanently altered in some way. Surely there are studies to back this up.

When I was divorcing Biff, I went through the most horrible bout of sleeplessness I’ve ever had to withstand. It came on unexpectedly, starting as a sudden wake-up and inability to drift back off; before too very long I was simply unable to sleep. I went weeks and weeks on two or three hours of shuteye (if I was lucky). The most vivid recollection from this time, besides goofy hallucinations, was the sense of dread: Dread piled on top of dread piled on top of dread as I realized I had passed yet another night without dozing off, or not resting if I had. One time while sitting in my chair in the living room, I looked with startled eyes through the living room picture window at the sun, which was rising yet again on yet another exhausted day. I burst into tears; long, racking wails absorbed me and I felt the most oppressive despair I’d ever known. Then around two weeks later –quite out of nowhere– it went away as quickly as it had come. I fell into my pillows, dead to everything, and woke up around thirty hours later dizzy and aching like I’d been beaten. Perhaps I had, in some key way that I’m unable to convey properly.

Not finding sleep –as a somewhat fluid rule– has never been much of an issue for me. I’m one of those freaky cats you hear about that can press head to pillow and be on another plane entirely in just under three minutes. I’m told that this particular talent provokes both ire and wonder in others: “How do you doooo that??” The only thing I have for people by way of explanation is simply this: What I lack in certain areas, I more than make up for in others.

The active choice to forsake sleep in favor of other pursuits, like hanging on to my marbles as best I can, I have indeed been privy to. The dreams started when I was fairly little; the first one I can fully recount (at least with the present conscious memory…who knows what future forays into my meat will reveal?) happened when I was five. Starting with that particular one, my journeys across the nightscape behind my eyelids grew further and further convoluted, the players (both inanimate and not) more cheekily self-confident and impolite. Impolite, in this case, delivered in the mannerly Southerin vernacular that soft-pedals words like rapacious and searing and evisceratory. Also, maybe cauterizing. Yes, let’s include cauterizing in there, because it’s pretty much a scratch-and-sniff verb: You can smell that dang word, oh yes sir.

A way back once upon a time, I had the wherewithal to deal with my dreams, to simply power on through them as best as possible. They built steam over the years, and from twelve to twenty-four was pretty hectic. My mother, who doesn’t like to recount this now, had to pass many a night during my adolescent years listening to me sob and shriek bloody, broken things. There was nothing for it; she’d tried and tried to wrap herself around the problem and neatly love it away in a myriad of fashions, to no avail. I think on this now, and my heart grows sick with it….how eerie a thing it must be to sit and listen to your child screaming at two ay emm, exorcising all of the shit things from her subconscious. How awful a thing it must be to actively know that you are helpless in the endeavor of bringing comfort and silence to that same child.

The dreams have come and gone in the ensuing years; it’s remarkable to me how they continue to leapfrog over one another, higher and further into a runny-vivid-colored no-man’s-land of trucked-up otherworldliness. A world, frankly, I would not choose to explore if given the option.

In my head there are spiky, disappearing bridges, there is a man with a pointed piece of iron through his head, there is a woman with granite rocks for teeth. There are words, cracked and crumbling, floating ominous and soundlessly. There are too-red eyes and too-wet mouths and quiet, mourning wings that beat against gutteral groans of doors that fall into deeper and more crimson places. There are constantly wars both big and small, with that fingernail’s-touch of tension at the base of my skull, my lungs, my bowels. These are the more innocuous and consistent players. The visitors, the one-of-a-kind freakshows my synapses shove roughly into the light of awareness, are where things go when aimed toward their most abjectly terrifying.

My head has knowledge of things that have no business being there, and I am at a loss for words as to how that came about. I just know some things. The good somethings, the useful and sometimes pleasant ones, manifest during daylight hours. The flipside owns the closed-eye, shallow-breath night.

“A way back once upon a time, I had the wherewithal to deal with my dreams”….nowadays I simply don’t have the patience to do so. So I will pick and choose my days and my approaches to sleep. It is an imprecise science, sort of like trying to kill a squirrel with a slingshot, but I’m getting more accurate. Lately the dreams have been more puzzling, and in ways that is infinitely more painful. Being sucked into revelation is far more exhausting than being sucked down into horror. The constant nagging feeling that you should be paying attention here, kid and the accompanying paying of attentions, then attempting to assimilate any gathered factoids into a logical formula leaves no time for things like rest.

I love to sleep. In my book, sleep should be an event. There should be planning and good linens and fluffy pillows and sweet music to usher you into it. Sweet Repose is a delicious phrase, one I can loll on my tongue and slow-suck the honey out of. What I don’t care much for is the dreaming. On the whole, the dreaming can keep itself to itself. I prefer the luxury of actual moments in time, anyway. I prefer reality to feel dreamlike, not the other way around.

|| January 1, 2007 || 11:43 am || Comments (0) ||

Breakfast tutorial

Overheard while stripping the dining room tree this morning:

MAXIM: Okay, review. What do we do between pancake flips?

MATHIAS: We wait.

MAXIM: Right, and what do we do while we’re waiting?

MATHIAS: We dance.

MAXIM: Verrrry good.