Directionless, I seem to be. Dreams of climbing and falling, discussing my past only to anticipate when the person analyzing will tell me. Dreams of college, missing having purpose, missing having something I'd always rather be doing. Wishing I could fast forward or backward to somewhere other than this stagnant abyss of motionless repetition. Dreams of climbing towers laden with trash, window filled bathrooms and windowless rooms. Women in purple blouses with sashes and white pearls, smiling as a tornado eats me up. Dreams that prefer life over something else- dreams that feed off of life as if it were a mere puppet in the portrayal of our dreams. I see fields of purple, blue, mountains soaring as far as the eye can see in velvet hills.
woman in purple with pearls
trees near the river- tons of tree swings
teacher in love with- had wife
department store, hiding,
ran outside- beautiful landscape of rolling hills with flowers
he commented on the beauty of the distance,
i comment on the beauty of the bluish purple flower in my hands
1950's city- running through to find a way up the mountains
(which surround the city)
old hotel, running up winding attic stairs littered with
old toys, trash
go into closet room with little girl clothing
try to steal some, use restroom
find myself on bottom floor with glass all around,
everyone can see toilet
at new college, sitting on the ground with friends, telling
them I have to take one more class to pass. With Wyatt,
he's an ass, looking for a roommate but everyone has one.
go to ham center- huge cafeteria- trying to find prof johnson's
phone number- he ends up being right there, sitting
with Jeff. Prof Johnson is happy to see me, says he's
not doing well, takes me by the hand to talk to me outside
Jeff protests, I am numb and say I am not doing well either
crying because out of college and directionless
suddenly in huge auditorium- presented analysis of my thesis,
says it's abstract, bland, brainless. I am outraged
and don't recognize any of the students
How can I write and still have something left to line my brain? How can I produce new words every day without taking something from my subconscious? Or is it adding something? Is there ever a point where adding becomes taking away, or vice versa? The dreams that keep me awake at night and asleep during the day are manifestations of an active brain with no outlet for expression. I want to paint and no one will encourage it. They will encourage it but not pursue it with me. Everyone says "just write a novel!" as if the creation of a work of art is something just budding inside of me, waiting to rear it's beautiful or ugly head at any moment. And maybe this is the case, but it takes some coaxing of my own interior to produce anything on the exterior which reflects this true "orm." I've read more than ever in the last 4 weeks, thousands of pages, and have written only thousands of words.
How can one write who does not read? How can one read who does not write? See, the riddle doesn't work in the latter case. Does reading really take my attention, my creative essence, and simply apply it to an external form which is easy for me to take in because it does not require effort besides reception? With writing there must be a conception, a laborious birth through effort, strength, diligence and at the same time it must be free and unrestrained- and then a final production. The most daunting idea is the reception of others. How words, once taken from the brain and translated on paper from thought, can be interpreted by others when those initial thoughts are already so abstract? Lisa Allen Poe, that was my father's nickname for me- clearly I am abstract and my words unintelligible.
Another piece of last nights' dream state just came back to me- being asked by someone next to me about my familial relations. Describing my father's behavior and attributes, misgivings and errors. Seeing sympathy in the form of sad eyes and furrowed brows around me after just one sliver of the equation was revealed. Then the question of my Mother, and the deep breath which ensued- with knowing eyes around me which did not even require that I continue.
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