More or less of the same or something else in Normal entries

My dreams have returned, sort of. I’m not going describe them, it’s just odd to have them again with some regularity; it’s been years. One piece of my sleeping medication is part of the cocktail they give you for minor surgeries and colonoscopies, it sort of makes you forget. Yeah, I don’t understand how or why either.

Winter dreams might be different than summer dreams, I have only my poor memory and recent inexperience by which to gauge such things. If ever I let anyone think that my insomnia has anything to do with nightmares or that I somehow have scarier dreams than, say, you, I apologize. It was an omission and not a calculated one. I can’t recall ever having a dream of real life trauma and sure I might have been exposed to more real life trauma than your average citizen, but it never bleeds through to my dreams or not in any empirical way that doesn’t take a roomful of shrinks and psychics to decipher.

What’s most disturbing about the dreams returning is the why; are the meds less effective? Tolerance? Does my sub-conscious have something so important to tell me it’s willing to fight through the cobwebs (if so it might wanna try being a damn sight less cryptic about shit)? Is it a psycho-physiological way of getting my affairs in order (how’s that for paranoia?)?

I don’t know. It sure is disorientating. I’ve done my fair share of bitching about dream journals, from a readers perspective, but, now with a dollop of empathy, how do dream journal motherfuckers manage to ever fully wake up? I mean I get lost in there. Unless I know for a certainity that I experience a thing differently I assume everyone experiences shit like I do. As a reader your dream chronicles kind of bore the shit out of me, if I were keeping one I think it would drive me a bit mad. Um, a bit madder. Ok, it’d be an extra bundle of straw on the crazy camel back and that fucker is staggering under the weight of crazy as it is.

Among the few million apocalyptic poems I wrote in my salad days (ok, burger days or biscuit and gravy days, but those aren’t real sayings) I would allude to my dreams as an industry, a thing that manufactures, distributes, promotes … stuff, you know, depended on the poem, sometimes it was romantic. Dreams are often associated with romance. I only did that in verse, closest I have to romantic dreams is remembering the faces of who I was fucking in it. I just mean my dreams aren’t romantic in any normative sense of the word (I usually use the word to mean something idealized e.g. A romantic adventure which is as likely to mean seeing lions on the Savannah as candlelight dinner and butterfly kisses).

Hmmm. I didn’t mean to suggest I’m not romantic, I just don’t use that word in conjunction with intimate liaisons very damn often. And, to the topic at hand, I don’t have dreams of intimate romance, if anyone gets naked in my dreams the closest to romantic it gets is cardio-vascular. Idealism, though, I’m rotten with it, marbled through and through with sticky sweet idealism. If I manage … no, stop. When I was disciplined enough to write daily I made it a point to rein in idealism and shoot for cynical for no better reason than the discipline. It’s one of the reasons I liked flashs so much, not enough time to think about the stance, the pose, you pick a voice and speak with it, either because of image you’re going to use or to direct an image from the voice. In either case you don’t think too hard about balancing or over compensating or whether it’s any good.

If I had advice for someone who wanted to write shit that’d be it. If you want to be privy to my thoughts as I was giving that advice — why are you asking me? Hmmm, I don’t mean that in a humble or a mean way. Most of the time any one asks me anything it’s the first thing I think, most of the time it’s an objective and legitimate question, sometimes it’s paranoia or boredom. It’s been a long time since anyone asked me advice on writing. I’m the architect of that direction though. For the most part I only pound the keys here on prosebox and I rarely leave notes or insert myself in any way into the community.

Though it happens with much less frequency these days people in real life ask me weird shit all the time. It happens less frequently because my real life isn’t all that different from my prosebox life. Why are you asking me is an internal question that speaks to intent, if I say it outloud I’m directly confronting what I take to mean as bad intent, or, at best, toxic intent. Um, sometimes it doesn’t take all that, like, for example, “Do you want fries with that?” or “How’re you today?”

Dreams. Shit. And I’m spent.