Ghost Dreams

I had the strangest dream last night. I am not one to remember my dreams, usually I wake up feeling like I missed out on the most incredible dream experience, I feel a bit odd, almost light headed but I can never go back and capture what created that feeling. Not this morning, this morning I actually remembered a small portion, which for me is much better than nothing at all. I think the reason I remembered is because I was sort of half awake half asleep, a fitfully sleeping sort of states.

Anyway, from what I recall, I was in a long hallway, seemed a lot like State in the Humanities building and I was heading to Room 424. Only there was this strange almost transparent man, who was very very tall wearing an old looking suit standing in the doorway. I asked him to open the door and he refused, but didn't really give me a reason. Then he said if I really wanted to get inside then I had to kiss him. But I didn't want to kiss him because he was a ghost. So we sat on the floor in front of the door and weighed the pros and cons and the consequences of what a kiss would mean and what could happen to me should I do it. Then he grabbed my wrist and pulled me up and kissed me. Then I woke up. Isn't that strange.

Astrid & Scooter-say hello

Picture this—

The characters are in a room, it is dark. They have just been aroused from sleep by a loud clap of thunder. The room is intermittently lit up with the flashes of lightening. Astrid is holding a kaleidoscope to her eye. Scooter mimics her but with a viewmaster.

Astrid:
I see fractured shards, Scooter.

Scooter:
Yes, reels of images almost

Astrid:
each turn
black then fractured
black then blue
black then orange

Scooter:
a lemon yellow suburban nest
click
a Frank Lloyd Wright window
click

Astrid:
is it—
enveloped in blues and greens
with orange edges and purple dots

Scooter:
smudgy? No, but sharply
arranged in focused form

Astrid:
Well I would like to see nothing
but these colors, assigning
meaning is futile.
Color is not domesticated

Scooter:
if I cross my eyes I can try it your way

Astrid:
Oh Scooter, go shopping for eye glasses then.
Keep them permanently crossed.

The lightening stops and they drift back to sleep.

Reworked

The slick-wet-black of the pavement. Raindrops pool along the sides of curbs. When I close my eyes against the thin light I see expelled leaves, browned and stuck to the undersides of shoes, leaves smashed between treads. Simply mashed underfoot.

Do you have a language I need to learn?

The delicate nature of a just plucked goose feather, only it was plucked from a down comforter by the cats.

How a pinhole can cause an all day leak.

The balance of your voice is tipping sideways. The wine glass can swish its contents with a sharp tap to the base. Breathe deeply, inhale. Can you hear the tapping of the blind mans cane—it’s hitting the wall—he is in a hallway.

The fleeting idea of continuity is your through strand.

A dropped book in the rain, ruins the story. Can you carry on without the words? Rivulets of ink along a bumpy medium. A Korean artist paints into, not against, the grain of old Korean paper. Makes art on pre-existing surfaces. A crease in the paper defines a wrinkled forehead, can make known character flaws with paint brushed ease.

A possibly known shoulder shrug or eye wink, yes.

A trapped fly lives between the screen and glass of my kitchen window. It flies into the pane again and again. Each time a bit more dazed than the last.

Finally, rests.