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    Thursday, February 24, 2005

    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.

    Monday, February 14, 2005

    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.

    I see fractured shards, Scooter.

    Yes, reels of images almost

    each turn
    black then fractured
    black then blue
    black then orange

    a lemon yellow suburban nest
    a Frank Lloyd Wright window

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

    smudgy? No, but sharply
    arranged in focused form

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

    if I cross my eyes I can try it your way

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

    The lightening stops and they drift back to sleep.

    Wednesday, February 09, 2005


    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.
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