Oneiroi: Children of Nyx

Sunglasses Saga: Week IV

2009-09-15T12:24:00.000-07:00

January 8, 2009 Thursday

Emperor Nero watched gladiatorial fights whilst holding up polished emerald green gems to cut the sun's glare. The first actual recorded evidence of someone wearing sunglasses appears in a painting by Tommaso da Modena in 1352! Good morning!

January 9, 2009 Friday

The space between the earth and heaven is filled with things that fly. Birds swoop and glide and feather on the breeze; silver tubes leaving wakes upon the white-blue sky; kites with tails aflutter and bemused children attached; and plastic bags and paper torn all dancing of their freedom with the wind. Be wary not to let the flying debris knock the sunglasses from your face. Good afternoon!

January 10, 2009 Saturday

No prose today.

January 11, 2009 Sunday

Snaking finger tendrils of copper-coloured desert crossed our path this morning. They clawed and undulated their way across the asphalt divide swirling the microcosmic dance of the web of life. I raised my sunglasses to watch things more clearly and found them the everyday hue of the pale dust so prevalent our desert valley. I think my sunglasses show me a more spiritual world. Good morning.

January 12, 2009 Monday

I read somewhere once that living vicariously through others is not living at all. I would have to disagree. My sunglasses and I have seen and heard and have experienced some amazing drama this week. We couldn't have gotten more on a nude beach in South America filled with jealous lovers. Living vicariously through others is like being a aunt... you get all the joys of the niece and nephew but get to give them back before they pee in your bed (or at least you hope.) Good morning!

January 13, 2009 Tuesday

"The verity of statements firm
Grants passage to this place in turn."
His winged feet beguile my soul
On travel into darkness whole.
We pass into the Underworld
For fleeting life has come unfurled.
Remove my frames so as to see
As we pass 'neath the worldly tree.
Then fields ablaze, Helios bright
Replace the shades to stay the light.
"The verity of statements firm,"
says the Keeper of the Herm.
"Relax, enjoy, no Cerebus pass
No Tartarus chains, no Hades' wrath...
The verity of statements firm
Show honour, virtue, ability to learn."
Pompaios Hermes then did lie
With grin and sigh and smile wry
Upon the golden grass so sweet
With shades in place all nice and neat.

January 13, 2009 Wednesday

Today I was graced to witness a small, young boy practicing on his skateboard. He was all alone; spinning and twirling... and falling... in the shadows of some palm trees off in a sequestered corner. With every failure he would upright himself, reassess, and retry the maneuver. If my sunglasses actually have the power to make me look at what IT desires me to see... then perhaps I should be grateful. Good evening! I hope your day went well.

09/07/09

2009-09-07T19:08:00.001-07:00

In the cool we listen
To love songs & much sap
And play with our phone's buttons
To find the one we lack.

Staring from the table,
Sunglasses seem subdued:
The hard work's all outside
Where the sun's heat can be rude.

Improvise! Adapt! Overcome!

Sunglasses Saga: Week III

2009-09-07T03:20:00.000-07:00

December 31, 2008: Wednesday

Rhinestone-speckled, tortoise-framed shades,
Come to my aid, come to my aid!
Dim the chaos of the threatening near,
Calm the tumult of the passing year.
Sweep with delight away visions done past,
Bring in the new and make it doth last.
Send me to places filled with right dreams,
Let reality supplant till bursting at seams.
Rhine-stone speckled, tortoise-framed shades,
May we seek together good fortune in spades.
Happy New Year!

January 1, 2009: Thursday

I must admit that my reality is tinted -- not suffused tawny amber as my lenses -- blushed remarkable instead by souls familiar resplendent. Angelic mortals are all of you -- whether vile or splendid, contentious or amicable -- it is my honour to be enlightened by your countenance. Thank you! Have a great afternoon!

January 2, 2009: Friday

Ashen, dusky, walking clouds girdled in apricot luminosity reflect off the lenses reclining on the dash. I peer into the failing blue and watch as Mother Nature mimics the work of Michelangelo. Good evening!

January 3, 2009: Saturday

No message. Busy day.

January 4, 2009: Sunday

Hurky jerky was the night,
Wracked with cough and putrid plight,
Senses desperate, please relieve,
NYQUIL! NYQUIL! NYQUIL! *wheeze*

My first text I received this almost sick-free morning was from my friend Robert. His puppy, Klaus, killed his sunglasses this morning. I read this text through the lenses of mine. Gently, I polished the amber glass slowly, showing much care and appreciation. I ensured them that Klaus was very, very far away. I'm a thousand percent better this morning. Good morning!

January 5, 2009: Monday

The weatherman says it will be cloudy for days. My sunglasses, while jubilant for the short vacation, will miss the view from atop my head. It will not miss, however, the smudgy fingerprints I always seem to cover them with while there. Good afternoon!

January 6, 2009: Tuesday

I'm a little worries about Erma. She took me off vaycay! Sumthin' bout the wetherman being rong. Is it my fault the wethrmn was rong!? oops, someones comming. Ciao, baby!

I want to apologize for the last text you received. I don't know who could have sent it. I was looking for my phone and I found it under my sunglasses. you don't think.... nah... couldn't be... Good morning!

Originally sent as text messages.

Vegas Skies 09/05/09

2009-09-05T18:12:00.000-07:00

I watched the sky go dark and stray
To God's face, Loki's laugh, to dragons at play.
Though silver lining did mostly fray
Rainbows played on edges gray.
Sunglasses riding on my head
Watching it's own skies of lead...
Hailstorms threaten; Rain will tread
On desert sands the radio said.

2009-08-29T19:02:00.001-07:00

Silver-fingered palm fronds
Frantic in the wind,
Diamond stippled waters-
Golden as light dims.

Sunglasses on the table,
Watching as I float
In the warmth of waters
Of my famous moat.

Erma
Improvise! Adapt! Overcome!

2009-08-26T19:39:00.001-07:00

Setting down his fiery sword,
The Sun God down doth lie
Surrend'ring to his soulmate
The Goddess Moon is nigh.
Growing to her fullness
She brings thee all ye want:
I want my own sunglasses
And not this plastic junk.

Erma
Improvise! Adapt! Overcome!

Sunglasses Saga: Week II

2009-08-24T18:07:00.000-07:00

December 24, 2008: Wednesday

Neutral gray clouds swathe and cradle the light of the newborn SUN. Sprightly clutches of white nuzzle every nook and cranny of the immutable, dark, breast-peaked mountains. A coalescing of love, stemmed from the small joy of finding the perfect gift, from humming along with muzak-ed Christmas carols, from the planning of great feasts, and to the twittering anticipation of spiked eggnog, embrace our colour washed valley. My sunglasses and I hope the holidays have brought you as much love as the Universe is exhibiting.

December 25, 2008: Thursday

Seemingly about to be crushed by another despondent, cold, wintry day... my partner in frames draw my eyes to the horizon. There, I see the metaphoric future filled with bright, hopeful, optimistic days. So bright, in fact, that I pull my compadre down from their perch on my head and we finish the drive into work together, as one. Good morning! Merry Christmas to you who celebrate. My day is filled with effin'.... fun, family, feasting, friends and film. Would you like to join us for the film?

December 26, 2008: Friday

Conversing with Caeious at the BBC, I see no reason to remove my sunglasses since the sun streams so very strongly here. He, the young sun, is brilliant today as the breath of the Goddess sweeps out the old year to make way for the new. It's beautiful how they work in tandem with one another to accomplish their goal, isn't it? Good afternoon!

December 27, 2008: Saturday

Yellowing mulberry leaves crunch underfoot. The air is medicinally crisp and soothes the breath and the lungs. The sun touches warm the bits of exposed flesh from under winter layers. My sunglasses are cool to the touch on my brow and temples. It's like we've traveled back into time and it's now the perfect autumn day. Good afternoon.

December 28, 2008: Sunday

I didn't pause to don my friends this morning, so my brow creased: my eyes sliver thin. I worry today. Finally, they call out... literally (probably all the attention they've had as of late) and I put them on allowing for the slow relaxation of all my eye and facial muscles. I finish my ride into work. I'm fine. I hope you are, too. Good morning.

December 29, 2008: Monday

This morning, on my way into work, my sunglasses and I witnessed a group of friends standing on a street corner engaged in raucous laughter. So cacophonous was their revelry that I heard it over the thrum of the engine, through the warm, glass-enclosed cab of the truck, and over the news whispering their stories in my ear. We saw a young cowboy-to-be riding a pale, chestnut horse with his father, a smile stretched from ear to ear. What a great way to start the week. Good afternoon.

December 30, 2008: Tuesday

Frosted windshields and tips of grass encapsulated in icy prisms reveal the gelid nature of the night. Contrails crisscross the glacial blue sky above. The warmth of my breath fog the lenses of my sunglasses as I put them on to face the rarely seen early morning sun. Today is poetry day with Sue at ReJavanate. You are more than welcome to join. Good morning.

Test

2009-07-23T17:49:00.000-07:00

Testing

Last Bastion

2009-04-21T04:28:00.000-07:00

Names have been changed (or ommited) to protect the innocent (or guilty.)

The office is bright from the light streaming through the plate glass window, even though it is covered with a fine silver sheen of tinting. The view is of a child's playground, complete with the multicolored blocks that kids can crawl through. There are no kids crawling at the moment. The weather outside is cold as indicated by the skeletal branches of the mulberries reaching towards the overcast sky. A mini tornado whirls a pile of leaves through the double swing set so that the leaves litter the entire yard again, only to be swept later to the fence line from the continual gusts of bitter wind.

Inside it is warm. A fire crackles gently in the fireplace directly across from the large cherry wood desk in front of the window. A black metal screen hides the flames from view but at the right angles you can see the orange glow from within the belly of the house. Books make the walls of the study, except for the occasional break of a doorway or window.

Equidistant from the fireplace on both sides are two such doorways. The one on the right is an opening that peers down a long hallway to a red tapestry adorning the far wall. The view out the doorway on the left is obscured by a large heavy oak door with iron trimmings, that is partially open. Along the left wall is a respite for a window. In front of it sits a dark leather sofa worn by years of sleeping readers. An overly large coffee table made of cherry to match the desk sits before it. Two wing-backed chairs with draped velvet throws flank the coffee table. On the table sits a silver coffee service tray with antique white cups turned upside down to prevent dust from contaminating the inside. On the right wall is a ladder on a ceiling track so the books on the very top shelves can be reached by even the smallest of children.

The desk is organized and all the normal desk ornaments match. The in and out file, pen holder, letter opener, desk lamp, tape dispenser, and paperclip tray are made of the same colored cherry wood as the desk. On the left corner of the desk sits a large replica of a jet fighter with its nose tilted upwards in flight. "FJ-445 U.S. Air Force" is stamped along its body in black letters and under the cockpit window is written "Capt. Donald Freeman," the owner of the desk.

He sits behind the desk in a large, black, leather swivel chair. Just to his right is a black wheelchair with cherry wood handles that match the office decor. Don, as we call him, is my boss; damn near a surrogate father. I've been working for him for over 23 years. He is one of the best people you could ever know.

The last bastion of loyalty in loyal-free world, Don was like his office; neat, organized, disciplined and knowledgeable. His hair is silver white, trimmed high and tight as if still serving in the Air Force. His demeanor is polite and reserved although the occasional string of curse words escape his lips whenever he cannot manage a small detail with his hands. Don is afflicted with an unknown neural disease that robs him of his ability to walk without help or to button his shirts or to separate pieces of paper stuck together by invisible glue. The doctors thought it was Lou Gehrig's disease at first, but now it's a complete mystery. He has been undergoing experimental steroid treatments for a few months and there have been no improvement as of yet.

At work, I do not manage the incoming invoices or check them against corporate accounting for the store so that Don still has a reason to come into work everyday. His visits to the store to complete this part of the day is short, usually limited to about an hour or two. He used to spend six to eight hours a day there when I started working for him but through the years as I learned to manage the store, his visits were able to shorten to three to five hours. When his hands started to fail him, I took over all together. I suggested that he spend more time with his family, take more vacations, etc. I am glad to say that for the last three years he has had enough confidence in me to take the time off during baseball season to follow his grandson around the U.S. to watch him play college ball. Photos of his grandson in action clipped from newspapers pepper the wall in our office.

The last few months, unfortunately ... or maybe fortunately, if the treatments work, Don has not been able to come into the office daily as normal. Treatments are an all day process with a home nurse and dripping IVs. So, I take the work to him. During these monthly week-long sessions, I bundle up the reports and invoices and go to his home where we sit at his kitchen table, drink coffee, and do it together. Then I bundle up all the finished work and bring it back to the store. As of late I've been able to help him with his new computer as well.

Today, we are sitting in his office because he has moved in with my sister. This is my sister's house and with that realization, I can hear the giggle of a little four year old princess coming from the room where the oak door is cocked open. In my hands I hold a printout of the pay outs corporate accounting has charged us with. Don holds the yellow copy of the invoice log. I read off the abbreviated names of the companies whose invoices appear on my pay out sheet. He reads the amount from the yellow sheet and if they match, I cross them off on my paper. We are at this for a while until my nephew enters the room from the oak door and asks us if we want anything special for dinner. "My mom told me to come ask," he says as if to excuse the politeness of his being.

"As long as there are French fries, I'll be happy," Don says and my nephew's smile grows from ear to ear. French fries are his current favorite food. He skips back through the doorway careful to put the oak door back into its cocked position. When we finish Don helps me bundle up the paperwork and then begins the process of switching from his large leather chair to his wheelchair. Using his forearms, he raises himself onto his feet with the help of the desk. he slowly shuffles to the right, while simultaneously turning the wheelchair to align his backside with it and then using the desk again, he slowly lowers himself into his chair. He is not seated as properly as he would like so a whispered string of those curse words fill the air as he tries to adjust himself.

"Your forearms must be as big as Schwarzenegger's," I say, as I come around to push him to dinner. I ask if he wants some help and he barks at me. I can hear the frustration in his voice so I say nothing. I move to put the little footrests down but he beats me to it and waves me away so I just wait until he stops moving.

"Ready," I ask. Breathing heavily, he nods. I push him towards the ramp to take us up the single level that we are away from dinner.... with French fries.

After dinner, in response to the political protesters in front of the house, my sister calls the police and complains of a disturbance of the peace of the neighborhood. Sue and I stand outside to ensure no damage is done to the house while we wait for the authorities. My sister comes out to join us and we begin to discuss the addition of a playroom onto the house and where the window placements should be. As if our very presence is the catalyst, a trash can flies towards the front installed window of my sister's house. Fortunately, it falls short, but the crash landing of the aluminum can results in an explosion of garbage all over the front lawn. A flurry of insults aimed at the protesters eschew vehemently from my sister and it takes all the strength of Sue just to hold her back from attacking.

It was not the house they were protesting. They were just protesting, seemingly for the sake of protesting. Why they chose to protest in front of my sister's house is still a mystery. That and the fact that they were not unified in their protests. Some were protesting abortion, others were protesting the war and still others were protesting Barak Obama running for president. (Odd, I do not agree with any of them.)

The arrival of the police is enough to disperse the protesters as if they are just finishing a normal day of work, and it is time to go home. "Clock out" seems the right term to describe the sudden stoppage of screaming and yelling. Mystified, my sister, Sue and I return indoors and send my nephew out to clean up the yard. (See what I mean about kids being useful?)

I return to Don's office as my sister and Sue go elsewhere in the house. Don is playing on his computer trying to figure out how to underline the word "fart' in an e-mail to his mother and when I come in and he seems overly grateful that I have arrived. I position myself behind his left shoulder and explain the process, resisting the urge to take over the keyboard to do it for him.

A tall man comes out of a room in the hallway on the left without the door. Both Don and I recognize him immediately. It is my ex-boyfriend. He kneels down next to a backpack he has sitting on the floor at his feet. From it he extracts a long Kris blade knife with a copper handle that is in the shape of an eagle's head and outspread wings. I recognize it as a friends magical blade and wonder why he has it. Perhaps he is here to return it to me so I can give it to its rightful owner.

"Uh, should he have that," Don asks me as we watch him stand up holding the knife and dropping the bag. I am not in fear of any danger for myself so I reply that I think it will be okay. Then he changes his grasp on the weapon and from its menacing posture, I can tell danger is imminent.

"Crap," I mutter, and look frantically around the office for my own weapon if I need it. My eyes settled on the large cherry coffee table. It seems long enough to keep me out of the man's lanky reach. I sweep the coffee service off the table and move it between me and him. Unfortunately, I did not account for the length of the blade and he is able to make several cuts across my inner forearms and biceps. I discard the coffee table and move in close to get in under his range hoping it will be to my advantage. I am able to surprise him by the move but it only gives me seconds to decide what to do next.

Standing with my back in the crux of his shoulder as if we are about to cuddle ... except that I am holding the knife at bay, I intertwine my legs with his and lean back hoping that I will be able to throw off his balance. Luck, gravity, and my weight is enough to knock the air out of him as we hit the ground and he drops the weapon. It skitters across the floor just out of reach. My right leg is screaming in pain from riding the corner of the desk on our way down. I can feel my skirt begin to soak with blood.

My first instinct is to get up as quickly as possible and run, but I find that I cannot. There is no deer-in-the-headlights energy working here; instead it is a mother's protective instinct that kicks in. Running would leave Don alone with this maniac. Don, a man I've known and loved over half my life. Don who never would have abandoned me. Don, who never would have abandoned anyone, ever. Deserting Don is not an option. I look to find the knife that has fallen free. It is just beyond the other side of the desk. I roll off my ex and start a low crawl towards it.

The pain in my arms and leg from the injuries meld together and become one. The pain crescendos with every muscle flex as I move towards the knife. Small cries of anguish escape me with every worms distance. As my head reaches the other side of the desk I feel a hard clamp on the back of my shirt. A hoarse cry of true fear finally escapes me. I am able to resist the drag backwards but he is able to use me to propel himself forward. I reach for the knife and pray I am close enough. My fingertips barely touch the copper eagle's head. I allow my body to relax to get the mental running start to reach again. I cannot fail, I tell myself. My arm stretches out and the curvature of the eagle's head is enough to move the knife millimeters away as my fingers graze it again. I do not relax because I know it is all or nothing at this point. I try to move myself forward with my legs but the grasp on my shirt holds me in place and I have to stop. I feel the hot breath of the devil on my shoulder as the inevitable looms closer.

My forehead rests on the floor and I consider surrender. But still, I cannot. I roll onto my side so that I am face to face with him. I begin to flail wildly concentrating on the arm he extends to reach for the knife. I watch as his range is enough to clear the distance, and his fist clenches over the outspread wing. A guttural, almost imperceptible "Fuck," is uttered aloud. I thrash again, punching, kicking, and screaming as hard as I can. It is to no avail. The arm and knife raise themselves to strike. I close my eyes in resignation and stop moving.

The path to the other side is pictured in my unbelieving reeling mind as a long, desert, two-lane road at twilight. I find as I travel forward that what they say about the moments before death is true. Billboards with the animated smiling faces of all the people I have ever loved and known flash past me. The splendid silence of the desert is filled only with the slowing beat of my heart as it, too, resigns itself. Then the low rumbling begins. It is a feeling of sound more than a just a sound itself. The earth is about to quake, opening a maw to allow access to the deepest reaches of its center, allowing me to return home. I ride the road as it begins to undulate in waves. I can feel my soul separating from the physical in slow rollers, not unlike to unbuttoning of a simple shirt. The muscles of my hands and body tense to undo one button and then, there is a pause as a small bit of my soul is released from the physical, I search the next button. My body clenches once again and another button is undone and I relax as I search for the next button. As my body tenses once more to work on the next bit of release a loud crash of metal startles the meditative work. The rumbling and waves cease immediately. I recognize the sound instantly and my eyelids flash open.

The long metal knife has fallen to the ground and the beak of the eagle looms large in my peripheral vision. Wisps of my own hair, severed by the blade, float away with my breath. My ex is slumped before me with a large red stain spreading across the side of his head. I am two buttons away from fully comprehending everything but it all comes into full focus with the shift of the shadow over the fallen mans face. I look up and standing over me is Don. He has braced himself with one arm on the desk and in the hand of the other is a bloodied jet fighter with a broken tail. My eyes close again, I sigh deeply and then I frantically work to button back up.

Intermittent flashes of blue and red alternate on the walls surrounding me and Sue as she finishes the patching on the burgundy welling cuts on my arms. She gently washes the scarlet from me and smiles, thankful and grateful I am still standing. I feel the onrushing ripple of love pouring from her, and I bask in its warmth. I smile quietly back. Across the room, my savior sits in his wheelchair talking to a plainclothes police officer. The man bears a striking resemblance to Don, and I realize it is his own son. The man puts his hand on Don's shoulder and again, a wave of love washes over me from the small smile they give one another.

The black, plastic covered body of my assailant is placed into the back of an emergency vehicle and I watch with great sadness. I do not understand why I am sad on the surface of my thoughts, but I think I do deep within. I leave it at that.

originally posted February 28, 2008-This was a dream I had on January 28, 2008. Great, huh? Unfortunately, except for the name, everything about my boss was true. He passed away February 6, 2009.

The Volcano and My Mother

2009-04-11T02:58:00.000-07:00

I was standing on a bridge just staring at the column of smoke rising from the mountain. There were only about a dozen people there with me. The rest of the world had opted to ignore the warning sign and go about their business. I wondered if I should be evacuating instead of waiting for something, or nothing. Then the volcano had exploded, not as violently as we had expected, but a large chunk of it had flown off the top and showered down in a million pieces. Cries of "O my God!" and "Jesus Christ!" erupted from the group around me. Everyone left the bridge hurriedly except for a man in a dark blue business suit and a trench coat who just stood at the rail, eyes closed, shaking his head.

A rolling panic started through out the community. It took almost half the day before the streets completely emptied. As I made my way home through the empty cobblestone streets, I noticed an assembly of cheerful townsfolk entering and exiting one particular house. I passed a threesome of amiable patio conversationalists and made my way to the rear of the house. Here, where the sea touched the shore, was a small army of people, preparing to survive by floating on air mattresses. At least three-dozen mattresses were spread out in the backyard and several people lay upon them waiting for the water and lava to arrive. There was no panic here, just organized chatter.

Safety orange colored rubber sheets covered many as they waited patiently on their floats. Some seemed to be sleeping, others read paperbacks. It reminded me of a passenger terminal at an airport where everyone sits around impatiently waiting. Someone had the bright idea of filling the sea with mattresses to approximate the timing of the lava flow and surge of water. Three mattresses out someone yelled 'Three' above the din. 'Three' was bantered around so everyone could hear it. I never heard the count of two. All I heard was "Here it comes!"

I stepped off the back porch to get a better look. Tall hedges and overgrown trees only gave me a partial view of the sea out of the corner of the yard. The bright red and black lava seemed to float upon the sea like a life raft. The head of the flow was over a foot thick, maybe two. A surge of water hit the shore and a large dollop of salty lava flew towards the porch and landed where I had just been standing. Flames leaped up immediately. An air mattress and safety sheet exploded and caught fire but was quickly quenched by the surging water, but not before the poor soul had been melded to the plastic like a butterfly trapped for eternity in its cocoon. Small fires instantaneously appeared everywhere around the yard. The order deteriorated. Chaos was now the order of the day. People ran to and fro trying not to get hit by the particles of lava being flung by the force of each wave. A young man dissolved in front of me as he was caught by sea spray mixed with the red-hot pellets of molten rock. I ran for the door to get back on the street. A fire burst forth directly under my feet as I crossed the threshold of the door. I felt the singe of heat, but hoped I had made it over fast enough to do no damage. I realized I was barefoot.

The building would only serve as a very temporary barrier to the lava flow, I knew. As I ran out of the house with the warm, foamy water sloshing around my ankles, a man behind me was also headed for the front door carrying a kitchen's butcher knife. He wore a dirty, dark, gray sweatshirt jacket with the hood covering his head and half of his face. He muttered under his breath about the coming of the end and the worthy and the undeserved. His mind must have snapped from the pressure. I secretly hoped the lava would catch him quickly.

I ran up the street noting the coming dusk. The darkness of the hour made all the buildings look a single gray color. Next to the steps of the courthouse I turned and hit the buzzer on the door of a tall old building to get let in. A deep gruff Irish accent grunted at me as he came out that said, "There's nobody there."

I wasn't going to trust a stranger with the whereabouts of my mother so I dashed inside and sprang up the steps. Nearly choking from the inability to breathe, I clanged open the door for the 27th floor. The hallway was empty. It seemed the darkened day had made it inside as well. The same gray from outside muted every color. I ran towards our apartment. I yelled out, "Mom!" several times.

After nearly breaking my fingers trying to unlock the door, I burst into my apartment calling out again. She was looking out the window at the smoking volcano.

"Mom, we should get out of here," I said. "The building is sure to catch fire."

"Where will we go, " she said, her gaze not moving.

"It doesn't matter," I said, "as long as it's away from all of this."

Knowing she would want a destination before moving I said, "At least to the other side of the bay."

My mother was a small, petite, perfectly coiffed gray-haired lady that looked older than time. Stretched across her high cheekbones was porcelain paper-thin skin that wrinkled when she smiled or frowned. Deep furrows on her forehead and the etched crows feet around her eyes only served to make her more beautiful. I grabbed our emergency bags and gently took her arm and pulled her away from the window.

We were on a bridge across the bay watching the small town ever so slowly being engulfed by the volcano. The day was bright, blue, and clear. A long yellow ribbon trailed off my mother's hat in the ocean breeze as she stood at the rail, watching the scene. I was on one knee, latching the Velcro of my boots. I stood up next to her and put my arm around her and kissed her ridged forehead. She told me to come back safe. I picked up the fireproof jacket that matched the bulky pants I was wearing and headed for the truck. The trip to the docks was within walking distance but if I came back with injured I wanted a quick way to get them to a hospital.

I felt heroic the whole next day. I may have even did some heroic things.

The Offering

2009-04-02T01:41:00.000-07:00

The air was thick with concrete dust from the falling buildings. The windshield of the car was covered in a dusty film. It got so heavy, we had to utilize the windshield wipers so we could see. I checked our rear. The tank was right behind us. Damn, it moved fast for such a large vehicle. It was almost unreal. The driver swerved viciously to avoid another falling building and I was thrown around the small compartment of the back seat. I quickly regained footing and watched as the tank plowed right through the debris, exploding another cloud of particles.

"Hurry," my mind screamed and then I voiced it aloud! "Hurry! He's catching us!"

"We'd probably be better off on foot," the driver said and I watched the back of his head move as if searching for a good spot to ditch the car. Periodically, I was tossed about as he weaved his way through the forsaken city. It had all just changed. The world was a different place. No longer could nights be spent just watching a television or hanging out at the bar with friends. Now was a time for survival. Avoid getting caught. Avoid being enslaved. Avoid torture and internment. And this was from our own government.

I checked our rear. At sometime the back window had been blown out and the clarity of the scene behind me gave me shivers. Vegas was in complete ruins. Small orange fire glows everywhere silhouetted the damage against the fading sky. Smoke tendrils reached up into the dark purple space that replaced the once ever-present orange glow. Here and there you could see singular souls, covered in soot and rags diving for cover from the search vehicles. Ours seemed to be falling behind. Maybe it had found new quarry. I felt relieved, yet sorry all at once. I informed the driver and noticed we were slowing down.

He pulled in under the half collapsed canopy of what used to be a small casino and we struggled with the doors to let ourselves out. The other passenger in the front was a small east Indian boy with eyes like the ones you see on the covers of National Geographic. His face was drawn, as if in deep thought. Once released from the vehicle, all of our eyes swept the surrounding area. The distinct whirring of choppers getting closer made us move quickly. Next to the casino was an alley and we ducked into it.

The driver was a man in his mid-thirties. He had dark hair, although the light coat of dust made it seem white. He was Italian, I think. He had that stereo-typical swarthy-ness of a lithe Italian soccer star or model. His lips were full and almost constantly pouting. He ran his long, dexterous fingers through his hair and it became black again. Sporting a white open collar shirt that was only half-buttoned up, he grabbed the young boys hand as we walked down the alley.

We came to the passageways end and a ragged cloth curtain blocked our progress. The Italian swept it aside and the sunlight pouring through the opening hurt my eyes for a moment. As my eyesight adjusted to the light, I could make out a marketplace teeming with people. Most were Indian, like the boy. It was near shoulder to shoulder walking through the melee. Suddenly the crowd parted and an Indian man in his forties was on his knees with his face up towards the heavens. His arms were outstretched to the side as he muttered in a language I did not understand. Finally his arms dropped and a couple of the bystanders went to help him up.

At my side was a young Indian girl, who smiled at me when I looked at her. Her eyes then traveled towards the Italian and she said in perfect English, "An offering must be made," and then turned to walk away. Sensing his confusion, I touched the girl on her shoulder ad asked what she meant. She pointed to a small cart from which fetishes and magazines dangled.

"Purchase something from him and make it an offering in the temple." I asked if she would show us. I followed the braided girl and indicated for the Italian to follow.

There wasn't much of a selection. An offering of bubble gum or a deck of cards seemed mediocre for an offering. A small Indian man before us bought a fetish of an elephant and walked off, presumably towards the temple. The Italian settled on a deck of colorful playing cards, almost Italian in design. He turned them over and over in his hand as the girl led us towards the temple. She started to explain.

Ever so often, God touches a soul here and announces that to save the lives of four hundred, the two hundred males around the touched must make a sacrifice of something. The sacrifice can be something as simple as a pack of gum or a deck of cards. I asked why and she did not know. It had begun long ago, but it happened very frequently. I asked if the announcement had never been complied with. She pointed to the line of forty or so men waiting to make their sacrifice.

The young Indian boy stood in line with the Italian, holding a small doll as the girl led me up the steps of the temple. We stood off to the side, but I could see the drop box protruding from the wall, the men pitched their offerings into. Some just walked up and tossed them in and moved on. Others said a small succinct prayer before doing so. The Italian reached the box and paused. He muttered no prayers. He lowered his eyes and leaned against the wall. I could tell he was contemplating the decision.

The girls face wrinkled. She wasn't very happy.

"Why does one pause to save the lives of four hundred? At such a low price?"

And then I woke up. Great dream!

Shades of the Day - Week One

2009-03-29T22:40:00.000-07:00

For a little over a month now, I've been sending out 'good morning' text messages for those who wished to receive them. It started out as a single line of "good morning" to a few close friends, but on the day of our snowfall, the day was so overwhelmingly gray, I felt the urge to add some prose (or what I call, "prose crap.") This, of course, stirred the competitive nature within me to one-up myself for the prose of the next day. And so, what began as a horrible reason to write flamboyantly, has turned into the sunglasses saga, sticking to the theme of the very first one. I find it is useful for practicing my vocabulary skills and to experiment with different styles of prose. The list of just a handful who receive these messages has grown to over 25. If you wish to receive these 'good morning' texts (on some occassions 'good afternoon' and even a 'good evening' or two) then send me a note with your phone number, including area code, and I'll add you to the queue. Isn't unlimited text-ing great? Or... Just become a follower here and come check in daily. If you currently follow and wish to get off the list, just let me know. Thanks! And enjoy!

December 17th, 2008: Wednesday

Good morning on this gray wintery day. Need some sunshine? I'll smile for ya! :-) My sunglasses sit perched upon my dash reveling in the opportunity to watch the world go by unemcumbered by the act of being used. The bleak landscapes thrill them to no end.

December 18, 2008: Thursday

The morning sunlit glare off of snow-washed windshields forced me to don my vacationing sunglasses, much to their chagrin. It's time off did nothing to quell it's talent and skill for shading my eyes. I am grateful for such a loyal minion. :-) Good morning.

December 19, 2008: Friday

I'm starting to wonder if what I decide to spy upon during my trek to work is what I truly desire or what my sunglasses wish to view. (I watched a tamale vendor for far too long this morning, I almost missed the light.) And... I swear I heard, "Hrmph! Minion, indeed!" Good morning. I am working the BBC today.

December 20, 2008: Saturday

Since in such splendid repose- and in the knowledge that they were vigilant in their garrison throughout the night, I decided to forgo disturbing my friend thinking to myself that a little squinting wouldn't hurt me.

"Oh, yes it will," I imagined them saying and so quickly snatched them from the dash to relieve my forming wrinkles. Today is sabbat! Yay! Good morning.

December 21, 2008: Sunday

Today my shaded spectacles pull double-duty as hair band so that they may be available at a moments notice. Are all lights uncanilly bright after a late night sabbat? I wonder.

"Yes," is the reply from somewhere above me.

They would know.

Today is my sister's birthday! Good afternoon!

December 22, 2008: Monday

We will be inseperable for the week during daylight hours. Much shopping and searching to be done. Isn't this the best time of year? When "goodwill towards men" is the norm? When I smile at my fellow man, my glasses rise up on my cheeks in greeting as well. Good morning.

December 23, 2008: Tuesday

They must have witnessed great craziness this morning judging by the mess in the street. When questioned, my sunglasses held their secret. I placed them upon my eyes to see if the rapport we had developed was supernatural. Still... Nothing. You have to admire their fortitude. Good morning.

The Experience

2009-03-28T06:29:00.000-07:00

The Experience Part I

The music on the machine kept playing and playing becoming more irritating by the minute, and while I didn't recognize the tune, except for hearing little bits and pieces every time I walked through a casino, it somehow reminded me of Camp town races. I pushed the buttons whether they were lit up or not in hopes of making the infernal noise stop, but it wouldn't. I looked more intently at the video screen before me, looking for some instructional label that would aid me in my quest. Then I realized...eight out of eight. I won. Oh my god, I'd won! Mom! Mom! I won!! I look around the casino and see a few faces meekly smile my way. Others have their heads fixated in one position with the glare of their own video escape completing the soul sucking unreality. In the far distance I see a casino employee who may be headed my way. My eyes travel upwards to the flashing light on the top of the machine I was playing and back to the incredulous sight on the screen itself.

Eight out of eight. I couldn't believe it. I had just changed numbers too, about three hands back. Seemingly when playing video keno the game likes to mock your changes by making every number you had been playing light up gleefully as you gnash your teeth...but not this time. No...I had outmaneuvered the little video gremlins and foresaw the changes they were going to make. I caught them unawares, with their pants down. But then, you sit... you sit and look expectantly at anybody that's wearing some sort of neutral colored polo with a ring of keys hanging from a chain connected to their belt. During the scourging you are waiting, before you get to the payout, the jackpot, the kisses that put you in close to the handsome man or woman you never thought you would be able to kiss... ever... in your life. And now, here you are, on the precipice of just a jackpot, of just that one chance in a lifetime.

My mom had finally pulled herself away from her own delusional fantasy and came over to where I had been playing. She smiled broadly after asking me what I had done. Why does it always take a moment before you realize that you have won. It only takes seconds to realize you've just spent the last buck twenty-five of your paycheck into the devouring beast but it always takes a second look for it to register that you have over ...holy crap... $52,456.12... what??? I look up at the payout board above the machine and realize I had been playing a progressive keno game and I had just won over fifty-two thousand dollars. I whisper the amount to my mom, as if the loud music, flashing lights and blinking signboard won't alert this to anyone.

I get a feeling in my chest/gut area that I associate more with expectant love. That internal empty ache as if I'd been away from someone I want to love too long. The sensation of heartache just slightly south of the heart area. Images flash through my mind of material things; boats, motorcycles, clothes, boots, outdoor furniture, golden retrievers, jewelry, Disneyland towers, swaying palm trees and deep blue surf...all a quick blur and then I shake my head and start being more practical. I should pay off my bills, help out a few friends, buy stuff for my mom.... the clothes, boots and jewelry creep back in and I let it stay, but in the background. I give my mom some more money and she heads off to another machine. She's been through this dance before, too.

The attendant finally arrives and unlocks the machine. She is a portly woman and pretty. Her make-up is near flawless except for the lip liner being too dark for the lip color and her reddish brown hair is pulled back in a severe ponytail making her eyes more slanted than usual. She's oriental, of that I'm sure, just not which one. I look around for my mom, she'd be able to tell. She looks my way finally and smiles, then locks the machine again and says she'll be right back.

I sit back down in the burgundy swivel chair and spin a mere thirty degrees back and forth as I wait. A few patrons are coming right for me so I protectively lay my hand nonchalantly on the machine I was playing. They ask me if I won. I smile and nod, not wanting to get into any deep conversations. They point and gawk for a minute. I smile and nod. Thank you, I say, as if I really had anything at all to do with it. I realize where my hand is and pull it back. I feel like an animal protecting its kill. What the hell is wrong with me?

My mother meanders over again, craning her neck to look at the screen. She asks me why they haven't come back yet and I slightly snap that I don't know, I have no control over the employees here. I feel remorse immediately and try to apologize but she just smiles and sits down next to me to wait with. She starts to speak about what I should do with the money and I ask her very gently if we can talk about it after we leave. We'll go have lunch and discuss it then, away from here, away from everyone who knows. She nods knowingly after glancing around and sits quietly. I ask her if she wants to play and she says no. So we sit.

The oriental lady returns with two men in tow. One unlocks the machine again as she approaches and her partner hands me a clipboard with tax forms to sign. They ask if they can take my photo for their wall of winners and I decline, as politely as possible and then they proceed to the payment portion. I have to remind myself to breathe as they count out the money. I keep looking around, checking for stalkers and the like. My paranoid radar is up on its highest setting now and that pleasant ache has turned into a deep knot of fear. I get a flash of Delia's smile and push it away.

The wad of cash is enormous and I ask if I can get a check instead. They say I'll have to wait to spend any of the money if I want a check and that if I wanted a check, I should have requested one before they went to get the cash. What?? My anger starts to bubble but I consciously make it subside. Damn woman didn't say two words to me and expects me to request a check. What? Do they think this happens to me all the time? Like I know the procedure? I smile and nod. Forever smiling and nodding, it seems.

They do offer to have security walk me out to my car, which I gratefully accept. I guess they automatically assume that a big winner will leave once they have their winnings. Whatever happened to the offerings of free rooms and meals to keep you there in hopes you would give some back? We actually were going to lunch there but I indicate to my mom that I think we should go and she heartily agrees. In the cab of the truck with the windows rolled up tight and doors firmly locked all reserve is released. We gobble like turkeys on Thanksgiving eve.

The Experience Part II

After about a month, I'd barely made a dent in my winnings. I've told no one… well, let me clarify that. I'm horrible with secrets so I told no one exactly what I did, although I do mention to some that I won a pretty goodly amount. The practical side of me pulled my credit reports and I paid off every bill I owed. I bought the boots I wanted and some pretty, frilly blouses and skirts (to wear with the my new, cool, stomping boots, of course). I also bought the motorcycle I've wanted forever and had a search out for a Volkswagen Thing. I gave my mom and sister a bit to spend where they wanted and even some to my nieces and nephew. I gave some to some friends I knew needed it, yet still, I'd barely touched it. I kept going to work, like normal… well, maybe a little later than normal, but I'm the boss, so who's to notice?

I decided, in a state of 'O My God! I've got to do something with this money burning my ass!' that I'm going to buy some property. It's always been my dream to own a piece of land where I can build my off-the-grid compound with its underground shelter and storage area and where I'd eventually install walls topped with razor wire and turrets mounted with 50cals at each compass point. Hell, I may even go as far as digging out a moat. The house, of course, would be Spanish-Mediterranean one and a half-story style with mosaics, frescoes, an open courtyard filled with climbing vines, water loving plants, little lovers nooks, and a central round seating area complete with fire-pit for people to gather and discuss such high minded subjects as the esoteric meanings of numbers and political philosophies, as well as deviant conversations such as the true origin of civilization being brought about by the fermentation of grain and beer being the true god of civilized mankind. Well… that and the top three things that turn you on, of course.

There was a small real estate office in the little strip mall right around the corner from my mom's house that specialized in mobile home sales and property. When I entered the bells wrapped around the door handle tinkled and the fluorescent lights seemed to jump. The vertical blinds were stained with age although the business was actually quite new to this mall and the light filtered in leaving streaks of sunlight along the left wall. There were some old worn metal chairs bordering a country style coffee table next to the window and two lonely desks sitting side by side near the back. They looked like military surplus metal desks I had seen growing up my entire life except for the absence of piled papers and folders. These were almost Spartan in comparison. A bookcase stood directly behind each desk with matching four drawer file cabinets at the outer flanks and the matching wire wastebaskets hugged the outer sides of both. No one was in sight.

An older man came out of a central doorway in the back and we exchanged pleasantries. I informed him of why I was there and he suggested a few places. As his back was turned I noticed the Rolodex on his desk. It was unusually large and on closer inspection I realized it wasn't a Rolodex at all… well, not for the norm anyway. It was filled with pictures of properties and a short description underneath along with a type of reference number. How cool is that? I asked, he explained and then he let me be to peruse the rolling, fast cash, real estate carousel. By the time he had returned I had three cards lying on the desk. He talked me out of two leaving me with a 25-acre piece of lake front property in New Mexico with a small single wide trailer already on it. It was technically already off the grid as there were no phone, gas, or power lines to it; the whole shebang ran off propane. It was just a mere forty thousand dollars and if I offered cash he could probably get it for me for thirty. Whoop, whoop!!

Me and my mom, along with my soon to be Jewish friend and a few girls from church (Audra, Sherri, and Emily) piled into the rented SUV and headed for New Mexico. I don't remember a lot of the trip but I do remember seeing a golden, long-haired, German shepherd along the journey, just standing by the side of the road licking the newly fallen snow. It was late autumn. We settled into a beautiful four story Best Western or sum-such and slept most of the first day there. The owner and I had conversed over the phone and Internet frequently so he was expecting me. He did mention that he'd be having a party and asked if that would be a problem. Without hesitation I said no, it might be nice to attend a party.

The Experience Part III

Upon arrival the front door was wide open and the place throbbed with the deep bass of dance music. The smell of hard alcohol, pot, and coconut tanning oil instantly hit our nostrils and invited us in. Directly across from the door was a bar complete with bartender. A black piece of textured plastic separating the bar from the dining table extended out a bit too far so the bar only accommodated two as opposed to the four or five it apparently was able to. A few people sat at the heavy, wooden dining table...dining - and a smaller table in the center had a couple of men playing some game similar to backgammon on it. To the left the room was dark except for the occasional flash of the disco lights and the glow of bracelets and necklaces on the dancers. A dimly lit hallway beyond that showed three closed doors; one on either side and one in the center. To the right was a shallow kitchen with bay windows and views of the lake. It was also in a shambles.

The church girls and soon-to-be Jew headed straight for the bar, my mom into the kitchen and I just stood there in the doorway allowing my eyes to adjust trying to discern the owner out of the crowd. I was approached by a tall, beautiful, blonde man dressed quite preppy who introduced himself as the owner's room mate. It seems 'Mark,' the owner, had to step out momentarily, but would be back later. He gave me a pointing tour of the place and apologized for the kitchen where we saw my mom cleaning. I asked if that was okay and he nodded instead of yelling over the music. He was leaning in close and I could smell coconut oil and Old Spice. Mmmmm...nice. The anal Virgo in me steered me into the kitchen to help my mom.

We had left Vegas in such a hurry that all that needed to be done hadn't so I found myself counting the days receipts for our store in the center of this strange place, in the middle of a throbbing party with my gung-ho cleaning mom guarding my back. As soon as I was done bricking up the money the new Jew said she would take care of it and left. My mom wanted to grab some dinner so she left, too.

I worked on the kitchen some more and when I looked up, there, standing next to me was a strikingly handsome man in a kilt no less, replete with knee sock/boots and a wide open shirt...the better to see the muscles of his chest with. It was if he was ready for a Ren-fest with his ruggedly, beautiful good-looks. He smiled broadly and had near perfect white teeth and I smiled back. His dark hair hung down below his eyes in perfectly spaced strings and when he moved his head the whole of his hair moved with him. I guess he heard his name called because his gaze snapped back into the party and he left with another parting smile. I went back to cleaning. I couldn't seem to get a handle on things so waved over the girls and they helped out a lot.

The party started to wind down and I know each of the girls had found some partner of sorts. Emily and Sherri was no where to be seen and Audra was sitting at the bar with her own gorgeous man deep in some philosophical conversation. She had to be enjoying herself because her usual conservative nature was motioning rampantly all over the place. It must have been near morning . My mom returned, looking very refreshed and cheery. I wanted to give her the receipts I had counted but couldn't remember where I had put it. I was sure I had put it in a secure area and my heart started to thump with the thought that it might have been absconded with. Then my mom remembered that new Jew had taken it so she would go back to the hotel to check. She asked that when she returned we would go for breakfast and I agreed heartily.

Then kilt-man returned; him and his wickedly bright smile. This time I said hello when I smiled back and he just smiled, again. I asked if there was anything I could do to help him and he asked why? "This is twice you've been in my kitchen flashing that pretty of yours yet naught's been said," I replied, still with the shit-eating grin on my face. "I thought you might be married," he said in some accent I couldn't place. I gave him one of my very palpable 'What in the hell were you thinking' looks that he would never have recognized since he didn't know me but everyone else seems to know so very well when another kilt bearing man entered the kitchen and wrapped his arm around my man. He mumbled something about it was time to move and my man just smiled (at me) again and allowed himself to be led off. I stood there in disbelief.

For the first time of the night I moved out of the kitchen area, after watching dozens and dozens of prettily clad men and women come in and out of the open door, always with a smile on their faces. The party had been a great success, with the crowd being overly receptive to everyone who entered the door. Even with the dwindling numbers everyone who entered the door brought a cheer from the remaining party-goers. Sitting at the game table was the room-mate with his beautiful, sun-lit (with no sun) perfectly feathered, blonde hair. I lean down to his ear and ask as quietly as possible over the still reverberating music if he has heard from his room mate? He pats the bench next to him and I sit.

We made a bit of small talk and he explained the mishap with the bar plastic divider thing and then he asked me why this was the first he's been able to get close to me all night. I didn't know he was even interested I relayed and then he kissed me. It was a long, deep, wet, lingering kiss that grabbed the very root of my loins. After the kiss I realized it was actually him who had grabbed the root of my loins and it was enough to want to send me under the table. We kissed again and the fire in me swelled hot with lust but this time when we pulled away from one another I struggled with my sense of duty as I remembered I had made other plans. I knew it would be better to stop now than to get too deep in the throes of passion, where there is no turning back, so I pull away and in the throatiest of whispers, I say no.

In the perfect timely fashion that all mothers have, she returned and I bolted up from the bench hurriedly adjusting my skirt and re-buttoning my blouse. I went to introduce her to– I leaned down again to ask his name and before I even finished the question he said that his name was Tom– Tom but she would have no part. It seems our soon to be Jewish business partner had never returned to the hotel room and neither were the days receipts there. I told her it wasn't right to assume something so quickly and she said she was going to look for her. I was to finish up with what I had to do here and join her as soon as possible.

'Tom' seemed a bit upset and left. The girls had returned from their nights adventures and we discussed leaving when a trio of very young boys appeared in the doorway. They asked if I was the lady who had bought the place from Mark and I confirmed. They informed me the real owner was coming so I'd better watch out and as suddenly as they had appeared, they were gone. I stepped out onto the porch and saw a lurch of a man coming up the walk followed by a trinity of large black women in short, crayon-bright skirts and a tall, statuesque, older white woman in a pale blue evening gown with a fur wrap bringing up the rear.

When I stepped back into the trailer the lights were on, most of the people were gone except my girls and another four or five others and the place had been set aright, as if no party had ever occurred. The older lady swept in and commented on the cleanliness of the kitchen and moved into the dance floor area, which had been the living room, apparently. It was decorated in a country style powder blue with matching curtains and she gushed at how Mark had kept it so neat and clean. Everything seemed perfect in her world and I asked… I stepped forward and asked who the heck she was.

She was the owner, just returned from a three month vacation and happy to be home. I informed her of my purchase and from behind the lurch and three black girls came a small black woman who informed me that I was not the owner. How did she figure, I asked and she started to explain but I didn't hear a word she said because out of no where music began to play and the three black women started to perform as if they were the Marvelettes or something. The owner frittered about adjusting this and that with a knowing smile playing on her lips and in my state I interpreted it as a smirk and so again I stepped forward... yelling above the cacophony of shooby-doobies to ask the question again of how the hell did she figure. The music stopped, the girls swirled back into place behind lurch, and the small, petite, Dionne Warwick-like lawyer explained that Mark, the woman's son, was only a partial owner and did not have the authority to sell the property. I would need to take up any problems I had with my realtor.

The Experience Part IV

I was fuming and stormed out. Slamming the car door, I roared off into the snowy, dawning day. In my head I replayed the days events. The one person we should have been able to trust just may have robbed us blind; I may not be the owner of the perfect piece of real estate on a lake; I may have just lost thirty thousand freakin' dollars; I lost out on a phenomenal looking man in a kilt, I allowed myself to be molested by a man I didn't even know damn near in front of my mom, and I cleaned a goddamn kitchen I didn't need to freakin' clean. Holy freakin' crap! What the hell was wrong with me?

I was approaching a tunnel and saw the disappearing partygoers asleep in a pile at it's mouth. A small piece of road still existed to the left of them so I decided to drive by, albeit slowly. I passed naked elbows and knees and legs and arms that protruded from the pile with clothing hanging precariously on half naked limbs. The snoring was loud so I wasn't concerned for their well-being. At the end of this mass of human flesh was a pile of golden fur and in the midst of the fleece lay blonde 'Tom.' There was still a path beside the blanket of hair, but suddenly, appearing before me as I looked up to check the path, was the golden, long haired shepherd, licking the snow off the side of the road. He was too close to the sea of similar colored fur to give me enough time to weave around so I stopped -but with my driver's side tire in snow, the golden car I was driving skidded sideways and finally stopped, barely missing the heap of folks and the throw of pelts.

When I exited the car, the golden shepherd was waiting for me and pushed his head under my hand. The sea of fur, I realized, were several golden shepherds all sleeping soundly and I waded into the troupe. I found a spot between three of them and laid down. The other shepherd came with me and settled in, laying right next to me. Tom was two dogs away, facing me and he smiled from under his living fur blanket. I smiled, too, tired, and resigned to give in. Things would look better after some sleep. Snuggled up to the puppies, I allowed my fingers to run through their soft, silky fur and was comforted by it. They too, seemed to enjoy the petting. I curled up my legs the best I could and closed my eyes and allowed myself to drift. I opened my eyes and looked over at Tom and thought about getting up and inviting him over to the hotel.

I opened my eyes again and the hum of the computer completely freaked me out as did the creak of the chair I had fallen asleep in. I had fallen asleep and all that...all that vivid, real, colorful, loud, smell-o-vision experience had been nothing but a long, bad, incredible dream. It only took a mere hour and fifteen freaking minutes.

I fell asleep in the chair again, but only for a couple of minutes. Just long enough to be back in the hotel room, packing bags with Sherri and Emily in the bedroom talking about how uncomfortable the bed looked and for Tom to throw the freakin' covers off his naked body and tell them how comfortable it actually was.

Holy freakin' crap!

This is one of the first very vivid dreams I've had in a few months. I love these dreams, no matter if they're "bad" dreams or not, just because the experience is so very, very real. This one actually has a lot to do with what is going on with my life. Some of you know a little; some know a little more, others know nothing at all… I'm usually not one to share.

But in the essence of education, if you are interested at all in dreams and their interpretation, send me a wire and I'll update you of what's happening with me personally and you can see for yourself just how closely this dream echoes the reality I know.

If you don't want to pry or just don't care I'll give you the lessons I got from it all.
1 Never buy real estate from a rolodex in a strip mall.
2 Never trust anyone with your brick of money.
3 Never clean a kitchen that's not yours unless you've used it first.
4 Know the name of any man who is feeling you up.
5 Never trust a man named Mark. (Subject to discretion)
6 Beware of entourages with lurches and Marvelettes.
7 Dogs will always be a great comfort.
8 Mothers will always be there for you no matter how stupid you become.
9 Don't ever let a kilt wearing man get away.
10 Oh and the biggest lesson of all - If I'm gonna write like this more I need to get an editor so i don't have so many gosh darn run on long sentences of the likes that plague this story.

originally posted October 7, 2007

Orphic Hymn to the Oneiroi

2009-03-27T12:11:00.000-07:00

Nyx and Winged Morpheus Johannes Schilling 1868 Dresden, Germany

"To the Oneiroi (Dreams),
Fumigation from Aromatics.
Thee I invoke,
blest power of Oneiroi (Dreams) divine,
messengers of future fates, swift wings are thine.

Great source of oracles to human kind,
when stealing soft, and whispering to the mind,
through sleep’s sweet silence, and the gloom of night,
thy power awakes the intellectual sight;
to silent souls the will of heaven relates, and silently reveals their future fates.

Forever friendly to the upright mind,
sacred and pure,
to holy rites inclined;
for these with pleasing hope thy dreams inspire:
bliss to anticipate, which all desire.

Thy visions manifest of fate disclose,
what methods best may mitigate our owes;
reveal what rites the Gods immortal please,
and what the means their anger to appease;
for ever tranquil is the good man’s end,
whose life thy dreams admonish and defend.

But from the wicked turned averse to bless,
thy form unseen, the angel of distress;
no means to check approaching ill they find,
pensive with fears,
and to the future blind.

Come, blessed power,
the signatures reveal which heaven’s decrees mysteriously conceal,
sings only present to the worthy mind,
nor omens ill disclose of monstrous kind."

Orphic Hymn 86 to the Oneiroi (trans. Taylor) (Greek hymns C3rd B.C. to 2nd A.D.)