Hey. I’ve been here, lying underneath this blog screen, with a bunch of unfinished ideas and half thought out articles on topics ranging from my history and involvement with Magic: the Gathering, to a couple of social outcasts sitting on lawn chairs before a bonfire on top of an abandoned mall in suburban connecticut. I’ve been sitting on all this energy, chewing on it, taking notes and attempting to work out these ideas. And each night dreams fire off within the private realm of sleep… dreams that used to provide so much meaning for me… dreams that used to frighten me, ignite me to action, forgive me, ridicule me… a cacophany of emotion, but a beautiful and elaborate scenario always. Always a store. Always a crowd. And there’s me, among the going, thinking of how I could leave the mall, leave the party, leave the buildings and the cities and find somewhere hidden. Somewhere new and dark and vast and unexplored. A mystery in the age of information. These are the dreams that I can remember. The other ones are a blur of voices, characters, and scenarios running on and on and on. A crime. A love. A city.
my mind is so hungry for a narrative, for some kind of story to tell. And I need to tell them, somehow. I believed for a long time in my secret abilities as a writer, and dreamed a life wherein I lived to write. But it wasn’t in this lifetime, instead in another time and place altogether. And it was then I knew I was making up stories about myself, about my life. Dreaming up a manner to live it that evoked my desire to escape and my desire for the past to be the present, I lied about who I even was to others. At each turn, I was someone else, someone I believed I needed to be, and I was damn good at doing it. The arenas of my life separated me into different mirror images of my story, where at each turn I could morph my posture, my behavior, my thought and, perhaps most importantly, my presentation of myself.
And how exactly am I supposed to get down into it, then? How am I being true if I never really was any of them? Why did I navigate my life as if it were simply a play, and I the superstar at every turn? Why did I not just look at the sky? I’ve never known who I was, but who I am right now… is it really that important to understand? Or, is it merely a focusing of this scattered energy into something real, something tangible I can use?
In the darkness of my dream I stand before a row of avenues carved out of stone, and each passage is equally guarded with iron bars. A dog sleeps. A woman approaches me, her old frail body warmed only by rags, her hair big and gray and dry. She gestures to the smoky night sky above us and says, ‘look at that sky.’ Beyond us up a staircase a massive house hosts a massive party scrambled with aquaintences, friends, faces of strangers and all the discussion meaningless. All the laughs are hearty. The clothes are all beautiful. I left that party down a long stairwell to get here. The four avenues, they end in ancient doorways that must creak and whine when opened.
The dog is awake, I hear its chain jangling as it lunges and tackles me under its massive weight. I throw my arms up against it, and feel the dogs teeth sink into my wool coat, but the teeth don’t penetrate into me.