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28 January 2007 @ 08:59 pm
honestly, what the fuck was happening in my head? i'll post it because it makes me giggle  
This
this is Crazy.
Jumping from bed, out from my nest of covers and its soft rumpled warmth, with a glee, peculiar, excitable, not dark or complicated, or contingent, nope, here I am, imbued and glowing with this fresh, this glee of something...or just glee----Glee, as glee is.
Wait.
See, I was lying in bed, finally sleepy and relaxed and grinning widely in simple appreciation for the pharmaceutical blessing that has enabled me to...lie down in bed, grinning. Relaxed. Finally sleepy.
It means more than me to successfully shift from the terror-survivor shallow and short rhythms of coping, hoping, unable to see or hear beyond the muffly press-buttons, erratic panting of the people up and down, scootching to fix boots and not enough time to catch a sneeze, to stop the little girl from skipping, scurrying ..all the way down aisle 8, its yellow cracked tiles gleamed supermarket perfunctory, ugly. One two three four. Sides Yellow. Sheet of glass. The surplus of dirt, walking and stoking residue, textures of adhesives not mixed properly. Sand, grainy, defined, certain angles are Aztec . Other are as runny as noses. With their hopscotch, flattened villages and cracked roads, frozen ice-crevices deep in yellow, the flattened tile couldn’t possibly feel comfortable doing as it was.
. The squares each contain spider-whisper-thin scrawlings of stories sung from a little girl’s mouth, tapping a dandelion up-down across her cheeks, pulling it between her clamped knees. Letting it droop, forsaken, winded . Slow. Little girl whispers, but not the story. Rolling the meek stem, sticky where the weak fibers whisper and fray onto the gauze, and the gauze soon puffs up, snarling goldenrod and sparks of black spitting strands, tensile. hubris. this is the mane. the man. The lion. Grassy flat lands set some stage somewhere. For the lions with teeth and drooling eyes and hot fiery liver kidneys gurgling and steaming and the rushing red-purple of demonic-psychotic lungs, will they cave, will they cave, these tunnels caught pink, syringe’s stream, the lightning rushes through, through, laser slashes, and then the squishy sigh of the rest of the beast as it crumples, stretches, shivers its pleasure as eyes blink, and blink glint, black shuddering under..

January 25, 2007. 4:10am. This was a dream? I think that I was on my way to sleep, my brain was also preparing and shifting, pulling each glove off, checking the temperature, the current..
And THEN, my body told me to get up and write So I did. And I dreamed. No one needs to hold a grudge here. It’s about time my brain blew up the walls and doors between sleeping and dreaming, thinking and writing.
Damn dichotomy of mental state/exercising expression.
Blow up all the chalkboards
Next week...