about the sense of a lost dream

Your body stops metabolizing after exposure—fever, suffering, no help through difficult hours remaining you put a thousand ideas in the universe nobody could see you. Certain a borg is a sign your mind is gone to flicker yet next season approaches as memories get thicker of teens in the garage 5 feet into the rain. Keep rounding until past is as big as a house and I cannot see these curled dimensions.

 

Electrons annihilate the charge and burn down the distance between us two stars.

about how dreams are interesting only when they are yours

Dreamed we sat around in your old room. But the room was a basement space, so I watched a guy at ground level cutting back shrubs. He cut way too much! Also saw a bouncy castle outside, your kid nephew about to have a birthday party. We amused ourselves somehow. I played with old action figures. A Krusty the Clown whose head was supposed to boing up on a spring, but the mechanism was broken. We wrestled, I flipped you—flipped you more skillfully than we could expect—and we started laughing hard and like when you laugh even though nothing particularly funny happened. Woke up in the laugh and felt like after Padre Island, how I missed this.

 

something about that dream-like moment between beginning and end

Her eyes tossed bouquets, and I chased after each one. Then, one day, sitting side-by-side on a cafeteria bench—“Okay, I’ll be your girlfriend.” She grew to fill my vision. We lay across the bench, and I felt so good my heart tumbled loose. But, in the very next moment, a centuries-traveled sense leaned in and cursed how her affection would not stay long for me. She was hardly real as it was. I tried to keep my signal-shattered smile a few more seconds.

about having no communication

Sitting on the front porch in the middle of the night and debating whether a tree needs trimming. I wish I could make those limbs disappear. I wish I could make other things happen. I would start with that tree. But I should think bigger. Surround myself with a giant wall? Bring lots of people over here? Go somewhere else? No. Would I want to just lie on the couch at my parents', watching a movie with mom and dad? Would I want to live forever? Be young forever? Have billions of dollars just to live and die comfortably? Maybe there is nothing else anymore.

something almost true

I was a member of a show-business family. We were in a movie that was nominated for the Best Picture Academy Award. I got blackout drunk at the awards ceremony. Early the next morning, I asked someone what happened. He answered, "You won!" I was disbelieving. He added, "Yeah, and you spoke! You gave a speech!" More disbelief; plus anxiety. He showed me a transcript of what I said, and, of course, it was incoherent. I felt ashamed; this would be my legacy.

Note: The ceremony included a great live performance of scenes from the movie version of Pink Floyd's The Wall.

something passing

Here, stashed behind a woodpile, miles from the Capitol, loneliness surfaced at first in moments. The times waiting linger like an anchor. The feeling that one should engage more with the world takes root. But, why, when doing so always ends the same?

about a dream that sticks with me

One Sunday morning I was sleeping late and dreamed of lying in bed with X. Lying there, dressed in sleepwear, comfortable in each other's presence, talking. Not about anything in particular—just current events, passing thoughts, and so on. For a moment, my feeling wandered from intimacy to romance, but that feeling passed and I relaxed again. In real life, I would go out of my way to avoid her. And yet, what a treat was this Sunday morning spent together. I wondered later how I could dream something so in conflict with my better judgment. The reason is probably as simple as loneliness. There are few people further away from me than X, so her being so close meant that everyone else was that much closer.

(posts) the new American Gothic

"You and Me"

Notes:
I tell you, baby, you're just enough for me.

Some idea of himself

Imagine Jack Dawson and Rose Dewitt Bukater working for a living in New York's slums. Or Romeo and Juliet going it alone, deprived of their family fortunes. Similarly, had Jay Gatsby married Daisy Buchanan, we would have lost them. And they would likely lose each other.

But unlike the doomed pairs from the film Titanic and Shakespeare's tragedy, Gatsby was willing to volunteer for his fate. The sacrifice he was to make for Daisy is not unlike the one Abraham was to make for God: Both men stood ready to answer the call of a higher duty--a duty only answerable by renouncing all others. Abraham's duty was to God; Gatsby's to an ideal, the past, the promise.

As I went over to say goodbye I saw that the expression of bewilderment had come back into Gatsby's face, as though a faint doubt had occurred to him as to the quality of his present happiness. Almost five years! There must have moments even that afternoon when Daisy tumbled short of his dreams--not through her own fault but because of the colossal vitality if his illusion. It had gone beyond her, beyond everything. He had thrown himself into it with a creative passion, adding to it all the time, decking it out with every bright feather that drifted his way. No amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man will store up in his ghostly heart.

For years Gatsby believed he could resurrect the past, a few moments of youth preserved under the glass of his memory, observable, close, but too fragile to touch.

"Can't repeat the past?" he cried incredulously. "Why of course you can!"
He looked around him wildly, as if the past were lurking here in the shadow of his house, just out of reach of his hand.
"I'm going to fix everything just the way it was before," he said, nodding determinedly. "She'll see."
He talked a lot about the past and I gathered that he wanted to recover something, some idea of himself perhaps, that had gone into loving Daisy. His life had been confused and disordered since then, but if he could once return to a certain starting place and go over it all slowly, he could find out what that thing was ...

Gatsby, in his suspension, his nonexistence, is replaced in the public mind with a collection of myths borne from the incurious imaginations of passersby. In Fitzgerald's story, these are all people living a life other than their own: Tom Buchanan has his wife, Daisy, but his attentions lie with his lover in the city; Daisy pretends they don't; Gatsby suspends himself in service of his dream for Daisy; and Gatsby's guests obliterate the night with drink and forgetting, believing themselves to be in the company of a man who isn't, who isn't and who isn't.