Fear of The Daaahk

Driving a decent distance past midnight is much like a dream. There are not a lot of people around and those who are around are just blurs, unrecognizable. Some of them are freaks, some are maniacs, others are people trying to get home. Most of them are driving fast.

There are these large, strange expanses of road that you never knew were there before without the endless snakes of traffic. Everything is transformed. It is strange, and exciting, and you might even feel a bit relieved until you get to a traffic light and there are several people bunched up, waiting, and that old feeling comes back, and then there is a sort of disappointment. Unless you are the type of person who would rather have people around, and you are further sinking into discomfort the longer you are alone. Then maybe you feel the relief.

There are strange construction projects all along the freeway, blocking off certain parts of the freeway with cones and flashing lights, the lights flashing down the vacant road like there is something terribly wrong, but all is quite right. And the paving machines have huge spotlights that form halos of light around the machines and then the halos slip off into darkness and there is nothing beyond.

Sometimes you have to take a detour into strange shady places and get slightly lost. And the places are always shady. But you somehow make it back to the main road with visions of hoodlum shootings and beatings of wanderers just beginning to fade.

It is an uncertain feeling, but vaguely suggestive of something else, something pleasurable.

How Do You Work This Fuckin' Thing

I had a dream this morning that was quite cohesive and sustained, with a story line and everything; the contents of which remain quite clear in my head.

You see, we had this boss army cargo truck lookin' thing, and I guess we wanted to take it to the movies or something cause it had benches in back and you can hang out with your buddies and it was big and cool. It had an open cargo cage that you can drape a canvas over to cover it up.

So we had it all set to go. My mother was scolding me for taking it out cause she thought I couldn't handle it and I told her it was fine so I went to climb into the cab and the steps leading up to the cab were covered in canvas too, which was stupid and unnecessary, but I shrugged and climbed over it anyway.

Inside the actual truck it got off to a start sooner than I had hoped, and then I was wrestling with some very strange pedals and clutches that fit into one another and they were very difficult to work with a foot. I couldn't figure out how to put on the brakes, but I finally found a lever on top of the dashboard that you pull up, which was very strange, but I pulled on it anyway and the truck was too heavy to stop.

Of course there was construction ahead, and it was a very bad place to practice driving a large cargo truck and I remember thinking how it was just my luck that the street was totally torn up in front of me and I couldn't get the damn truck to stop. So I swung the truck off the side of the road and sort of got it crashed and stuck on top of a chain-link fence (don't ask, I don't even know), and then we made off with our brand new red and purple boots. Not sure how we got those.

Funny thing. The events that took place had a form that vaguely resembled my current situation, or the sentiments that are caused by it...or whatever.

But I am pretty sure Hulk Hogan was there somewhere trying to help me with the truck, and he was the one who had red boots. And I am pretty sure that this was a good thing.

Don't Look At Me Like That

You know, it starts hurting too much, to hate more than a certain amount. It's not like I enjoy it.

They just make it way too easy.

Writer's Block Pt. 2

So many private posts again. Nothing that has come to fruition. I have nothing and everything to say. And sometimes I look back at this writing and feel as a man does who has accidentally uttered a terrible joke that sounded funny in his head. I wish for something powerful and wise to say but there is a bank of fog in my head that seems to simultaneously expand and become dense the more I try to think. Why does a man's mind feed on its own thoughts just as an animal feeds on its own young or itself? Surely, a natural process that has purpose beyond what we can understand, but right now that fog bank will not clear from the answer that I am sure is written on a wall just beyond. All ridiculous and I'm just trying to say that I am at another writer's block, and it will not go away, and the crickets are loud tonight and the air is still and I am alright with just sitting here and soon I will sleep.

The sentences are broken and the ideas in transit break up and bunch together like mini traffic jams.

Strange Days

Not a thought in my head that is sticking or solid. It is all slipping past silently under a dull metallic roar like the passing landscape out the window of an afternoon train ride.

It is too hot and heavy to do anything, to think in straight lines.

It has been a long, strange trip of a summer. Like they usually are. Wandering aimless with no goal or end.