Sunday, February 28, 2010


The Dreamworld ought to have its own name other than Dreamworld. The cities and towns, and streets ought to have names of their own, I think, and I wonder if I named them if they would change. Even the music is different. Last night a song came on the radio and the chorus was something like….” …song on the radio, playin’ it long, keepin’ it strong..” and there was some vague sexual overtone to the long and strong part. Remember the song from the sixties, “Spirit in the Sky” by Norman Greenbaum? It was that kind of song. I usually do not like that sort of music but this was a catchy tune and even now I can’t get it out of my head.
You want me to write the song out and maybe try to find someone to record it and I am already trying. But the divide between the two worlds, though very fuzzy at times, is also quite sharp in some areas. It also occurs to me the song is one I have heard before in this world, or one like it, and someone will point it out to me soon. The bleed between the two worlds is confusing at best, and at times it’s damming. Tread carefully, when one of them begins to affect the other, no matter which is which.

I can think of three very distinct cites in Dreamworld, and each of them has streets and houses where I’ve been before. There are parks, restaurants, people, trees, cracks in the sidewalk, and all those little things that make a reality real. Of course, there are things like Godzilla, and shifting scenes and shifting time that make the place surreal, and there was the one Grace Park dream that made it more than just a little better than real, but usually Dreamworld isn’t a place I long to be. It’s a great place to visit but I wouldn’t want to live there.

One if the more bizarre affects of Dreamworld was for years and years there was never any legible writing. Signs, menus, maps, and every other denizen of the printed world was blurry, vague, or simply in some language I couldn’t understand. It was a few years ago, I believe, when suddenly I was able to read in Dreamworld. Unlike the real world, however, there isn’t an overabundance of adverting, or that sort of thing there. Rarely is there a magazine just lying around or a book left open. Other than the current song, there has been music there, and a lot of it good, but sometimes the music overlaps from this world over to that one, and I wind up hearing a song I like from here when I’m over there.

Yeah, in fact I do know how this sounds. You’re thinking I might be leaning over the fence a little here, maybe getting a little too wrapped up in a world that exists nowhere else but in my head in the dark. This is just the way my mind works, and I’m betting most writers have the same habit. I draw on any and all sources for the framework of stories and Dreamworld is one of the best mines my mind has invented. I can sit here right now and take you street by street through a world I created in my sleep, and give you as many details of this place as I can half the real places I know.
That one little white house, the one with the white trim, is owned by a man who just could not decide what color to paint his house, but had to have something to do while his wife was in the hospital. She was really very sick, so he told her as soon as she got well she could decide what color the trim was going to be. She died, so the white house with the white trim stayed all white, all the bright shiny gates of heaven, waiting to close behind him when it’s his turn to go. Really, thought the white on white shutters are a bit much, and white swing on the all white front porch gives the appearance the old man his floating, yet missing the top part of his head, with his all white hair, as he waits. It’s like looking at some odd thin line black etching, with the white front door framed against all white but the lines of where the door meets the jamb are jet black in contrast, as are the lines where the windows meet the frames, and the black shadows of the chains of the swing reach down like terminal blood on a beach. There are matching white columns at each corner of the porch, square, not round, and a shrike stakes out territory in front of the house waiting for green lizards to wander into the wooden snowfield. The old man with the white hair keeps the boxwoods down very low, and they still have tiny white tattoos, remnants of the paint crew that came in and, having no other chromatic considerations, blasted the house into a white out, and left with very little traces, except the boxwoods’ silent witness. I’ve stood on the immaculate lawn of the old man’s blank house, late in the day, hoping he would not come out because everyone knows he’s a talker. He married late in life, and the kids were his wife’s, not his, and they are drifting apart every holiday missed. The smell of paint is long gone but a body cannot help but catch the scent of it, with the bright clean whiteness like a landlocked iceberg, slowly colliding with the wreck of the old man’s life, as its sinking into the earth like a ship with a fatal leak, no lifeboats, and the only distress signal is the iceberg itself.

This is Dreamworld. I cannot enter it at will, cannot exit it except by chance, and nothing there is real, except to me, and you, if you choose to accept its existence.

Take Care,

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