Monday, November 24, 2014

The Dreams Of November

It’s a hard feeling to describe. There isn’t a point of reference for it and I can’t give you some movie scene or television show or even some book to help out. It’s like trying a male virgin trying to describe the act of loving making, in all its glory, to a female virgin. If this is madness then I’m pretty sure it is a personal form of madness and the sane won’t even begin to be able to take measure of the words. Those who are likewise affected, virgins they are not, are tainted by their own experiences. My choices here are few but I tend to lean towards the idea that I’m not as insane as I sound. The idea that I am less insane than I sound bothers me more than the idea that I might be more insane than I sound. Take a moment with that last sentence. I can wait.

Welcome back.

As far as my candidacy goes it’s a compelling case. There’s family history, substance abuse in years past, my isolation from most of the world most of the time and the fact that I love it, and then there are these things that I tell you about. That’s where the pressure lies. Are these experiences real or they the product of that mishmash of grey masses mishing together when they should mash? The brain is made up of various parts with various functions and everyone has to play together to sound nice. What happens when they do not sounds a lot like some of the incidents I have related to you. Oddly, that’s actually best case here. The other explanation takes some getting used to, it would seem.

Imagine yourself nude. Someone you really care for and someone who really cares for you, comes up behind you and puts their arms around you, kisses you, nibbles you, caresses you, and you begin to melt into their mood with one of your own that very closely resembles that which you are responding to, isn’t this how it happens sometimes? You know what your partner likes, your partner knows what you like, and together you might just find a moment in time where you both really like something that is happening. But this cannot be planned. It cannot be turned into sheet music to be played at will. It’s a haptic experience, certainly, but there is more to it than just flesh on flesh and skin against skin.

It’s not a form of ecstasy. That’s not what I’m trying to tell you. When I was a kid there was a local movie theater, a dump really, but there was a hole in the screen, at the lower left hand corner. I remember the shape and size of it exactly. But I would try to concentrate on the hole and not let the movie take over my mind and I would totally fail. Even when I noticed the hole in the screen in the middle of the movie I still would be so engrossed in the story that I could not draw myself back into the real world.
I don’t think it’s a fantasy either. I’m not trying to tell you that either. Maybe, and finally this might get closer to accuracy, by telling you what it is not you might be able to feel what it is. All the while I’m not doing justice to the experience. There isn’t way to share it any more than showing you ten thousand photos will help you feel the Okefenokee Swamp. The water there is a rich red black color that changes hue depending on light and depth and time of year. Trying to describe the water with a single color would be like chooses one color to tell someone what a rainbow looks like or telling someone the Grand Canyon is a really large hole.

There is a path on a farm and one day we, a woman I love and I, walked down that path and we found a live quail, sitting on the path, unmoving, but apparently uninjured. The photo of the bird does no justice to how it felt to find it or how that entire day felt to live it and how the photo of myself and a horse doesn’t tell anyone that she took that photo and how when I see it, I feel not the horse but the loss of the woman. And I still have no idea why that bird was sitting so still it allowed us so very near.

It is a form of reality. Even in madness rarely is there nothing at all there. The minds of those who perceive the Universe differently than the rest of humanity still operate within that same Universe. Love may be lost, love may be futile, love may be unrequited but it is still love, is it not? Unless you so choose to argue that love is madness and in that we would come to an agreement very quickly. I may have stumbled upon my strongest argument yet; what is real and what is not real can be expressed by everyone in love.

In the end, we all have to come to some form of peace as to who we are. Each person has to be able to look in the mirror and discover there is someone on the other side that’s acceptable, maybe not to the general public, perhaps not to family, maybe not to the Westboro Baptist Church, we can hope not, but one on one, the person you are is who you have to live with. Even if you change, evolve, or adapt, there still has to be some sort of mutual agreement within that things are going to be, at least, okay.

Oddly, of all that I said, love is what I come back to in the end. Not that I love being this but in love a person learns to take their object of affection as is, no guarantees or warranties or 30 day trial offers, no, you either love that person or you do not; you are either in for the long haul or kicked to the curb.

I meant to tell you about a dream, and maybe, in some way, I just did. But if it’s a dream, I’m good with that, and if it isn’t, I’m good with that too. Now, if it’s something external to who I am and what I am, well, it’s going to be much more interesting.

Take Care,



  1. "The idea that I am less insane than I sound bothers me more than the idea that I might be more insane than I sound."

    I completely agree. Otherwise, how do we explain to anyone, much less ourselves, what's growing in our brains if it's not insanity, glorious, beautiful madness?

    1. I think I'm finally getting used to the idea I'm not going to figure it out, and that's cool.