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Dream
I know you won’t believe anything in this post, but I don’t care. Few places or people on the internet will tell you their dreams, their real dreams, not pipe dreams or day dreams, but the crap that happens during REM sleep. Some of what I’m going to tell you will freak you out. It will confirm what you already thought of me. I’m remarkably weird and thoroughly complicated. So here we go.
I remember most of my dreams, in color, with full storylines, and they’re soundtracked.
Last night, for what seemed like hours on top of other hours, I dreamed that my wife worked for the President, was always away, and I was convinced she was having an affair with one of the President’s top aides. There were plot devices, double mcguffins, and a moment where I removed myself from the storyline to talk to myself about my paranoia. All the while two songs were playing, “3 Strange Days” by School of Fish and Forest for the Trees “Dream.
In my dream there was no proof The Bobina was doing anything wrong. The dream was exclusively about my insecurities as a husband, father, son, and friend. I listened to those two songs numerous times before I went to sleep, while researching two political posts ideas for my Friday column for http://www.sprocketink.com and pondering my wife working several hours late Friday night. So, seeds were planted.
The last of what I can completely recall of this dream played out over the lat lines of the Forest Through The Trees’ Dream song
Stretch it out, don’t doubt the amount
my brain is caught
I’m just blessed
Trip hoppin’, so I flow like a stream
It’s just a dream
I woke up and kissed my wife. She just rolled her eyes and went back to sleep.
*****blogger’s note****
My friend Mollie from http://mollieisokinuk.blogspot.com/ and @MollieisOkinUk ‘s husband wrote a cool post about the perfect meatball and that led Mollie to challenge me with Use Forest for the Trees’ “Dream” as a personal post. Then, things got weird.
Forest For The Trees – Dream
Wichita
A spear shot from the dense jungle slope aimed for an unaware babirusa. It struck above the heart and the wounded pig-deer scattered toward thick brush. A muscled young man ran from the dark forest at full speed and dove with calulated athleticism. A wrestle between man and beast began. The small tusk of the babirusa cut him in the left bicep. He continued to grapple until the prey was secured in the rope he pulled from his waist satchel. He hoisted his catch over his right shoulder when someone yelled.
“Break! Wichita, you’re amazing! We have to stop. That gash on your arm is too bloody for national television and I can see your metal.”
Several cameramen, assistants and sound technicans emerged from the jungle. Wichita dropped his tied babirusa. A bottled water was shoved into his right hand. Blood oozed from the injury and Wichita glanced at the damage. He could see the metal sinews of his robotic left arm. He felt no pain.
“Alright Wichita, we have a special scene coming up. The second season is going to be about conflict.”
The director spoke with his hands forming an imaginary box. Wichita’s dark brown eyes followed every motion.
“People get that you’re alone and used to running this island by yourself. Now, they need to see what happens when someone invades your turf? The first episode is called Inspirational Disappointment.”
The short, quick talking director was 30 years old with balding red hair that he hid under a baseball cap carrying the name of Wichita’s owner, the television production company “Uncharted”.
Wichita remained silent. He was tall, handsome with long brown hair. He was a brilliant hunter who relished every adventure and liked living alone but he was was a product, someone’s creation. His lot in life made him feel daily shame, yet he maintained a puppyish loyalty. The director yelled again.
“Engineering is going to work on our star! When when we come back from break, we’re going to Wichita!”
****blogger’s note****
This is for the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Bewildered Bug http://www.bewilderedbug.com/ challenged me with “Inspirational disappointment” and I challenged Amy! http://www.pleasantlydemented.com/ with “instant karna’s going to get you”. This is also for the 333 word Trifecta Challenge prompt SHAME verb \ˈshām\ http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/
They Shoot Ramones, Don’t They?
I walked out of the gas station with my diet dr. pepper. A tall, floppy haired young man, no older than 20, walked in the door I exited. His scraggly appearance was hi-lighted by a black leather jacket and a crisp, black t-shirt that looked like this:
I smiled, then smirked, and spoke to him.
“The Ramones are great. They’re one of my favorite bands.”
I was proud of the kid’s response. Full of anti-social attitude and get away from me creepy older dude snarl, he mumbled incoherently and passed me into the store. The Ramones would be proud of him.
Ramones t-shirts are sold at Target. You can’t open a music book or website and not see The Ramones epic 1976 debut ranked in the top ten of something. That wasn’t the case 35 years ago. When the The Ramones released their record, most people ignored it and them. The only major critic that paid attention was the legendary Lester Bangs. He loved them. People ignored Lester, as well.
Time has been kind to the memory of the four losers from Forest Hills, Queens, New York. I always harken to this example when people talk about criticism.
I’m “this close” to finishing a book. I’m also self publishing some short stories by the end of December. I’m terrifed at the reaction.
Two years ago, when my wife shook her head at my scribbling in notebooks and suggested I resurrect my blogging career, I paced my entire house dozens of times wondering if anyone would care. I’d been divorced. I’d been through therapy. I now live with four strong willed, determined women who know how to push my buttons and get their way. I could handle comments from “strangers” on the internet. Right?
Over the past 11 months, I’ve written every day. Most of what I’ve penciled hasn’t made it to My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog. Crazy Robot Stories passed 57 thousand words for Nanowrimo, thus certified or “won”. I’ve got about 67 thousand words en total. Ironing out the ending should make it novel-sized and editor ready. Helene Troy, my wife approved girlfriend, has about 22 thousand words written, with about 15 of it shown. Millicent, the serial poisoner, is a solid 4 thousand word short story sitting with my editor/writer friend Grace http://thegraceofpirates.blogspot.com/ aka @octoberesque . Italian Radio’s 4 thousand words are with Writer’s Digest waiting for a thousand buck cash prize and the adoration of tens. Among those works, I’ve received over 600 comments. Some have been beautiful. Others have been harsh. It’s the rough ones I’ve learned the most. They’ve made me a better writer.
I know I brag about being part robot. I don’t believe if I wasn’t wired this way, I could handle the reviews. Waking up wrong, every day, with these women I live with, gives you rhinoceros skin.
Joey Ramone, The Ramones lead singer and song writer, died 10 and a half years ago, from cancer. Before he died, he gave an interview to Maria Bartriromo of CNBC financial news fame. She asked him if he regretted toiling in obscurity for the first part of his career. He responded profoundly.
“You know, I always wanted to be liked. Now, I just want to be appreciated. I enjoyed my life when I had nothing… and kinda like the idea of just being happy with me. “
I hope, if this writing I’m doing, sees any light of day, I can be as thoughtful as the late great Joey Ramone.
As my comment box asks, Whatdya got?
Today’s song is the first thing anyone ever heard from The Ramones. If you don’t like this, then you’re the problem. Here’s one of the greatest songs I’ve ever heard, Blitzkrieg Bop….
Rolling in the Deep
“What’s the matter, baby?”
His wife, Shane, gave an easy smile. Caleb didn’t respond, the pains built.
“We need gas. I’ll get drinks, too.”
He pulled onto the Dublin, Georgia exit off Interstate 16. They were two hours from their weekend getaway in Savannah. Caleb arrived at a rundown Exxon with two pumps. He yanked the keys from the ignition. Shane got out too. Her face was filled with bewilderment and anger.
“Caleb, you just cut off the last part of the girls’ favorite song.”
He frowned and handed Shane the car keys then ran his gas card. There was no latch to hold the pump in place. Caleb threw his fists in frustration.
“Why did I have to pick such a redneck gas station?”
His chest spasmed and he dropped to his left knee. Shane changed her look to worry and leaned into his shoulder.
“You’re scaring me! Tell me what’s wrong!”
Caleb didn’t know. Two weeks shy of his 40th birthday, he felt like he was dying.
“Tell Juliet and what’s her name to pump the gas. Let’s go into the station. I’ll try to explain.”
Juliet Runson and her friend Keely Sanchez emerged from the back seat. Juliet knew her parents’ facial expressions and body language. Shane curled her lips and mouthed “come here”. Juliet took over the gas pump and asked Keely some innocuous question about their favorite teenage vampire television show.
Caleb and Shane walked inside the gas station’s tiny shopping area. He opened the door of the soft drink cooler and collapsed again. Pain singed his chest. He thought heart attack. Shane sat next to him, holding his hands.
“Tell me what is, baby!”
He felt better, regained strength, let go of her hands and pulled out four Diet Dr. Peppers.
“I don’t know. I think either you or Juliet should drive the rest of the way. I need to tell you about an email I got from a woman named Breann Lucos.”
Writing often involves a metaphorical journey as our characters move through the story and discover something about themselves.
This week, we’d like you to take us on an actual journey, specifically a road trip? Think about who is in the car. Where are they going and why? What’s on the radio or what are the travelers talking about?
The Joker and The Thief
It’s a slow morning at work. The last thing someone as weird and anxious as me needs, is plenty of time and idle hands. I purposely get into work an hour earlier than everyone. The reasons for this is; time to read, time to write, and time to think.
I often call myself a robot or a robot-human hybrid. This is part truth because I think I’m wired much differently than most of you. It’s part fiction, because I choose something sarcastically symbolic as cybernetics to highlight my oddness despite the fact I have parents, birth certificate, blood, and guts. I am unlike my wife, kids, friends, parents, and coworkers. Very much so.
The clock read 8 o’clock a.m. and while waiting for phone calls to be returned and emails to be answered, I looked down at my notebook and saw me changing the lyrics to Bob Dylan’s All Along The Watchtower, to “make them better”. Really, dude? It’s Uncle Bob. He is “better”. The man took some phrases from The Book of Isaiah, poeticized them, and wrote an allegory about the evils of the music business juxapositioned against the freedom art provides. For a moment in time I thought I could make Bob’s words clearer.
I want to know the identities of the joker and thief. Many people think it’s Jesus and the thief across from him on the cross. Others insist it’s Dylan and Elvis (who was accused of stealing his act from black musicians). I want the joker to be the people who “get it” and the thief to be people “who don’t get it”. I want the song to be a battle cry for people who think like I do against people who don’t me and the few of my kind.
I’m reading about the Penn State situation and not grasping why everyone involved isn;t fired or imprisoned. We had a referendum on Sunday alcohol sales that 20 voting places including my county, Gwinnett in suburban Atlanta, Georgia, passed. I’m shaking my head at why where I live could be so backward at not providing the choice to voters before now. I look at the Billboard 100 music charts and think to myself, “is everyone stupid?”
My friend Tara wrote something today taht you all should read several times over: http://thinspiralnotebook.wordpress.com/2011/11/09/stay-real/ It’s really well done and I don’t want to spoil the reading goodness, but what Tara and in a different, I’m saying, is thank you Al Gore for the internets. Instead of a rubber room with crayons, juice boxes, and plastic untensils, I get to blog in central heat and air with an occasional burrito to almost 100 people a day who are as crazy as I am. *waving*
“There must be some way out of here” said the joker to the thief
“There’s too much confusion”, I can’t get no relief.
That’s perfect, no need to deal with it any more, robot boy. It’s definitely a 2 pill day for me, today.
Today’s song is obvious. I want you to pay attention to the words so Jimi Hendrix’s version will wait for another day. Here’s the greatest songwriter of all time, Bob Dylan, with All Along The Watchtower.
Robot Fool
A couple of days ago, one of my fellow robots, Kristi, over at http://www.therobotmommy.com , issued a challenge. The prize is a $50 gift card to Starbucks. The mission is doing a robot dance, on video, and send it to her website. I don’t drink coffee, eat muffins, hang out with hippies, or dance. Yet, I felt compelled to enter Kristi’s contest because I was overwhelmed by the flu and love for my starbucks drinking women.
This is also my contribution to 30 Days Of Shameleness, specifically, number 2; act like a fool. I know that any of my blog posts qualify for acting the fool, but I wanted to go all the way. So, i made a video of me robot dancing. Honestly, the 3 minutes speaks for itself. You will either hate me or pity me or create a new word- pityhateme.
Daft Punk’s Robot Rock is providing the soundtrack for this youtube ridiculousness, so that serves as the song for the day. Pityhateme:
