REAL GHOSTS--TARZAN. No not Tarzan the Ghost.

I am becoming more a believer in things that go bump in the night. A few of my friends here have given me more insight into the spiritual realm. I honor their beliefs and thank them for giving me information and their confidences without naming those friends. You guys know who you are, and thanks again.

I am sorely tempted to offer this third-hand, "true" ghost story in the form of fiction. I am not feeling well or sharp enough to tackle this. This is a compelling story I think, nonetheless. I am going to "disguise" some facts anyway, so as not to give away locations, etc.

First, I was just watching one of those early Tarzan movies on television. Tarzan rides up astride an elephant to the elephant graveyard. (I think of old ivory, something one friend of mine likes.) Anyway, Tarzan rides up all manly, and Jane rides up, slung in perfect model pose, draped across the head and the trunk of the beast. Marvelous, and Maureen O'Sullivan pulled it off.


The ghost story takes place in a firehouse. Supposedly, somewhere near was a cemetery. I have tried to check this and I can't find any trace of the cemetery in old records. Firemen work shifts of four or five days on site, and several days off. They sleep at the firehouse.

In a certain bedroom of the firehouse, a ghost is present. This ghost is in the form of a girl or young woman in a white hood. One of the firemen, who sleeps in the bed, in the haunted room, sees her at night, even now. When she sits, he feels the bed move. He sees her often. She comes, and sits at the end of his bed. She does not speak from what I understand, nor does she particularly "vex" him with stunts or moans or crying. No rattling of chains is heard--no pleas are made. This white hooded figure simply comes and sits on his bed.

This is not a recurring dream. The fireman is not confused or insane. This ghost comes--whether he is awake or asleep, sits on the bed. The bed moves with her weight. The fireman did not reveal his story to others.

The fireman decided to call a psychic--ghost buster if you will, to rid himself of his guest. The psychic came, assessed the situation as they will, and made these recommendations. I am sorry for giving away such secrets, but I will. The suggestion from the psychic was to put a palm frond from palm Sunday under the haunted bed. This was done.

Next, the fireman was told to put a coin from a certain year in the window--no I don't know the year, to shove a toothpick in the door lock. Ay, so there is the rub... The lock already had a toothpick in it, and the window already had a coin oif a certain year.

The fireman began to ask around. Yes, the other men that sleep in the room have seen this white hooded figure. Now, she still comes, and politely leaves apparently when she is told that there is no time for her. I love this story.

I am no fan of any television show that purports to prove ghosts with cold feelings, the pulling of hair, or infra-red lights. I do believe that people believe they see ghosts. Ghosts are a staple of mysticism throughout the world. Flood stories too, and there are other common themes in religion and mysticism throughout the world. I will not try to convince you. There is no proof of ghosts, or God if you will, or that romantic love is any more than a slightly sick feeling in one's gut. Yet we see ghosts and trust God and love. Who am I to disbelieve such phenomena any more than I can disbelieve the existence of the universe because I don't understand it?

Hope you like this story. Peace.

RED HOT--Brand New Old Story

Hi folks. Nothing true about this story but the girl. Ah, Johnny's sister, but not Johnny really. She was real, to the birthmark on her face, and I saw her at her door, once? Twice? I was in Seventh Grade, and she was so nice. I had never had a real girlfriend by then. She never became a real girlfriend, but she was a lovely young girl who made me feel special with the briefest of contacts. On to the show. Another kid story. These is the end of them I think.

RED HOT
by Frank Criscenti

Johnny and I used to discuss pain and death. We debated which was worse, having a red-hot poker shoved up your ass or drowning in a vat of shit.
Johnny's sister, Meagan, is thirteen. That's a year older than Johnny and me. She's one of those people who's always nice to everyone. She got a great smile, perfect hair, and a star-shaped blotch of dark skin on her face.

One day I came by to see Johnny, and Meagan answered the door. She told me, "Johnny's out getting a haircut."
"Oh." I thought I should leave but something held me there.
"It's a nice day, don't you think?" she said. I said it was for a school day. "That's a nice shirt. The color looks good on you. Is it new?"
I shook my head. As shirts go, the shirt I was wearing seemed ordinary but for the lime-green color of it.
We stood there without saying anything for a minute.
"Well," she said. "It's been nice talking to you... Goodbye." She stayed at the door.
"Yeah," I mumbled because I didn't know what to say. She went inside and closed the door slow. After the door was closed, she looked out the little window in the door.
I waved. "Later." She smiled and waved back. I liked Johnny's sister even with that thing on her face. I liked her a lot.
One day at school, my teacher, Old Man Harvey grabbed me and shook me because I threw a book at this bastard, Tom Neidharder, who used to be my best friend. Someone told me Neidharder called my mother a name. I can't even say what he called her, it's that bad. Knowing Neidharder like I do, I know he said it.
I couldn't even think straight after the shaking Old Man Harvey gave me. People are always messing with me because I'm kind of skinny. People say I don't eat enough.
When I got home I told my mother I had a headache. I told her what happened except the throwing the book.part. She called Randy, my stepfather, into the room to hear. I could tell he'd been drinking by the smell. When I told him the story he got mad as hell. He and my mother decided to go to school.
In the office, Randy threatened to beat the hell out of Old Man Harvey, the principal, the whole lousy P.T.A., if anyone at school ever laid a hand on me again. Randy said, "I'll discipline my own kid. I don't need you to do it for me." It kind of embarrassed me. He didn't need to make a big deal about it.
Then Harvey came in and told them I threw a book. On the way home Randy got me pretty good. My mother sat in the front seat with him. I sat in the back. While he drove, he cursed me and swung his fast across the back seat and caught me square in the head a couple of times. My mother would bob her head out of the way of his swinging fist every time, but I couldn't duck him.
Funny how Randy could do that--drive and curse and hit you at the same time. Even when you moved right behind him where you thought it was safe, somehow could swing his fist and catch you pretty good. He must be double-jointed or something.

When you think about it, getting a red hot poker shoved up your ass would screw up your insides pretty good. Might not kill you but just make it so you wouldn't want to live anymore. If you drowned in a vat of shit, at least you'd be dead. At least you wouldn't suffer as much.
"What's that thing on your sister's face?" I asked Johnny one time.
"I don't know," he said. "Just some stupid birthmark. She hates it. What do you think is worse, having a red-hot poker shoved up your ass or having you dick cut off a quarter-inch at a time?"
"Try them both and then report back to me." I said. Johnny grinned. He was always grinning about something stupid.
One time I knew Johnny wasn't going to be home. I put on my lime-green shirt and went to his house. As I knocked on the door, I felt like some kind of asshole standing there. His sister answered.
"Johnny home?"
"No," she said. "How are you? Have a nice day in school."
"No, I don't really like school." I took a deep breath. "Did you have a nice day?" I asked.
"It was great. We did wood blocks in art." We stood there looking stupid. "Well, Johnny will be back later," she said after a minute when nobody said anything.
"Oh," I said.
"Guess I should go in," she said, then started to ease the door shut.
"I like your hair," I said.
"She blushed. The blotch even turned red. She swung the door open, walked down the three stairs to me, beaming. I kissed her square on the lips. She kissed me back, then ran back inside and closed the door and didn't even look out the little window.
When I got home that afternoon my apartment was a shambles. Lamps were knocked off tables. All my stepfather's clothes were thrown in the hall. There were broken dishes in the living room. My mother was crying. She had a shiner under her left eye. Guess she hadn't ducked at least one of my stepfather's punches. My stepfather wasn't around, but he'd come back. He always did.
"The lousy bastard," my mother mumbled.
I tried to clean up some of the shit, but sometimes when stuff like that happens you just don't feel like it.

The whole idea of always talking about red-hot pokers up the ass or drowning in shit started to annoy me. Seemed like Johnny couldn't really think about anything else.
One day after school, we wandered around town, going nowhere. Johnny going on and on about nothing important. At this construction site, we yanked a couple of stakes with the red flags attached to the end out of the ground. We started a sword fight. I stuck him in the stomach.
"I killed you," I said.
"You just wounded me," he said.
"You'd be laying on the ground bleeding to death!"
"Like hell!" He swung the stake back and forth as if he wasn't even hurt. It really pissed me off, him acting like that.
"You would be dying," I screamed.
"I'm a ninja warrior."
I swung the stake and he blocked it with his.
"Not so hard," he said. "You'll break it."
I smashed the stake into his. They hit together so hard I could feel it all the way through my arm.
"Take it easy," he said. But I didn't want to take it easy. I wanted him to know he was wrong--wanted him to understand that you couldn't get stabbed in the stomach and keep on fighting, so I jabbed him again in the same place, but harder.
"Ugh," he said when I hit him this time.
"I got you again," I said.
"It's just a flesh wound!"
"You're dead!" I screamed.
He kept swinging his sword toward me, which went "whoosh" every time he swung. It was enough to drive you crazy. I feinted toward his belly then bashed my sword down on his head. Johnny went down, bleeding.
He howled and cried. "Am I going to die?"
"No," I said, though I wasn't really sure. I helped him home, left him in the kitchen with his mother wiping the blood off his head with a damp washcloth.

Johnny's parents made my parents and me come over that night to their house. My stepfather punched me in the stomach before we left. I had to lie on the ground for about five minutes before I could catch my breath. At Johnny's house, my mother wore sunglasses to hide her shiner.
The adults sent me into the living room to sit with Johnny and Johnny's sister while they discussed what should happen to me. Whatever Johnny's parents could think up wouldn't be as bad as what Randy would do.
As we sat in the living room, Johnny kept showing me where they put the five stitches in his head. He said he'd barely felt it when I hit him. He said he didn't even cry when he got the stitches. I said it was an accident. Johnny said he knew it was. Stupid asshole, Johnny.
Meagan asked if I was going to get in big trouble. She asked me nice, like she cared. Johnny sat on the couch between us. Just when I wanted to tell his sister how scared I was, he kept talking about how his skull still felt numb, trying to make me feel worse than I already did.
Johnny's father and mother called me into the kitchen after about a half-hour. Randy got up, stood behind me. He put his hand on the back of my neck and dug his fingers in just enough so I'd know I'd really screwed up this time. Johnny's mother and father gave me this speech. They said I couldn't come over to their house for a month. Said it been agreed that it was the best punishment. They said they knew it was an accident but that we shouldn't have been fighting with stakes in the first place. Johnny would get punished too, for pulling such a dumb stunt, they said. His mother said I was lucky I hadn't put Johnny's eye out of something. When they were done lecturing me, Randy squeezed hard, and I said I was sorry.
On the way home my stepfather yelled at me. He worked himself into a frenzy. The spit ran down his face as he shrieked. After he'd worked himself up good, he pulled the car onto the side of the road He climbed into the back seat and started wailing on me.
My mother sat in front still wearing her sunglasses. While he beat me, she just looked out the front window, even when I begged her to make him stop. The only thing she said the whole time was, "Not his face."

Johnny walked around school like a war hero. He said after we left his parents took him and his sister out for hamburgers and ice cream. He got to order anything he wanted, so he got a shake at the burger place and a banana split at the ice cream place. I never said a word. I couldn't brag about what my stepfather had done to me. Randy told me not too. My insides hurt as if someone had shoved a red-hot poker up my ass.
I saw Meagan a few days later at the mall. We walked around awhile, holding hands. It was cold that night, so Meagan wore these soft knit gloves. When it started to get dark we went into the parking lot. Our breath puffed in the air like we'd been smoking cigarettes. I put my arms around her waist and we kissed. I told her she was pretty. She covered the thing on her face. I pulled her hand away. I said, "I like you the way you are. You don't have to hide anything from me." We kissed again.
Later, she asked what happened to me for what I did to Johnny. I showed her the bruises on my ribs.
"Does it hurt?" she asked, all concerned.
"Nah," I said.

#######
From Furious Fictions 92, #1.

The Thing--A short story from the past

THE THING

Frank Criscenti

Summer, 1958.

The new, Chevrolet Corvette convertible, top down, pulled out to pass on the two-lane Mojave blacktop.

The boy counted the cars as they fell behind. One-two-three-four...

From the other direction, a car raced toward them, collision course.

Five-six-seven. Seven. Same as his age.

His mother steered the sportscar into its own lane. The other car blew by them, its horn blaring. Zoom—gone, the noise with it. The boy looked behind and watched as the car disappeared in flashes of chrome and window glass.

The ends of his mother's blue scarf, tied over her platinum-blonde hair, flapped in the wind. Clear road ahead. He checked the speedometer. Ninety. He liked a hundred better. A boy could brag about a hundred to his friends, if he had any.

He watched the silvery-blue water mirages boil up on the desert flat.

“Lousy two-timing son-of-a-bitch,” his mother said.

“Who?” the boy asked.

“Why would he treat me that way?”

“Joe? You talkin' about Joe?”

“Never mind.”

They raced toward a roadsign. He read it. He could read most anything now. The sign showed a cartoon prospector with a cartoon mule looking blown by the wind of a passing car: WHOA PARDNER! TURN AROUND AND HEAD BACK TO THE NUGGET. THE NUGGET HOTEL AND CASINO LAS VEGAS, NEVADA.

“You be good for your grandma and grandpa,” she said.

“Okay.” It was not okay.

“It won't be long. Just till I get things straight. A month or two, six at the most. Then you can come back to Vegas and live with me.”

“Okay.”

More signs. NEXT TIME IN VEGAS VISIT FOXY'S.

Cartoon fox. He liked cartoon signs.

His mother glanced over at him. He looked back, trying to meet her gaze through her sunglasses. He smiled and wondered why she didn't like him anymore.

He stared down at the white buttons of his white shirt. He straightened his plaid, clip-on bowtie, ran his fingers over the fuzz of his crew-cut. He lifted his butt off the seat and looked into the rear-view mirror at his face. He hated his round, tortoise-shell glasses.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a small sign. He'd almost missed it. THE THING IS COMING.

“What's The Thing?” he asked.

“I wouldn't know.”

“What's it mean?”

“It's just a sign.”

More road signs. Some large then small again. Small white signs with red letters: ICE COLD POP! SOUVENIRS! THE THING!

“Can we see The Thing?”

“We're in a hurry. I got to get back. I've got to work tomorrow night.”

She owed him a look at The Thing. He looked inside for the anger he had felt when she first told him he was going away. He had screamed at her. “It's best,” she had said.

They passed a line of cars. Five cars this time. Speedometer up to ninety-nine.

IT'S COMING!

“I don't know why these these keep happening to me,” she said.

“What things?” Another small white sign with red letters.

“First your father, then Joe. I can't understand why it's happening. I don't want to be alone.”

He'd already decided the reason for his mother's problem. “You know how there's more women than men in the world?”

“Yeah,” she said, glancing at him before pulling out to pass two more cars.

“Well, maybe when all the men and women pair off, you're one of the ones who gets left out.”

She looked down at him. “Maybe that's right.”

“You always got me,” he said, grinning.

“Thanks,” she said looking back at the road.

He watched the roadsigns. THE THING TEN MILES/

“Can we see The Thing? Please?”

ICE COLD POP!

“No.”

“We could get something to drink,” he said.

She passed another line of cars. A hundred. Finally. A hundred-and-one-and-two.

THE THING! 7 MILES.

“Please, I'm real thirsty,” he said, trying to make good sense. “You could get an ice cold pop.”

Six miles. Five miles. One car. Two cars. Four miles. Three.

“Please. Pretty please with sugar—and strawberries—and an ice cold pop. Please.” He wanted to see The Thing more than anything in the world.

The white signs with red letters lined the road now. He could see a low, beige, ramshackle building with a tin roof. There were big signs now.

THE THING IS HERE! DESERT MYSTERY, MOHAVE MONSTER.

“Please, please, please?”

The gravel pelted the underside of the car as she swerved into the parking lot.

They got out. He could see no Thing through the dusty windows. They went inside. The shelves on the walls were lined with souvenir, ceramic coiled rattlesnake ashtrays. He's seen those before. He'd seen the fake Indian papoose dolls, seen the fake Indian spears with the feathers and the rubber points. He'd never seen a Thing.

A skinny man stood near the cash register, sweating.

“He wants to see The Thing.”

“Fifty-cents,” the man said.

“I don't want to see it alone,” the boy said.

“I thought you wanted to see it.”

“Not alone. You come too.”

“Damn.” She dug into her purse as she walked over to the man. She handed him a dollar.

The man limped. He led the boy and his mother to a doorway near the counter. The doorway had a chain across it. The man unhooked the chain and let them into a cool hallway. They walked doiwn the hallway and stopped at a space cut in the wall. In a space, encased in glass, a gila monster sat on some sand and gravel.

“Is that The Thing?” the boy asked, unsure if the lizard was even alive.

“It sure-as-hell better not be,” she said.

They moved down the hall. They saw some Indian artifacts in the next case. An arrowhead. Some broken pottery. In the next case they found a rattlesnake. The snake flicked its tongue out and uncoiled. There were no cases then, but there was a doorway with a plywood partition built a few feet in front of it.

THE THING, it said on the partition in blood-red, drippy-looking letters.

The boy and his mother went around the partition into a ten-by-ten room. Plywood had been nailed over the windows. In the center of the room, in a cage covered by chicken wire lay a small mummy.

The boy eased toward the mummy and stopped. The mummy was tattered and brown, covered with caked, cracked leather with a few faded beads sewn loosely on the chest. The boy could not make out any sort of face to The Thing. Just the outline of legs and body and arms plastered to the side and a thick round bump where the head should have been. It smelled old.

He heard his mother's footsteps tap out of the room. He crept up to the cage and looked through the chicken wire. The Thing lay so still. It was no larger than a small child. Smaller than he was.

He stretched his finger through the chicken wire on the side of the cage. He stretched and pushed until the wire gave and he could touch the mummy. He pushed at the stiff leather. It felt hard. He kept pushing, shoving the chicken wire back, stretching until whatever made uo the mummy gave and crunched.

He ran out of the room, his heart pounding. He ran through the souvenir shop. He ran outside where his mother stood, leaning her head back and drinking a bottle of Coke.

His mother looked white and trembly. She wiped the sweat of her face with her hand.

“What's wrong? Why did you leave me alone?”

“I don't like dead things. I don't like them and I don't like being in the same room with them. They scare me. Scare me to death.”

She reached down and picked up a bottle of Coke sitting on the dirt and handed it to him.

“Here, I got this for you.”

He took the bottle, the feel of the mummy still on his finger.

She walked back to the car. The boy followed. They got into the car. His mother retied her scarf. They tore out of the lot and drove.

“How long does a fly live?” he asked. He put the finger outside the car and let the hot wind blow against it.

“I don't know. Three days. A week.”

“How come things have to die?”

“I guess God makes it that way,” she said.

He stared out the window at the blur of the desert.

“Everyone's going to die someday,” he said. “Everyone is going to get old and die. Grandma and Grandpa. Me. Even you.”

He looked at his mother as she stared straight at the highway. He thought how she was the prettiest mother anyone could ever have. He looked at her and wondered why he had to go to his grandparents. He wondered why she didn't just turn the car around and take him back home. Why was she afraid to be left alone when she had him? He'd never understand that. Not ever.

She ground her foot onto the accelerator and passed a line of cars. One-two-three...

Published in Rag Mag 1992. Vol. 10, number 2.

Kumbaya--Skinny Man Smokin' a Fat Cigar

So Wednesday night I went with Chris, Leah's Chris, to smoke a cigar at a local shop. Yeah, we share that nasty habit, and we come home smelling like a dead dog shat in our hats and lit it afire. I don't want to hear how nasty it is. It is bonding and relaxing, and if a bunch of men want to congregate in some stinky space, smoking like a bunch of lox, well... no indentured prostitutes from Burma are involved, no women, no aids, no drugs but good old tobacco. No one dies in our sweat lodge til the next day perhaps...so there.
And you guys--meaning you women--would be surprised at what we discuss. Women? A little perhaps. How bout movies? Rambo and Rocky and at the very least some Japanese "R" movie with lots of swordplay. RRRRRRRRRRRRRR. ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.
But instead, we discuss the movie where the guy rides his lawnmower to see his brother (that's one of Chris' favorites,) and "Bridesmaids," "City Lights," "Cinema Paradiso," and "The Commitments." And do we discuss where the women in BM's chase about looking to defecate in the street? No. We discuss what chokes us up.
I am choked up at the end of "City Lights" and "Cinema Paradiso." I am choked up in the depression scene in "Bridesmaids." Chris is choked up at the lawn mower movie, and another with William Hurt, and well, we both like "The Commitments." Hell, a man can't always sit around blubbering at a movie God damn it!
So, Chris and I sit there, in the window of a cigar/cigarette/head shop--no offense, it is a wonderful place for men--and we talk about choking up in front of our children and our wives. Half the damn movies I see I am glad for the dark or diverted attention. "Hugo?" Got choked up. Suicide scene in "The Artist?" Damn, I made some crazy noise in the theater trying to suck up the tears over that. Chris? I expect he at least can sob quietly in his seat without giving himself away.
What are we? Fucking pussies?
The two of us. Chris and I sitting there, talking about stuff that you--ladies--would not expect. Not football, or tits, or karate chops, at least not much, but stuff that makes us cry on cue. Play it, you get tears.
We are Kumbaya. In the window, amonst the cigars and lighters and bongs and roach clips, we are just two fucking guys, talking about getting choked up. Talking about our commonalities. How we came to similar places by different highways. How we are failed. How we are frail. Even sometimes we talk about how we have beat the odds.
This is what I find so often.
I find life, filled with bad stretches. We stumble through it. My friends, they stumble through. Doctor's daughters I knew, boys from the wrong side of the track, athletes in high school, Havard grads--we do the best we can, and occasionally, we gather together in some little niche, that no one else finds appealing, and we compare notes.
Meet us there. There's some food, wine, an odor one can smell for blocks, and a bunch of guys talking about crying. In the background--way, way in the background, there is baseball.

Dreamy Thoughts. Picture this...

Are dreams real emotional experiences that satisfy or disappoint like real life?



With all my heart, I wish I were more creative. That is my dream. Better yet, I wished that everything I wanted to say could flow onto this page automatically, as if I were some conduit of the flow of life. I wished it just happened, and that I could tap into the perfect words, the perfect language. Do I write to be loved or to inform or entertain?

Look, let me say to all my friends, supporters, family, enemies--all of you who read these words--I am lost. I ache for perfect dreams because I can't create a perfect, or even relatively perfect reality.

I remember two early dreams I had as a child. One happened when I lived with my grandmother and grandfather, and my mother was away for an extended period. I was perhaps four. Somehow, in my dream, I lived in a windmill house. My mother came to visit me, and she held out a ball as a present. Then, her smile--this smile that I loved--began to turn monstrous and threatening as she held out the ball. Her features became evil. I awoke screaming, and my grandmother came to comfort me. Yes, I realize this describes a nightmare and that is why I remember it.

In the other dream that I remember, I was living with my father and his wife, not my mother. I am unsure if this dream came before or after the other, but I dreamed that I was at a carnival, among a bunch of tents. I haven't any idea if I even understood the whole carnival concept. Then again, I must have since the tents and the atmosphere my mind conjured were so perfect. In the dream, I was watching this carnival from beneath my blankets, looking out the opening as if it were the mouth of a cave. Suddenly, the carnival faces, the clowns, the merrymakers, the monsters of big, overblown emotions began to rush in at me. These visions mocked me and poked at me beneath the blankets. I could have sworn it was real. The absence of my real mother is the only consistent factor in both these dreams.

I used to have nightmares quite often. Bad dreams disturb me less frequently now. Always, an idea of betrayal permeated these. Faces changed or people, seemingly harmless sorts, always became horrible people. This particular sort of dream has seemed to disappear. Now, if I have a nightmare, or bad dream, betrayal is still the key ingredient every time. I have dreamed of family members doing terrible things to me. Not my family now, my children, or wife, or grandkids, they never vex me in this way. My father and my mother do though sometimes. Often, I am awakened as I curse these people aloud, and my poor wife wakes me.

Admittedly, I dream that my wife hates me sometimes. In my dream world, she has finally had enough of my transgressions, and I can't get through to her. Sometimes I wake up angry. Sometimes, when I realize the extent of the estrangement of our dream relationship, I wake up crying.

I have nice dreams as well. I dream still of flying, soaring, or being able to cover great distances in a single step. Sometimes, I dream I fly to great heights. Often, I ply my avian abilities for the amusement of others. Always, in my dreams and nightmares now, I am a young adult or teen. Yes, I have sensual dreams as well, often involving flying. These dreams are very welcome events admittedly.

I never have ghostly dreams or visions. I would welcome such experiences.

When my back was at its worst, I often dreamed of having to crawl. I have dream-crawled over the trails in Yosemite, the trails at the open space down the street, and in other familiar outdoor sites. Quite obviously, in my mind, I was contemplating a future of extreme disability.

For everything that's lovely is but a brief, dreamy, kind delight. Yeats.

Did Yeats have it right? Is everything that's lovely but a temporary imagining?

Do our minds create dreams, or do dreams create our desires?

My waking dream is to create perfect lines of text. I want to reach out to you. I want to display my inner goodness if you will, here, at this moment, in this space. Really, do I want to create to enlighten or to explain or justify my taking up space on this planet?

I want to create dreams here or on paper or as I whisper in your ear. I want you to imagine the dream of a breath upon the back of your neck. Imagine the sound of heartbeats within your lovers breast. I long to possess God's finger of creation, to enliven your passions or your hopes.


Isn't every single act of creativity a vision? Art, poetry, music, there isn't a test to evaluate its value. They are derived from dreams and are but scribbles or movements of air. Our dreams and hopes give them clarity and emotional impact. That humankind creates is not the point. The real skill involves seeing what is there and understanding what is meant. Isn't all understanding a leap of faith? Aren't all dreams extensions of our ability to see what is not there?

Well, it's time to sleep now. Wish me a pleasant journey.

Surrender

The flame that is your life, can be extinguished in but a moment. Express your love. Kiss your babies. Make amends. Sing. Live your dreams. Listen. Grieve. Surrender. Never regret another moment if you can. What you have to say, do, or contribute should not be put off. You may not get another chance.

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