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Tuesday Morning
Nov. 10th, 2015 09:52 amA couple of interesting dreams. In the first one, I have seriously taken up drawing. I'm sketching and sometimes it does not look so terrible. There are a few drawings that can seem kind of promising, but it is mostly realistic, that is, crappy and childish. I see myself with piles of drawings. It is a serious enterprise. It is as serious as I have taken my writing in the course of my real life. There is a lot of it. I even imagine taking my new habit to PolitiCartoons, posting my own cartoons there. I can imagine myself drawing President Obama.
The dream is not a happy dream, though. For all that I have been able to achieve with my writing, I might as well have taken up drawing instead. It would not have been worse for me. It would have given me something to do and pass the time, like my writing has. In the end, I have nothing real to show for my writing, and any drawings of mine could hardly have done worse. I cannot even begin to justify my life to anyone. Whether I have a big pile of crappy drawings or thousands of crappy journal entries, what difference does it make? What does any of it matter? Like I told Pig Shit last night, "I am just killing time until time kills me." I guess that has to be enough, but I cannot help feeling a little depressed about it.
This despondency over my writing has been building over the past couple of days. As I have been reading over my spill journal, I wince and cringe over its plainness, its simple-mindedness, the poverty of it. Of course, a spill journal is not meant to be a field for show horses. It is a place to feel free, unburdened by any standards, even the standards of spelling and grammar and sense. It is an opportunity to work off some stress and just talk, as well as to make quick notes of the little happenings that mark the day. Nevertheless, it is all I have to show for myself. Worse yet, when I think about calling my bluff and doing some serious, well-drafted writing, I know that there is nothing there. The quality of the writing might climb up another couple of notches, but ... I don't suppose money or love was ever really in the offing.
In the other dream, I go to the kitchen and see that mother burned dinner. As I look at the charred black piece of whatever, she says that she made something else. There are three pot pies that look badly overcooked as well. She is all smiley and happy for whatever indiscernible reason. She says that we will go out to eat, to The Sky Breeding Place. I'm unsure about the term 'Place'. It might have been something like 'The Sky Breeding Cafe'. I recall, in the dream, seeing it earlier on the road. It looked like a typical fast food joint. Pop is with us, waking up from a nap on the couch. He says he is going there. He looks like he might be in his late twenties, maybe early thirties, with black stubble over his chin, looking like he does in an old Christmas picture, the one in which he happily holds up a huge bottle of Jim Beam bourbon. Mother was perhaps a bit young, too. I am no kid in it, though.
At first, I thought this dream was simply weird. However, I then started focusing on that Sky Breeding Place, and I began to see a religious, heavenly theme, complete with Pop's positive assertion that he is definitely going there. The Inn at the End of the World. Maybe we will all be there soon. Jack wasn't in the dream - no little brother. And there was no pot pie for him. Remember, that was the original family plan: I was going to be an only-child, just me, no siblings, no bastards. I wonder what that might have been like, for mother not to have anyone but me to cherish.
The dream is not a happy dream, though. For all that I have been able to achieve with my writing, I might as well have taken up drawing instead. It would not have been worse for me. It would have given me something to do and pass the time, like my writing has. In the end, I have nothing real to show for my writing, and any drawings of mine could hardly have done worse. I cannot even begin to justify my life to anyone. Whether I have a big pile of crappy drawings or thousands of crappy journal entries, what difference does it make? What does any of it matter? Like I told Pig Shit last night, "I am just killing time until time kills me." I guess that has to be enough, but I cannot help feeling a little depressed about it.
This despondency over my writing has been building over the past couple of days. As I have been reading over my spill journal, I wince and cringe over its plainness, its simple-mindedness, the poverty of it. Of course, a spill journal is not meant to be a field for show horses. It is a place to feel free, unburdened by any standards, even the standards of spelling and grammar and sense. It is an opportunity to work off some stress and just talk, as well as to make quick notes of the little happenings that mark the day. Nevertheless, it is all I have to show for myself. Worse yet, when I think about calling my bluff and doing some serious, well-drafted writing, I know that there is nothing there. The quality of the writing might climb up another couple of notches, but ... I don't suppose money or love was ever really in the offing.
In the other dream, I go to the kitchen and see that mother burned dinner. As I look at the charred black piece of whatever, she says that she made something else. There are three pot pies that look badly overcooked as well. She is all smiley and happy for whatever indiscernible reason. She says that we will go out to eat, to The Sky Breeding Place. I'm unsure about the term 'Place'. It might have been something like 'The Sky Breeding Cafe'. I recall, in the dream, seeing it earlier on the road. It looked like a typical fast food joint. Pop is with us, waking up from a nap on the couch. He says he is going there. He looks like he might be in his late twenties, maybe early thirties, with black stubble over his chin, looking like he does in an old Christmas picture, the one in which he happily holds up a huge bottle of Jim Beam bourbon. Mother was perhaps a bit young, too. I am no kid in it, though.
At first, I thought this dream was simply weird. However, I then started focusing on that Sky Breeding Place, and I began to see a religious, heavenly theme, complete with Pop's positive assertion that he is definitely going there. The Inn at the End of the World. Maybe we will all be there soon. Jack wasn't in the dream - no little brother. And there was no pot pie for him. Remember, that was the original family plan: I was going to be an only-child, just me, no siblings, no bastards. I wonder what that might have been like, for mother not to have anyone but me to cherish.
