09-25-2023, 11:48 PM
When I am falling asleep, dreams wash over me as I doze off. When I had that virus you mentioned, much as when I took suboxone, every time those liquid dreams began to soak my brain, I'd jump and feel like I was having a seizure. My dreams would last a split second. I'd be there then there then there, one place doing something, then another, then another, and for hours, days when I had the virus. Those are the times to chant the Dream Songs, or anything else that fits the aesthetic.
Feverishness. Remember the scene in Tom & Viv where she tells him that he likes being sick because it makes his poetry better?
I was stopped up, couldn't breathe, when I became so exhausted, I went into those twilight dream states for hours, and the Figures there taught me how to breathe without breathing.
I also heard and had visions of young people standing by the sides of the road holding signs and shouting "I can't breathe! I can't breathe!" It was so vivid, to this day, it feels like that was really happening. But I know that there's no way that it was, since we were on Lockdown.
There was a low point of my life where I almost considered giving up drinking. I was lying in bed at five or six something in the evening listening to liberal radio and this came on:
I encourage listening rather than reading the transcript. I have a mystic relationship to radio waves and ABC spirits.
https://www.npr.org/2014/01/03/259392156...zy-writers
The last bit, the quote by John Berryman did it. It's reading The Dream Songs in May in the near sunset late afternoon, watching witch movies.
It's the manic black and white and the post-Yule liminal heartstrings of Janus-faced New Year's, party hats and wet midnight kisses far off over the trees and lakes. Marx Brothers, Richard Burton and Liz Taylor, Marlon Brando and Viv Leigh, the Syfy New Year's Twilight Zone marathon. What is that washing in and up to the door in the post firework (fireworks from the invisible dark yards beyond) quiet, is it Poe's Raven, an old friend cast in the starry mist silence thought lost, the pirates from The Fog, something far more obtuse? Black and white light and moments of static noise like the heavy-breathing glimmering waves around a drowning man paint the walls like a dim and empty lava lamp.
Go to sleep after you suffer to see "Night Call", my dead friend's favorite episode, and the last flickering remnant of light he saw on that New Year's years ago.
Then sleep on regrets like feral gravel under your pillow. And wake with hope. Less than a quarter of jug of wine left, and no Old Crow.
Feverishness. Remember the scene in Tom & Viv where she tells him that he likes being sick because it makes his poetry better?
I was stopped up, couldn't breathe, when I became so exhausted, I went into those twilight dream states for hours, and the Figures there taught me how to breathe without breathing.
I also heard and had visions of young people standing by the sides of the road holding signs and shouting "I can't breathe! I can't breathe!" It was so vivid, to this day, it feels like that was really happening. But I know that there's no way that it was, since we were on Lockdown.
There was a low point of my life where I almost considered giving up drinking. I was lying in bed at five or six something in the evening listening to liberal radio and this came on:
I encourage listening rather than reading the transcript. I have a mystic relationship to radio waves and ABC spirits.
https://www.npr.org/2014/01/03/259392156...zy-writers
The last bit, the quote by John Berryman did it. It's reading The Dream Songs in May in the near sunset late afternoon, watching witch movies.
It's the manic black and white and the post-Yule liminal heartstrings of Janus-faced New Year's, party hats and wet midnight kisses far off over the trees and lakes. Marx Brothers, Richard Burton and Liz Taylor, Marlon Brando and Viv Leigh, the Syfy New Year's Twilight Zone marathon. What is that washing in and up to the door in the post firework (fireworks from the invisible dark yards beyond) quiet, is it Poe's Raven, an old friend cast in the starry mist silence thought lost, the pirates from The Fog, something far more obtuse? Black and white light and moments of static noise like the heavy-breathing glimmering waves around a drowning man paint the walls like a dim and empty lava lamp.
Go to sleep after you suffer to see "Night Call", my dead friend's favorite episode, and the last flickering remnant of light he saw on that New Year's years ago.
Then sleep on regrets like feral gravel under your pillow. And wake with hope. Less than a quarter of jug of wine left, and no Old Crow.