Archive for July, 2018

Sleep Log #612

i have been

sleeping alot. is there such a thing as too much? too much time travel? too much darkness? well surprise these dreams were filled with sunlight and the sunlight wasn’t from a nuclear attack on nyc. one year ago i asked where would i be now. and here we are. sifting through the ashes of change. M&J bought a new house but in this dream it was a skyscrapping building overlooking the Judahque river. the river was the brightest blue so J wanted to paint the walls orange because #graphicdesign and M was out on the deck yelling down to shawn by the bright blue river. he hasnt shown J his tattoo yet and confided in me that hes scared as hell about her reaction. he is holding a dunkin donuts cup filled with JD and coke. K is also drinking in this dream and telling me that she is a partial therapist, part time theologist, adaquaited numerologist, bi-partisian contracTOR, elo-marine-bio-garderner, flOWER grOWER (please help me my dream is starting to lose)control. that is what we love about (isn’t it) dreams? )anything can happen) M&J are in the spaceship now, my ‘new’ car cant fly like theirs but its history is starting to come out. You know how like, when you are with someone and their history starts coming out?(exposed) as they circle the skyscrapper in Hoboken by the blue river, M is telling us about the lion.
s t o p.
here is where the dream loses it. i realize its a dream but let it roll. thank you for all these colours now. thank you for all the fears i have recently conquered. nothing was handed to us on a silver platter but its amazing how we can all help each other. waiting at the airport. a cat in a pool. anna and her friends bowling in wedding dresses. getting my tie caught is a screen printer. burying my brother. cursing the snow in july. missing my mothers birthday. remembering my fathers death (to the exact hour)3pm june 11 1971 and knowing at that moment, even though he was in boston, that something was wrong. marine biologist. brand new drill. painting the attic floor. my new friend the vending machine, and coffee maker. Powdered forgiveness.

Last year two old friends passed away. I hadn’t seen either of them in many many years. Decades. Several decades. Yet they were, like most old friends are, always there. One lived in Elizabeth NJ, was my old boss, the other was my best friend when I was growing up. He moved to Phoenix Az a long time ago.
When they both found out they were dying they made it a point to contact me. I tried texting but they insisted on talking by phone. Both of them mentioned all these crazy little funny things I did and said when we were friends. They said I helped them. They said I was funny and kind. They were glad to have met me and be friends with me and sorry that life had split us up. When I get down on myself I remember that.
they* were both in the dream. sitting on the edge of the balcony of M&J skyscrapper by the blue river. sipping cokes. looking down at the busy city street below.
Dream over.

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Sleep Log #15


writers blog:dry humid desert. empty for weeks
solution: make an assignment
Assignment: unemployment dreams
Begin: when it all finally happened it wasn’t like losing jobs that I had in the past. That sudden splash of cold water in your face-that dizzying blurred shock. In the past: One time walking down the streets of New York in a total haze. The financial numbers going thru my head. I’ve always been on the verge of total bankruptcy. Living paycheck to paycheck. But still, when they told me, I smiled and thanked them for the opportunity to work with them, the two short Jewish guys. I firmly shook their hands. Turned around and ran for the door before the other employees could see me.
There’s a certain amount of embarrassment to getting laid off. Although there shouldn’t be. The ones who should be embarrassed are the ones that lost the big accounts. Greedy negotiating or lack of salesmanship killed this place.
Canvas4death
Now: For a long time I had seen the end coming here. I had witnessed the first tiny leak in the hull. Shrugging that off as just something that happens in business. Each year more people jumping ship until towards the end it was just Gabby and me. Clinging on to the railing, our bodies half way deep into the salty rush of bankruptcy ocean. The builder of the boat unseen for four long years. Tangled in debt. Exhausted of credit.
So it wasn’t guillotine swift but it still hurt. I gave my everything and failed (or so I thought)

In all of the dreams nightmares of unemployment it is dark warehouses from my past. It is dreary and almost apocolypstic in nature. It is a David Lynch movie. Black and white. Filmed on streets of abandoned cities. Graffiti on brick walls still dripping wet. You are always alone. There is never anyone to help you.

Your new coworkers have blank faces and mumble instructions for your new tasks. You don’t understand. They shake their heads and walk back into an office probably to report you.
I’ve always thought to myself that money is the solution to all problems. Money equals happiness. But it is, as Forest Gump so simply says, one less thing. There are people in jail for the love of money. There are people dead from greed. Wars have been fought for wealth, It is somewhere written that cash is the root to all evil. The moral of the story is this: everyone finds out the hard way that money isn’t the absolute key to happiness. Respect money. Manage it well and you can live a good life. Try to get, hope for, pray for, inherit a good work ethic.
I had finally found a break, a paid vacation, sleeping in, staying up late but I couldn’t enjoy it. Finding a job is more work than actually having a job. The interviews. The revamping of resumes. The searching. The searching. And of course, the searching. Write a cover letter that will grab their attention in the first few sentences. Cliche is boring!
The real nightmare was reality. My car on the edge of total death. Every day a little older and who hires old people anyway? So fear is reality. Again. Fear triggers these nightmares of worthlessness, self-pity and creates these streets of industrial gloom in my dreams. Every job I’ve ever worked comes back to visit me. Decades before the dot com bust I delivered newspapers, tried painting, assembly lines, pumped gas, drove fork trucks down skinny warehouse aisles, poured five gallons plastic containers of bleach, loaded trucks on wind swept zero degree shipping docks on the overnight shift. Punched in. Punched out. Met a slew of the strangest people.
This is the thing: Suck up your fear. Walk thru the door. Shake their hand with power and knowledge. Smile with wisdom. And if you don’t know what the fuck they are talking about, nod your head in agreement and say you do. Fake it till you make it. The dots will always connect. They always have somehow for me.

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