dreams of a violent, jerky nature. the scene is dark. a piney scent musks the night. we are underground, a small and determined troop of mole-like men and women, clawing at the walls with our tools. the hole we have found and dug gapes open like a wound in the earth, sagging inward, seeming to moan. it will draw the attention of the Others, being pinned by the white light of the moon as it is.
the ones of us who were desperate before the end are now determined. the ones who seemed to lag slightly behind, or who existed in a different place than the others, are now the leaders. johnny forges ahead with determination. he has a good knife.
confusing transitions tumble the scene into a store, where everyone spreads out, looking for their own personal weapons. it is deserted. fluorescent tubes dangle from the ceiling like stalactites. i am looking for a good knife. i find some kind of gas-powered burner that flares up unexpectedly high when i turn it on. ryan is there, in the corner, pale face hovering as if disembodied in the flashlight's halo. he has found a small pack of arrows, and explains he can craft his own bow. he will shoot the birds down from the trees, he tells me.
i can't find what i'm looking for & now i'm the last one left in the dusty cave. turns out the whole thing was a mirage. or a hallucination. someone has slipped me a palm of some orange, powdery drug, which i refused, but it was on my palm when i wiped my face, and now i don't know if i'm tripping or not.
i remember ryan aiming his arrows at the trees. small sparrows falling to the earth - dull grey thuds. i remember johnny hewing at a tree with a small hatchet, having little effect, but straining to cut it down anyway.
>>
the back of my left hand: smeared with faded ink. a stanza of something that came while at the bar. shots & beers, shots & beers. meaningless conversations with big-cheeked girl whose hair was darkened artificially. all in black, with a black leather jacket. i imagined cherries. fuzzy white dice. red stilettos. she smiled and took a shot with us, chatted about something i couldn't hear over the pounding music, and left to dance with the guy at the juke.
i couldn't get drunk fast enough, and so missed my chance, but - in all fairness - spared my wallet.
then, talking with johnny crazyeyes at his house. taking knife hits of weed, standing around the stove as the coils turned neon. discovering that it's obvious to him that i talk about myself, and that's what i tend to do. he defends it for me, saying that it's simply a result of how i've learned to deal with shit. once again, i am further convinced that the negative opinion i hold of myself is true. corroboration, verification.
abruptly, just pausing to think about it, i am vertiginously sad, plunged down deep inside of myself. then the struggle back up the throat, to drymouth harbor, and back outside of myself again. i am told i look 'angry' when i walk down the street. i defend it with 'listening to music' or 'thinking about something'. generally awkward when confronted with it.
back on the caffeine train, too: seems that once you pop, you don't stop. red bull barges its way back into my life. the toreador is gored. same on other fronts, too. like i never even made any progress.
momentary assessments: my stomach is empty. my right eye is dry. my breath is shallow. my heartbeat is rapid. my mouth is dry.
it is windy, today.
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