“Never mind. Sorry.”

And it was another snapshot in which I looked crazy. Damn. Stupid sociology. Stupid clouds. I even called it, to “family and friends” – a “Cloud Study” – a hypothesis involving very old stories, specied and ecosytemic connection and the positive self-regulating devices of a macroorganism made up of many microorganisms with an all powerful driving force.

I only wrote the really crazy sounding stuff to people who – themselves – had some pretty crazy ideas at one point or another. Now: totally socially acceptable, if not celebrated…if only in academia or religion.

Nobody wrote back. Probably ’cause the idea(s) hit me so hard that I was a bit over-focused and excited sounding. It is something that happens sometimes.

Add the need to escapescapescape and, well – nobody ever said it was easy to have ideas. I guess I personally just don’t know how to package them or to whom to send them…that, my friends, is the value of art school and post-bac studies…you figure out what to do with your art and you know how to package your ideas so that they do not get you hospitalized and if you do get hospitalized – well, it’s all part of your brilliance.

Me, I might be done talking about a lot of things in the way that I have. The lenses are stacked too thick. (Meaning all these experiential accounts are too open to the negative subjectivity of the modern American mind and that people, in spite of themselves, tend to read me more and more poorly.)

Perhaps language is a dead language. Which sort of sucks for me because I have always celebrated the undistilled power of words. When they are used well…used poorly, words can carve you and your experience of life to sticks and stones. Which is remarkable me…the deleterious power of words. Their capacity to totally erase a person.

I came home and went to bed for a half-hour and dreamt of one of those places I have dreamt before.

A shaded road with a lake on the right, sun at two o’ clock and the shadows were so heavy on the road that they looked like huge holes and there were bicyclists, two of them, and I rode a bike as well.

It was hard to slow down and the shadows made it impossible for me tell how rough the road was and so it felt as if I were veering. I didn’t recognize the place yet.

At the end of the road, I was relieved to see the big strange dusty-faded red thing. Like an old submarine or a giant metal play-sculpture fashioned after a small colony of giant tube worms or a human heart, riveted together all wrong.

The trees had ended with the road and the sun was glaring bright.

On the road, I could not see because of the dark spots – and now, suddenly, I could not see for the sun.

I found a place to leave my bike. A bike that is actually quite real and here and spray painted black.

The lake was more an ocean there, at the end of the road, with a sea wall of sun bleached slabs. There was a road, I knew, that you could walk to and I was so excited to go that I woke up – wanting to ride my bike to Lake Eden. Which, after I fully woke up, I didn’t really want to do at all.

The other night, I dreamt of the white house in Clarke County, Georgia. In my dream, that’s where it is. I’ve dreamt it for years. A little house on the right side of the road, coming around a bend. The backyard slopes hard and there is a garden, never the same -the place is never the same – where it bottoms out. A small wooden shed.

I am always a little worried about that house, whether or not it is a safe place. Sometimes the lonely feel of it edges into nightmare. However, when I dreamt it the other night, the yard was warm and the air was yellow and there were friends and I said, “I have dreamt this house for such a long time.”

No small measure of disbelief in my voice.

No, haters, I don’t think these places are real. Except Lake Eden. Former sight of Black Mountain College, Buckminster Fuller, et. al.

We went out there for the LEAFest a few years back, a childhood friend was selling some of her stained glass wares. The boy got stung, twice, on the face by a yellow jacket (agitated by the cooling air, seeking some late-season sweetness in the form of strawberry jam on my kid’s face)

It’s that time of year again…the slowing down the waking up…it all is just endless, isn’t it?

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