We heard about what happened to Gloria Trillo in last night's episode of our dream. In between her last scene, and the last we hear of her on the show, she had a son. We find out a little more of her sorrow, a little more to the poignancy of her suicide. Her son was fifteen, thereabouts. But before there was the most adorable toddler. A little baby boy. It was the first time where I was in the room—usually I'm just aware that everybody else wants to be around the boy, that the boy's just around the room. It was the closest to preciousness, a type of sentence never here attempted, as I remember the sensation of his little baby eyes, and his cheeks were fat and smiling, just naked and with diapers, people were giving him gifts in bags were the gifts and he was going after the gifts but then he had grown bigger and one couple a girl with hair I guess he couldn't get her bag and she was walking away. You could sense he was hurt, he was Gloria Trillo's kid, and he wasn't supposed to go chasing after the bag because it wasn't some gift for him. They told him not to, she wouldn't give it to him, you could see him get hurt while they were laughing but there was no gift for him, that he didn't understand, and he jumped onto the back of a green dumptruck because she had tossed a bag and he said he was going to get that bag and he jumped into the bed of the dumptruck. The metal inside started rotating like a cake mixer after him, bags tossed all over the place, metal, paper, and plastic, like an awkwardly violent windmill, awkward and perfect and mashed into gray.
press conference
i would have missed this if someone hadn't said look up
Tuscany, seasonal
- Who are these guys?
- Woa! woa
- What is this?
- There's too many of them.
- I can't move.
- Refuges?
- Jimmy!
- Should've never opened the—
- Look like just fuggees.
- Jimmy, I can't breathe...
- Where are we going to put 'em?
- Let's ride this out guys.
- Ride this out? Someone punch that guy!
- No, don't!
- There's no room.
- Well, nothing to be done now.
- Hold on guys, one of the calories is holding a press conference.
- It is true we are—
- Oh nuts to that! Flush 'em out.
- Open up the flood gates, guys.
- Suck fist!
- Show 'em how to disappear completely, Andy.
- The hell is it?
- It ain't coming.
- What do you mean? Give him a shot of the two.
- It's too late.
- Where are the Invisibles?
- We ain't gonna be able stop the bloating now.
- Talk about self-absorption!
- Who is...this...fat of the land!
- Jimmy, I can't breathe.
- Why ain't they floodin' them out?
- Here, take my hand.
- (wheezing) Jimmy.
- Take my hand!
- (wheezing) You tell Elaine...
- Don't you go talking like that now.
- Jimmy, listen to me...
- You gonna be all right, you hear? You 're gonna tell her—
- You tell I'll never forgive her.
- They're all over his face now.
- You tell her that, Jimmy!
- Here comes the bloat.
- You tell her!
they didn't say 6 slices
don't you start this shit again
We were on a little paddleboat on the ocean and about 100 spaceships flew over head. There was no mistaking what they were: something we had never seen before. The skies looked ominous, we nervously obvserved. The last one of them dove violently into the waves, and yes, you watched it penetrate the waters deep within. It was horrible timing, because I had a new crush. I think she was in the back of the paddleboat with us or I was following them as we were walking in a group along the pier and she was more to the front of the group and I was in the back of the group; all I remember about her is the initial feeling of infatuation in school and the government decided it had to look into what was the object in the water—what, by taking samples from the water?—while I was anxiously anticipating an explosion from the ocean and I walked back into the kitchen for this burly guy with long hair to tell me what happened; the news was on a dingy TV, suspended, but the kitchen kept shrinking and his bag of potato chips on the counter kept getting bigger and inside were more like giant colorful broken animal crackers and cookies; and the kitchen was like one of those dreamlike rooms where the square keeps getting smaller, and my dad walked through the interstice of the fridge and its outline, I was annoyed...this body, this body hanging over me...and pain is just an illusion
some fillers
btw I had a scant babe dream last night, in between many little other dreams throughout the night, and this sentence so far I like because right off I used a word like scant and the sentence itself running along feels free like 2015 so lets not push it or overreach. Okay, so far so good. We couldn't run, so we walked. That's the reality. That's where we're at—at least we can't ever say April is never uneventful. April is ever uneventful? Later*. So in the dream, it's nestled in between—well first, let's get to her. I'm watching her talk, no, speak, she never talks she speaks. She's talking to another girl, they're both women, you know, about all the men in her life these past ten years, which I have abridged, here, the figure—what she recounted though felt as deep as a lifetime, 100 leagues deep into the sea of some book that when I read of love affairs it's a tremendous and torrid trigger like a foreign film I can't help but click away on impulse and I'm listening intently, nodding along uh-huh uh-huh, it's not really vulgar, a lot of deep-rooted intellectual jargon, relationship know-how and concepts to me that would be like giving buzz-words to a baby and—hey, what the hell! there's no mention of me in there! I found myself waking up a few times in the night to hearing myself talk, it was quite pleasant, I was giddy, 'twas a wave of relief, Junior Soprano made an appearance in a dream, which he is always welcome to do, I felt like I had been swimming in a pool the last few weeks and as I thought I was getting out and it was 5pm then maelstrom
There was a skinny girl, and two guys around her. I had a perspective, is all I can surmise from memory. Some white and green, perhaps light brown, long hair. A wife-beater and green sweats. Tall and skinny. She had a knife and we had to step in to help her. She was cutting herself, cutting her arms, her wrists, the knife was big and the slashing was swift. As we spiraled around her to twist the knife from her arms, there was now red, white, and green. There was a close up of the wounds, but it was a close up of the top of just her hand, as though under a microscope, some 100 tiny shreds, each one its own little marsh, red and green driblets, almost perfect, symmetrical with some formula missing,
then onto a soccer field, oh it was a game now, we were watching a game—they had taken that fragile girl to the middle of a soccer game. Apparently one of the guys was perhaps her boyfriend and the other one—who had also been of help—I got the sense in the dream that there had perhaps been some tension there, that perhaps one had aided her better than the other figure...but there was certainly tension on the field, as the two were now on opposing teams. And the one who may have been of better help, supposedly the quiet hero, as he was being portrayed by the crowd—well, he was eating some goals now, to the dismay of the crowd, man he wasn't scoring any points. Then a group goes, oh come now, this is all too silly now, to weigh this game, where are the hot dogs?
* research shit about platitudes, be clever, don't be scared
rosy
i might run back to her, i seriously might. i don't know why. you know when you try to add up numbers in your head real quickly and draw a blank like what the tip is when the check is 37.60 and you write 45 total and while trying to impress her calculating the difference in a rush you feel yourself walking into dark crooked cave, it's that part of my brain that feels warm, tender, cloudy and blue when i think of being with her, blonde, erotic, thighs, she fucked him her face when she got back
even their friendship is like porn in front of me
michael clayton
I turned the movie off and lay listening to her snore, hoping to compile something for her, something she could read, and hopefully
I smiled looking at her, scheming, smiled thinking of her, thinking and smiling at myself scheming, smiling at her sleeping
during playtime I never afforded the thought girls also sleep
In a dark place. I've been looking through videos on youtube of dead gnomes. One man in Lithuania had severely wounded one. They were arguing around him, but I couldn't tell the language. He lay there appearing to writhe in short spurts, but in the distance through the camera lense, he seemed to be staring up above; he lay still, as though peaceful. Some people commented below, in a sort of heated exchange, why the giant man don't finish him off, he can leap up and crush his head, done, while another tried to assuage some apparent fury, that it wasn't a fatality. I, for a second, then panicked in what state the gnome could carry on and the shock to the senses, but why even read on?
ch. 4
two scorpios
ty
kymarch wrap-up
champions league
- the fixture on our couch
another fleetwood mac night
these days, when people walk by my car on the sidewalk and i'm inside, there's only classical music playing. i'll step outside to stretch my back, serene—i'm not looking around, afraid. i don't particularly have a passion for the arts; i don't mind it, i've found i've heard every song on the radio. i put it on 91.5, it takes three or four minutes adjusting to, like reading over the start of a play, then it fades into the background of my thoughts like the soft pang of acceptance, hearing the sweet voice of an old flame
while they're out flirting at the beach, I guess I'll check the P.O. Box
When you read me your writing assignment and likened the impulse you feared you may fill in our "situation," to the time you wrote Erika an 8-page love letter a week after sitting behind her in English class, I knew what you meant. You didn't look up to hush me with your eyes; you did me that mercy with your sweet rambling words. She didn't talk to you the rest of high school, you revealed. Then you went on, about a year from now, most of it about women. And here I was, stuck behind you, I'm embarrassed to admit, but I admit it now. I listened to you, ramble some more, confessing it was like middle school all over again, while caught on a tightrope, dangling in the air of a tension I shan't speak. While trying to convince you you're good looking, I meant it, but tried the utmost, the most I could, anyway, to maintain my professional shield. I was just as taken aback by your confessional insight, that even dating back to your school crushes you were objectifying girls through innocent fantasies—yet false identities—as I was with your passion when you fired your sponsor after he said you should pray your ex has the best sex of her life. All the while, though, I couldn't let on, how could I, the question my little heart wants to be asked, from me to you, the question it knows it's true, I'm so much littler than you, how would it be, what would they say? I ask you, then, was it that you were on guard about your fear, your vulnerability, or were you protecting me from mine? Since then, you've been the little secret growing in my head, and I guess I understand why you argued with me when I revealed I quit being a ballerina after I grew cobweb feet, even though you wouldn't let me show them to you. I became a drug and alcohol counselor, like all other drug and alcohol counselors, and moved into the city full of our kind, those who will later become drug and alcohol counselors. Last night someone unfortunately broke into my car. He—and this is why, I'm assuming—didn't find anything of value, so the individual decided to urinate in the vehicle. He was kind enough to do it on the floor mat, though. C'est la vie. But I'll leave you with this. While taking pictures for the insurance—I'm considerably alarmed by your acting out. Until our next meeting, I don't want to have to lose you. Try eating more vegetables. It might not be worth the effort.
Sincerely,
Your Counselor
you're my meaning
She's brain candy for me,
