“You should have seen the look on Mark’s face when he saw those bell peppers.”
It never ceases to amaze or discourage me to see grown men so threatened by something as harmless as someone else’s diet.
He was a huge Coke drinker. Obsessive.
“So why didn’t you and Elizabeth ever get together?” he asked about me and his wife.
I made up some crap about her and me not being a good fit, but she was an incredibly horrible person.
My brain now has me using the word “ronids” for the particles that cause covid-19.
Persistent, horrifying nightmares about spiders: it started with a fountain that mines glowing purple liquid from the ground. Then we were surrounded by huge spiders with long black legs and round white abdomens. They were all stealing cherries. Are there really cherry-stealing spiders, or has the Rona finally broken me?
When the current epidemic matures into a global catastrophe like the 1918-19 pandemic, do you really want your legacy to be, “I bought a lot of toilet paper”? Not me. I want everyone to remember my work, and mostly how well and much I loved my wife.
Wait. A covid is 10,000 covfefe, right?
There is some self-righteous inclination to not wear a Rona mask, citing personal liberty. I’ll bet those same people would wear the mask in seconds flat if the Rona turned you gay or black.
A drastic panic to buy toilet paper, but there are fresh fruits and vegetables as far as the eye can see. It never ceases to amaze me how silly and ignorant people can be. Why don’t you just curl up in a corner and suck your thumb?
What do I miss? With just seconds to go in overtime… one town on one side of the gym, another town on the other side of the gym. The ball hits nothing but net, and that team’s town goes wild. The gym traps the din, filling all our ears with wild screams and yells. The buzzer sounds, and the game is over. One team and their town loses, one team and their town wins.
Covering this was my job that night, and might have been the most fun thing I did all year.
You know what I love? …
“Barack Obama is not my president.”
Followed immediately by…
“How dare you say Donald Trump isn’t your president.”
Believe it or not, I had friends in high school pressure me… pressure me… to display a rebel flag front license plate on my car. I never did. Why did they care about the flags I displayed, anyway? I guess in their naive minds, it might have seemed like it made them look like “rebels,” and peer pressure is usually pretty stupid, but the meaning of the Confederate flag has remained consistently negative in my lifetime.
You don’t hate people of color because of who they are. You hate them because of who you are.
Hawken cornered a raccoon last night. Once I got Hawken pulled back, the raccoon shooed away without an argument.
“I can’t wait until Hawken corners me a cooter,” I told my wife. I meant cougar.
Me: I made a mess in the kitchen last night. The rice sort of got away from me.
Abby: Oh, honey, that’s because you bought wild rice.
Okay, maybe I need to decompress. I just had the phrase “white balance” pass my eyes as I web surfed and wondered if it was something racist. White balance is a camera setting, Richard. You’re a photographer.
Help me cultivate a new catchphrase: “That’s not my train to strafe.”
Okay, I can finally put all the conspiracy theories to rest. The coronavirus started with the eclipse in 2017, when the sun began emitting coronids. Sure, you say, light from the sun only takes eight minutes to reach Earth; why is it only reaching us now? Because it had to go around the moon. Duh.
If anyone is running low, I’ve got humidifier fluid I can let go of for $4 a gallon.
I was cleaning up some computer files and folders recently when I came across images from our most recent anniversary trip, The Winding Road. I must have been hungry, because I gravitated to an image of a dessert Abby and I shared at our favorite restaurant in the world, Madrid, New Mexico’s The Hollar.
“Honey,” I said to my wife, who was crocheting in her recliner, “the whiskey cake!”
“That was so good,” she said without hesitation.
That’s how really great memories work.
A day or two later, a photographer friend on social media posted a moody black-and-white image of an abandoned store with the title Lost in New Mexico 2019.
I thought about all those great times Abby and I would open a map and just go.
“No longer were there individual destinies; only a collective destiny, made of plague and emotions shared by all.” ~Albert Camus, The Plague
I miss my indulgences. I want to get back to my self pity. I want to walk the wolfhound and think sweetly about my napping wife, or hear a song on my phone that brings me back to high school, or summons nostalgia about a first date or a breakup.
I want to smell the flowers in spring and think of hope.
I wonder when we will start to feel like we are walking out of this instead of walking into more of it. When can I get back to expressing myself instead of expressing myself under stress or in a crisis?
There is a strong current of pessimism around us right now as a disease is endangering humanity, and we the people are not handling it very well. Social media has become a consistent source of bad news for me, so I think I will slow way down on checking it.
All I Have to Say...
My comment on social media this morning: Imagine that the current epidemic matures into a global catastrophe like the 1918-19 pandemic? Do you really want your legacy to be, “I bought a lot of toilet paper”? Not me. I want everyone to remember my work, and mostly how well and much I loved my wife Abby.
I will add that even if we got sick and died tomorrow, I am not ashamed of my life, and I feel like I have done a lot with it, that it was a gift, whether I have one more day or 50 more years.
So, why is this an opportunity?
I know I talk about walking our dogs a lot, but now is a perfect time to up that game. Maybe I could walk the dogs three times a day.
How about writing? Now might be the ideal time to set aside the quips and squabbles of social media, and sit down and write something on paper or, as here, a blog, maybe something with more substance and thought than just memes and links?
How about photography? I know it sounds odd to hear a photographer talk about making more pictures as a hobby, but the possibilities abound. Is there an imaging project you’ve been putting off? Something creative you keep putting on the back burner?
Any of these things and a zillion more are better than fretting about something that might not happen, or worse, being part of the panic about it.
We’re all facing the same fate, sooner or later, so maybe now, in the shadow of the scare of a lifetime, is our opportunity to be who we really want to be, create what we want to create, love who we want to love, and, finally, find happiness.
As I convalesce from influenza Type A, I am in an oddly overly-emotional state. A rerun of the recent Super Bowl commercial about an old man using Google to remember his late wife just melted me down.
So as I pester my wife with my nagging cough, I also had some time to ponder a thing or two.
I confessed to a friend recently that at one point in time, I almost – almost – threw away my journal from tenth grade.
“When I read my journal from when I was 15,” I told her, “I realize that I was the most dramatic, the most self-involved, most obsessive teenager on the planet. If I hadn’t been, I couldn’t have filled two Mead™ 150-page spiral notebooks with ink.”
Before you get all, “Richard, little has changed,” let me say that yes, little has changed. But the thing about your flaws is that you can enjoy them if you just make them your own.
Duct tape this together with another YouTube video I recently watched by Gareth Emery called Long Way Home.
The movie is about the Great American Road Trip, something my wife and I have perfected over the years. Sadly, though, when I was young, I had lots of chances at enjoying this very thing, and I ruined it with drama, selfishness, and … ugh… lack of self-awareness. Can’t you just shut up and have a good time, Richard? Must I always bring the Drama Llama?
For the record, this is the worst flu I’ve ever had. It is dragging on and on; I am weak, shaky, achy breaky, coughy, too hot, too cold, too hot, too cold. So far I have missed four days of work, the most I’ve ever missed due to my own illness. My appetite vanished, so much so that a couple of days ago Abby had to bring me an Ensure® nutrition drink. Today, I was feeling so malnourished that I actually resorted to eating a bowl of chicken soup, which we had in the pantry, and which I felt had what I needed in a crisis. I was right, as I felt a little better even as I was eating it.
I express myself in a number of ways. Many are visual, but some are linguistic. An excellent example of this is that I have written my thoughts in some kind of journal or notebook since September 1978. There have been milestones: a first anniversary, a 40th anniversary, and a change in 1998 from big spiral notebooks to smaller hardcover volumes. At times I have made efforts to write more, including a period in 1983 when I completely filled a 200-page spiral notebook in just six weeks, essentially saying nothing. Other times I have slacked off, sometimes to my great disappointment. I wish, for example, I had written more, and more honestly, in my freshman year in college.
My most recent milestone is the completion of another journal book, number 54. Since much of my written presence is in the form of blogging, my teaching site, and our travel site, my efforts to put ink on paper fell to the side. I recently decided to change that, so, despite taking 13 years, book 54 is history.
Journal number 55 is purple!
I also wonder what will happen to these piles of ink and pulp after I’m gone. Should I donate it to a library? Would anyone ever read it? Does that even matter?
I recently started sharing dreams on social media, but as you know, sites like Facebook aren’t searchable and, except when you download and save your data, are a bad place to store your thoughts, so I decided to aggregate my dream notes here…
08-24-20 Dream: While driving across a bridge over the Mississippi in New Orleans, we find it to be a drawbridge. It keeps lifting us up until the vertical, when we become airborne. We land at the entrance to a lead-lined hiking ice train to the South Pole. We hike, getting thirstier and thirstier due to seawater slush that feels cold but is too salty. Even our dogs can’t drink. At the end of the trail, we see a dude ranch, where we are fed corn on the cob. The ranchers explain we have just hiked the world’s longest train. Abby’s speech becomes slurred when she develops corn saturation.
08-10-20 dream: At a dentist’s office, I am assigned to protect a little girl from assassins. I see a red dot on a far wall, and get the girl to cover just as the rounds fall. Under hypnosis, I am able to coax the name of her attacker from her. I get on a very huge nuclear powered train and ride it to Asher, Oklahoma to cover a softball game, but when I get off, I walk in my house shoes through several back yards trying to photograph a huge thunderstorm and lightning event to the south. I shoot an amazing 15-second sequence of lightning using my phone, but when I play it back, it is a hysterical sequence showing the British man behind me reacting to the lightning, since I had the wrong camera selected.
07-04-20, Ashlynd Elizabeth Huffman, dream: You are I are commander and executive of a self-propelled howitzer platoon in Iraq; you are a major and I am a captain. We are ordered to move one of our guns to another part of town, which looks suspiciously like Lawton, Oklahoma, where I grew up, to suppress some insurgents. Before we can ever board the vehicle, we get ambushed, and fight them back into a high school cafeteria, where I shoot several of them in the shoulder. We climb and observation tower and I see that you have a stainless steel bolt action rifle chambered in .338 Lapua. You shoot at a TG&Y sign a mile in the distance, and when it hits, it’s incredibly loud. As we make our way back to the vehicle, an insurgent, a giant 6’5″ angry-looking Iraqi, stops me and says, “I dare you to give me an order.” I lower my weapon and argue with him, but when you see this, you come over and start yelling at him, scaring him off.
Dream 06-18-20: the space shuttle is trapped in a low earth orbit approximately five feet above Interstate 95 in downtown Miami. Controllers are afraid to deorbit the vehicle due to crew safety. Instead, they will use to escape vehicle, a grimy, steampunk ship no one likes, in seven months due to orbital alignment. I pull up behind the shuttle on the highway just in time to see a man in a “Finding Nimo” fish costume swinging on a trapeze above the ship. He gets close enough to smash the deorbit control panel, causing the shuttle to settle gently to the roadway. The crew gets out, grateful they didn’t have to use the escape pod.
Dream 06-09-20: a Sith Lord is occupying a cloud city above Earth, similar to the station Tom Cruise has in Oblivion. As I climb the long stairs to the top, I find him using the reanimated corpse of Rosa Parks to turn small animals to the dark side of the force, simultaneously removing all the Rosa Parks Taco Stands from Google Maps. I search frantically for Max the Chihuahua, but when I find Summer the Chihuahua, I remember that Max has been dead for over a year. Summer is wearing one of my fleece jackets. I pick her up, and intuitively know that she can’t be turned to the dark side.
Dream 05-03-20: at a busy hotel, I am involved in several murder schemes that involve killing people by getting them to drink too much water. As I leave, there are spiders everywhere. I walk to my car naked. The attendant hands me a bundle of clothes that won’t fit me, and the keys to a Boeing 747, which I am supposed to ferry to my home airport. As I walk out to the jet, still naked, I am required to climb a huge dead tree to retrieve a stuffed bear at the top.
Dream 04-24-20:Mac Crosby and I were looking at some old Vivitar Series 1 lenses. The lens hoods were brown instead of black. When we were done, she gave me a ride back to my offices in a roll of 4L experimental plastic. On the way, we photographed some bank employees, but they dispersed after the first frame, which was over exposed.
Persistent, horrifying nightmares about spiders: it started with a fountain that mines glowing purple liquid from the ground. Then we were surrounded by huge spiders with long black legs and round white abdomens. They were all stealing cherries. Are there really cherry-stealing spiders, or has the Rona finally broken me?
Dream 04-05-20: we live in an apartment in the press box at ECUs Norris Field. I awake to find the I have just missed the women’s football game, but the Atlanta Braves are about the start their game. John Martin offers to let me use his jet pack, and I show off by leaping high enough to bump my head on the ceiling of an office building. As we run across town with steaks for dinner, Jeff Cali brags about his new radar detector, and tells us to go back to the store for cream of broccoli soup.
Dream 03-17-03: I am taking pictures in an ice castle that is also and executive headquarters. I occasionally go outside, where people are soaking themselves down because the ice castle is in the desert. We feel and earthquake and begin to panic, fearing the end is near, but we are placed on a conveyor belt with happy music playing. We all lie down, knowing we are being taken to see Santa.
Dream 03-23-20: At the L.A. Times, I find a closet in the back of photo storage with a huge collection of old, obscure or one-of-a kind Nikkor Lenses, lenses that must have been custom made for The Times. I decide I want to take a bunch of them to the beach and shoot surfers with them. Suddenly Ashlynd Elizabeth Huffman bursts in, saying it is her first day at The Times and she’s trying to get to her car to drive to cover a huge fire in the mountains to the east. We get lost in a maze of stairs and exits. Finally, we get outside where we can see plumes of smokes rising to the east. We race to my car, but find that we have to wait in line 15 minutes for them to get my car out of the parking garage.
Dream 01-20-20: I am in college. An inspector comes to my dorm room demanding to see my phone. He removes the sim card and I realize he will see all my secrets. After analyzing it, he says, “That’s it!” I ask him, “I’m being fired for what’s on my phone?” He tells me, “No, but you are losing your roommate.” As my the inspector and my roommate collect their things, I tell the roommate I still want to be friends, which he doesn’t. I am then on the beach with a buddy, reenacting scenes from Saving Private Ryan using a Kleenex box. When it’s time to come in, I see that my newlywed wife Kim has painted the floors in all the rooms. Finally, I get to the living room, which still has carpet and is an inch deep in dirt. Kim sits down next to me and I see a long row of teeth growing in a line down her leg. “See,” she says, “My wisdom teeth are finally falling out.”
Dream 01-15-20: Abby and I are lying in bed in a gazebo in the middle of the back yard, trying to stay as quiet as possible because the Gestapo are just outside. As I doze off, I realize we are actually in our real bed, dreaming about the gazebo. A movie is about to start, and we excitedly run into the theater. The best seats are on the front row, called “vomit row” because of all the old blankets and vomit. Instead of a movie, we are inside a NASA simulation. Space shuttles that look like pontoon boats land in the water around us. One contains a telescope, which has a bird in it that won’t come out. When it pokes its head out, it becomes a squirrel. It softly bites my finger in the same way our Chihuahua Summer does.
Dream 01-13-20: I have an old Dodge Polara in my garden for growing things inside all winter. When I go to harvest, I find bananas so ripe they have turned to banana-shaped oranges, and turnips that are so big they have partially grown into the steel of the car.
Dream 12-24-19: While walking through an ally In downtown Ada, I am accosted by thugs. I put my hand on my sidearm and they retreat. I enter our old newspaper office, which is now a pawn shop. I tell the owner I am going to get some old photo junk I left behind. It is mostly Kodak boxes and loupes. We see a skunk at the bottom of the stairs, and I retreat, but a black cat grabs it around the waist. I shoot at them with my sidearm, but flee, and as the police arrive, I realize I am naked.
Dream 12-22-19: Major industrial accident in Ada, maybe at a factory where they make sponges and pegs. Ashlynd Elizabeth Huffman works for us and we crash the gates at the factory to get the scoop. We swim in shallow water throughout the factory, where we run into pockets of people who support what we are doing. We avoid the executives and and PR people. We leave the factory to discover I forgot where I left my car. As we walk back to the office, a well-dressed woman in a Ferrari tries to bribe us with dozens of coupons for new smartphones. By the time we get back to the office, there is an awards banquet for our coverage. I see an old girlfriend (Melissa) who calls me Charlotte. “Richard,” I tell her. “My name is Richard.”
Dream 12-21-19: I put some barbecue on to cook, especially lots of bacon, intending to let it cook outdoors all day. I go to the movies with my friend David, who offers me absinthe. He then suggests we try a drinking game in which we add Percocet to each drink. I go home to find the next door neighbor’s teenage daughter handcuffed to the roof of their house. I climb up and we become friends. She says her dad left her there because her spirit was interfering with the instrument landing system at the airport. I touch her neck, which she likes and says is “intimate.” I climb down to check the barbecue, which has set the girl’s father’s monk robe on fire. I mow for a while to check if the ILS is back in service.
Dream 12-19-19: During a thunderstorm, my lawn mower needs to urinate. I take him to the bedroom, where I put the commode on the bed and urinate on the lawn mower’s behalf. Lightning strikes near the house and I am slightly shocked. When I move the mower again, there is a large puddle of urine under it, so I put it in the sink and fill the sink with hot water. I discover a previously unknown area of the sink where desserts are stored, and think, “something sweet sounds good.”
Dream 12-07-19: Randy Mitchell and I are walking in Wintersmith Park on our way to play racketball when we see an object in the soil by the sidewalk. We think it is the partially buried remains of a human body. The police arrive in force, including two helicopters, only to discover that the body is a whole chicken from WalMart.
Dream 12-05-19: Hawken the Irish Wolfhound and I take down an elk, often handsomely backlit and in slow motion. We are able to harvest nearly 200 pounds of fresh broccoli from it. As we do, an old friend of Abby Barron‘s arrives in an MG with fettuccine.
In the same dream, I am at Ashlynd’s graduation. When I see her in her robes, we fall into each other’s arms and can’t stop crying.
Dream 12-02-19: Everything is labeled 5412A. I am in the Star Wars universe, but it is mostly water. I am Richard, but in the role of Luke Skywalker. I gradually forget my real identity. I swim next door to my best friends hut, and she and I talk about it, suspecting something is up, but what? Several people we know are wading, and step into deep holes and disappear back to my old reality. My friend and I attempt to climb the Jedi Temple, but there are no handholds, so we try to find leftover furniture in the water. Some are desk chairs, some are huge industrial cranes covered in mud, and some are the arms of giant monsters. I hear music and realize I am writing a new Pink Floyd song called “The River.” The video for the song is me driving around town, but when I try to turn corners, I trip over pipes. I hear the lyric, “The River is making decisions for the night.”
Dream 12-02-19: Byng Schools is building a new, giant supergym in our pasture. As I watch the work, I see two aircraft dangle long tubes to collect atmospheric samples. The tubes crash into the cell tower in the yard. There is little damage, but the school decides to cut the size of the gym in half, which upsets everyone because there is no longer room to set up tables to sell candy.
Dream 11-25-19:Ashlynd Elizabeth Huffman helps me move into the dorms at ECU, but I move into the ones in the bad neighborhood, and my stuff gets stolen in the first week. We set up a sting operation involving the mascots to catch the perpetrators. Meanwhile, out of frustration, I take a school teaching job in Sheridan, Illinois. I commute daily in an old RV. The commute is so long that one day, I awake to find I am arriving at the school after sleep-driving through the night. I have forgotten all my clothes, so the principal lets me look through the lost and found, only to find there are only dresses for 13 year old girls and chicken suits. Back at ECU, we watch a complicated documentary about how luring criminals with mascots is illegal.
Dream 09-04-19: In order to receive a parking pass for ECU, you had to read the last page of a scented, all-pink novel by Hampton Allsockey.
Dream 06-29-19: Abby and I are in New Orleans during a flood. We repeatedly try to cross the Mississippi in her truck, but “turn around, don’t drown.” We see some police officers we know from Ada and talk to them, only to discover the latest trend among cops is to carry at least four huge hunting knives on their belts, beautiful, ornate knives with gold and silver engraving, some of which are at least ten inches long. I pull out a one-inch black pen knife and feel inadequate. I am then mowing New Orleans with Abby’s truck. The transaxle overheats and stops, but as I watch, the temperature gauge rapidly drops into the normal range.
Dream 06-17-19: Michael Zeiler has trained two dens of rare South American ants to smoke cigarettes and throw small lit firecrackers on command. He intends to deliver them to Trump Tower to blow it up. When his car won’t start, he tries to start a washing machine, and when it won’t start, he decides to drive the ants to the tower in a toddler’s plastic toy truck. Meanwhile, my coworkers and I are in the tower, trying to decide on a code name for Trump so no one will know we are talking about him. Most of the suggested names are much too long, like “The Sesquseptigenarian.” We hear an explosion and realize the ants have accidentally detonated at the entrance, meaning we will need to take the back door when going home in the evening. Trump orders us to the 15th floor, which is over two miles high. It is so high, the elevator bends to reach the door. A glass ramp extends across a chasm from the elevator to the actual floor. My coworkers and I stage an ambush on the ramp, in which several of us try to inject Trump with syringes, but when that fails, we beat him to death with a fire extinguisher.
Repeated dream throughout the night 06-11-19: I can see the name of the dream, but I can’t copy and paste it to share it with social media.
Dreams 06-10-19: I am part of the Cassini-Huygens mission. We load into a Cessna 210 converted for space travel, which alarms me because all the other people are so fat. We travel across the surface of Titan until we reach the center of a completely industrial area. We put on our coats and the lead astronaut flips a switch, revealing all the heat and light on the moon are artificial. I am then withLisa Oxenham Bratcher at ECU, who keeps asking me about “2 and 3,” which means nothing to me. She then explains “items 2 and 3 on the ballot,” which will improve drainage in town.
Dreams 05-31-19: walking around New York City for hours at a time with Jodie Foster, getting to know each other, taking pictures of 9/11 flashback scenes. At the top of a long hill, a country music song starts… “wouldn’t want to be at the top of that apple ceiling, apple ceiling, apple ceiling…” we run to the bottom of the hill to see kids having a mud fight in a school bus. At the top of the hill, football players were practicing on huge letters of the alphabet. Later, I see an old girlfriend going into a doctor’s office and knock her glasses off with my shoulder, then hide. Later, when she’s coming out of the office, I do it again, hiding again, and Abby Barron and I laugh and laugh about it.
Dream 05-28-19: After I made an incredibly difficult sniper shot to destroy a Russian laser in a video game, John Wayne gave me the Medal of Freedom and convinced me to run for President.
Dream 05-27-19: We have hornets in the barn, but when the exterminator arrives, we discover they are actually lady bugs. A roving gang of ‘50s bullies tries to rough me up, but when the fat one appears to be naked, I help the sheriff arrest him. Stacey Prouty Chadwell replied to this: I had a dream with you included! You were hosting The Price Is Right and I was chosen as a contestant. The items, up for pricing, ranged from an outhouse, puppies, a trip to Amsterdam, to the price of integrity and of ignorance! It was out there, but we were all in deep conversation and lotsa laughter.
Do you write about your dreams, as soon, as you wake? (Edison did everyday of his life.)
Dream, 05-26-19 (while napping while listening to scanner chatter of a grass fire in Happyland after reading some of the suicide blog of Martin Manley): I am in charge of a top secret project to recover Star Trek characters from the International Space Station who have been shrunk to very small sizes for time travel to planets with very small inhabitants. Some of them are on tiny toy train cars. Others are in little busses that also seem to be at the Super Bowl. As I sift parts of the USS Enterprise on the floor of a gym, my wife Abby appears. I inform her that I have decided to be shrunk to the size of a speck of dust and will live under a piece of adhesive tape stuck to her left shoulder. She says that she will be joining me.
Dream 05-24-19: I catch some thugs trashing the house, but am too late to confront them. I am able to shoot one round from my 9mm into the back of their car from more than a mile away. Abby Barron and I are then in the first class section of a 747 headed for Houston. For some reason I still have my 9mm. I wear it in an open holster or put it on the table in front of me. No one seems to notice or care, which I find very odd, and am unable to find anywhere to put it out of sight. People complain that my laptop is too loud, but say nothing about the fact that I am armed.
Last night (05-08-19) I dreamed Max the chihuahua lost vision in one eye, and when I covered the other eye, he would say the word, “Dark.”
From Mac Crosby: Channeling my inner Richard R. Barron and sharing my dream: David Schwimmer comes into Forget Me Not Floral, I refuse to serve him and proceed to tell him that his character in the show Friends is egotistical and sexist. He yells “Your banana trees suck anyway,” and leaves. I did not even know that I felt that way.
Dream 04-28-19: I am in an elite paramilitary group here in Ada. We’ve been assigned to clear out a suspected house. As we make entry, I am relieved to discover it is the house where I lived in the early 1970s, the one with the olive-colored shag carpet. At the back of the house, I find that my sister Nicole Barron Hammill‘s room is three times bigger than any room in the house, in conflict with her accounts that it was the smallest.
As my unit and I drive away, I explain to Abby the names of all the weapons we are carrying. We make our way out west of town to a barn that I recognize. I explain to my unit, which is now just a bald guy I don’t know and my dad (who died in 2005), that I had photographed this barn years earlier before all the wood fell off, leaving just the frame.
On close inspection of the property, we find the body of an old woman, who looks and smells like she hasn’t been dead long. We see lightning strike near the base of the barn and realize it has killed another old woman. When we inspect her, she is wearing water wings made from rusty bird cages.
We enter a house near the barn and find a third dead old woman in the kitchen. I see her cat, and decide to feed it. I open the fridge and take out the milk and pour it, but the bald man tells me that it’s Tarn-X, not milk.
We go back outside, where my dad falls to the ground. He takes my hand and sings a hymn in a woman’s voice and weeps, something like, “And Lord, if I go to the church, will my soul be safe?” As we mount our vehicles and drive away, Abby bursts into laughter as we see that the barn is swaying in the wind just like the grass around it. I make a note that the wind is from the north.
Dreams 01-27-17… 1. I found a secret half of our house, where I was hiding all the large-aperture, manual-focus Nikon lenses I’d been getting at garage sales for a dollar each. 2. In the middle of a dramatic high seas rescue, I ran into Hillary Clinton. I hugged her and told I was sorry things didn’t work out, like we were old friends. Then a bunch of us helped her fold and pack some sweaters. 3. My fellow photographers and I search for the ultimate funnel cake. 4. Abby and I were back in 1969, watching the return of Apollo 12a, the 2-man mission designed to test the seats of the command module for an ultra-high-G reentry. The spacecraft looked like a super-slick space shuttle orbiter, but painted blue and sporting newly-developed laser engines. NASA parked it in my garage. In the dream I was also aboard the mission, which required the other astronaut, who I did not know or like, and me to wrap our torsos around a bar, like at a carnival ride. The space food was, as expected, funnel cake.
Dream, October 2007: I ran into an old girlfriend, Kathy, in the town where we used to live, at a particle accelerator where they were bombarding Christmas trees with neutrons. She has a midget on a leash. She tells me she has been married three times and her last name is now Schoecheekowskischke, which she made up. The midget, she explains, is an adopted child from the second marriage. I get into a blue SUV and start to leave, claiming that the church I am assigned to photograph will only be dry enough for another 15 minutes or so.
Dream October 2007: I was assigned to infiltrate a nuclear power plant. Our goal was to assassinate two people, both blond-haired women, and steal the weapons hidden inside. The weapons were phasers that had been deep-fried, only they looked a little like the nozzle on my garden hose (only deep fried.) We made our way through a labyrinth of metal stairs and railing to a series of doors. My partner (who I don’t really remember seeing) went inside and terminated our targets using a really cool chrome .22 with a silencer. We were then seamlessly running from the Israeli Army, dodging their small arms fire. Once they had surrounded us, we threw the phasers into a burning vehicle to prevent them from being captured. Then seamlessly, we are at a black-tie dinner party. Harrison Ford offers me a government job, which I accept because it will pay pretty well.
Dream, June 1989: I am holding Sandra K super close in an insane asylum to avoid being detected as an escaped inmate. We decide to go for a walk. We see a thunderstorm, and I hear George Thorogood music coming from the sky. I picked up my journal and wrote, “How does music come from thunderstorms?”
Dream 04-16-19: I am trying out for a cheerleader/dance team. We all receive cupcakes before tryouts. We assemble on a field, where an instructor shows us a series of dance moves. We start the dance, but I immediately realize I can’t dance at all and don’t know any of the moves, which I confess to a cheerleader in line next to me. As it ends, the instructor tells me I am off the team. The cheerleader storms off in a huff, and I see that she has stolen my journal. As I try to get it back, she uses an Exacto knife to remove the date, thus erasing it forever.
Dream 04-14-19: I am working at a Byng softball game when one of the girls is kicked out of the game for sliding into first too aggressively. I notice she is wearing a Victorian cape and hat. As we discuss the play, we see the dugout is now a precipice overlooking a canyon. “Look! Those birds are creating divisions in the water!” I see birds dive into a lake below, and as they hit the water, dams are constructed instantly. I wonder if they are trying to trap us, but as fuzzy carpet forms on the canyon walls and I see people walking both on the ground and on the walls, I realize the dams were built to allow gravity to work in an additional direction.
Dream 04-13-19: Mac Crosby lives in a Paris apartment overlooking the Champs-Élysées. She lets me crash for a week while I am in town. I have Hawken the Irish Wolfhound with me. We come and go all day and all night, going café to cabaret and everything in between. We make pictures, paint, write. The apartment is strewn with crumbs, empty wine bottles, paint spatter, and half-written poetry.
Dream 2016: I am back in college, living in a dorm by myself. The whole thing is very run-down. I hear a festival in the street below. When I walk down to it, I find I am in San Francisco, and it is an Irish jig festival. At some point during the dancing, people collide and a number of them fall down. I see Kathryn Sterbenc, and walk over to her to discover she is my wife. We walk for a while, and I break the news to her that I will only allow NFL teams to have 22-man rosters. She seems very upset with this news, so I tell her, “None of this is going to matter,” knowing that I am about to become omnipotent. Then, though I weigh thousands of tons, I float gently into the night sky.
Dream: 03-23-09: Literally everything in the world was incorrect. Abby and I used 3×5 cards to fix it.
Dream: 03-13-19: My goats were still around. In the dream I accidentally left the heat on in their shelter and it got hot enough to smelt iron. I then took Carl Lewis to a doctor appointment in Oklahoma City, but after racing through the lobby at a full run, he looked at an automated kiosk to discover it was actually in Omaha. Finally, Abby and I used bean patties to reanimate Denholm Elliott.
Dream: 04-13-19: I am working at a Byng softball game when one of the girls is kicked out of the game for sliding into first too aggressively. I notice she is wearing a Victorian cape and hat. As we discuss the play, we see the dugout is now a precipice overlooking a canyon. “Look! Those birds are creating divisions in the water!” I see birds dive into a lake below, and as they hit the water, dams are constructed instantly. I wonder if they are trying to trap us, but as fuzzy carpet forms on the canyon walls and I see people walking both on the ground and on the walls, I realize the dams were built to allow gravity to work in an additional direction.
Dream 12-14-18: I prepare to board a super-giant airliner which holds thousands of people. I get lost because it’s so large. We are very overbooked, so I am given a pillow and told to sit in the bathroom. I decide to take another flight, and watch as the plane breaks up on takeoff, catch fire, and crashes. I find myself in Iraq, clearing houses with Marines. We have no training, and our rifles are solid stainless steel. The work is arduous because no one is aware we are coming and every house we clear is a bathroom with someone shaving in it. I am teamed up with Jake Gyllenhaal, who is impatient with me and keeps telling me to not shoot him. Finally in open combat, we kill freely, until a family comes out of a house and we narrowly avoid shooting them. I board a helicopter and we strafe settlements. Finally, we get the word we are going home, so I sit at the mess table next to a women who doesn’t want me there because, “they always get hard on me.” Gyllenhaal tells me I’ll “never fire another round” in Iraq, and we flash back to the family scene where there is smoke coming from my rifle. Back in Ada, we see that the “back home” scenes were all filmed in downtown alleys. Riding in a limo with Gyllenhaal and several others, I say, “Remember this people. You’ve all stood right here.” We see a treehouse in the alley near 14th and Turner. Tom Hanks is inside. We introduce ourselves, but he runs away, obviously insane.
During a nap in the autumn of 1994: The headquarters for the New Order of the Third Millennium would be a 2 kilometer tall titanium phallis at the center of the Dead Sea.
Dream: Abby and I live in a tethered blimp 1000 feet above Las Vegas. It is surrounded by lavish railing that allows us to watch other blimps float past, thunderstorms roll in, and aircraft crash into power lines.
I am then at Mizza’s, a place that makes pizza from nothing but meat. The booths are made to look like tiny Jeeps. Kathy is dining with us. The meat pizza people seem happy to make something vegetarian for me.
After dinner we decide to walk to the field next door for martial arts training. On the way out, I decided to show everyone my photos from dinner. “Did you guys know about this?” I ask, and tap the glass on the door of the restaurant. “The new phones allow you to display your photos on any piece of glass in the world.” I scroll through my images on the door and enlarge several.
I see David in the field, who will give me martial arts training, which is little more than take-down practice. I am able to defeat him in two out of three falls.
Back home, we discover that Michael has bought my mom (who died in 2009) a nonstick pan. Mom hates it because it burns everything. Michael explains that it has to be specially prepared with an organic rag. Amber is there helping us look for the rag. She dives into one cabinet after another, trying to find it. When she does, it looks just like a regular wash rag, except when we put it on the pan, where it liquifies the aluminum, seasoning it perfectly.
Dream: Dennis Udink and someone named Jane are ahead of me on the trail by about six hours. As I catch up with them, I find they have made camp in a long, narrow tunnel. As we settle in for the night, we all begin to sense something isn’t right, like we are being watched. Upon closer examination, we find that there is movement in the rocks beneath us, as though bugs were crawling right below the surface. We still weren’t willing to leave the area, since we might not be able to return for years.
I poke around in the cave for a few minutes, hoping to find something interesting to photograph. I find a rusted iron monument in the wall, with a small coal fire visible through a glass window. I ask if anyone knows what this is. “I think it’s an eternal flame kind of thing,” Jane answers. I examine it closer to find it is a cremation oven from Auschwitz.
At this point the signs of evil became more obvious. While trying to light a fire, flies emerged from Dennis’ lighter. After hearing a commotion, we stepped out of the cave to see a cow. It starts to morph into something, and I yell, “It’s gonna Cyriak!” It then morphs into dozens of smaller cows in the fashion of Cyriak’s cartoons http://cyriak.co.uk/animation/ . The cows morph into a single cow, and someone (I don’t know who) brings up a Paladin tank (from the video game Unreal Tournament) to destroy it.
Back inside we debate leaving. someone says, “Okay, we leave first thing in the morning,” but I disagree and start packing, only to discover acid of unknown origin had burned through my backpack. We talk about the fact that we only have a couple hours of daylight remaining, but conclude we should take our chances and get out of the evil place.
Finally we get our gear together and move out. At the exit of the tunnel there is now an office. A park ranger comes out of the office and says, “Hold it! Coolness police!”
I sarcastically say, “Coolness police?” Then Dennis and I look at each other, and we both intuitively know that one of us is going to have the shoot the ranger.
Dream 12-01-18: Abby and I are walking in downtown Ada when we hear a helicopter. We look up to see it escorting a 747 with engines 1 and 2 on fire, turning final for an emergency landing. I grab Abby and say, “We need to move this way.” We run away as the jet crashes into an empty apartment building. We both run back to the crash site to take photos for the newspaper with our phones.
Dream 11-28-18: Abby, my brother-in-law Tracey, and I enter a posh hotel room. In the corners are shiny vortex spots. Abby walks over to one and vanishes into it in a flash, only to reappear from one on the other side of the room. We decide to go to the game, where we encounter thousands of armed civilians, and decide we need to be armed as well, so we each steal an AR-15 and a shotgun. A bear pursues Abby, but at the last minute I shoot it. The pellets from my shotgun move in slow motion, but hit the target. We try to enter another hotel room, this one much less posh and in a basement, with a horse we have stolen. We have to stand the horse on end to get it through the door and down the steps. Once inside, we see dirty vortex spots in the corners, and Abby once again walks over to one and disappears into it. Tracey and I decide to spray for spiders, which are falling on our heads. Abby reappears from the vortex on the other side of the room, looking terrified. She tells me she just spent “literally infinity” inside the vortex.
Dream 11-24-18: Responding to a report of a downtown Ada fire, I discover it is at my own office. I try to enter to see if I can help, only to be stopped by TSA agents and Washington Post journalists. I see flames licking from the top of the stairs where my office is located, but then remember that I moved to the middle of the building two years ago, and was then suddenly relieved that the fire wasn’t my fault.
I see Dan Marsh, who challenges me to a race to his downtown loft apartment. He is much faster than I am, and is wearing an orange jumpsuit, so I am unable to keep up.
When I finally arrive, he is nowhere to be found, but my sister, Nicole Barron Hammill, is at his apartment, hiding her boyfriend, “Wear,” under the covers. “That’ll show Mom and Dad,” she explains.
I return to my office, where I discover a maze of old darkrooms and equipment (about which I dreamed before), and find an oven that was left on for 40 years, which caused the fire.
Dream 11-16-18: Abby , Denzel Washington and I are redecorating Wal Mart with posters from his movies. Next to this I see a broad selection of VHS porn. Next to that, David Vogt and Debbie Vogt and I are dressed in towels in the shower section, where a bird is trapped. We all lay down as low as possible in a reenactment of “The slaughter of the birds at gethsemane.”
Dream 09-25-18: Abby and I are walking on Main Street in Byng when we top the hill to see a house on fire. My first instinct is to get my gear and cover it for the newspaper, but as we take a few more steps, we see many more houses on fire. We speculate it may be arson. We then turn around to see Byng is on fire as well, and realize it is the apocalypse. I decide to stay with Abby. As we return home, we see many people have gone insane. In our house, there are several insane children whose eyes have become huge red disks. Next door at a convenience store, I see police shoot a woman, and look around to see no fire or evidence of an event, and realize that everyone was dreaming it was the apocalypse.
Partially awake during this part of the dream, I see Abby is holding her hands up, talking to someone, obviously dreaming.
Dream: I was hunting caribou, and I was naked for the first time in my life. I am nakeder than the day I was born by a factor of five. I hunt the caribou with lightning bolts that seem to come from the sky, but also seem to come from me.
Exquisitely vivid dream 09-13-18: Riding a bicycle up and down Broadway in Ada repeatedly visiting Gym 210, where they remodel every 30 seconds. Weightlifters teach me a new leg clinch that they say will make me the strongest man alive. I finally arrive on the south end of town at Mansion of the Apocalypse. Inside I find thousands of toy rifles we are expected to use in the coming zombie attack. I find a grey one in the shape of an M249 Saw. I look over to see Amy Jo Johnson get bitten by a radioactive spider. She tells me she will have to go away to quarantine for two weeks, but says she will rescue me when she returns.
Dream 09-09-18: Carl Lewis, Samantha Spears, Eric Swanson and I are on a trip to an underground zombie apocalypse theme park in Wyoming. We are in Abby Barron’s truck, but are towing an eight-story trailer. While parked at a rest area, a guy backs into us, so Carl shoots at him. At the theme park, the activities turn into a real zombie apocalypse, and we barely escape with our lives. On our way home, we stop at another rest area, where I try to make CB radio contact with a camera that has a built-in CB, with no success. I then see that Jamie Pittman is building a new model of airliner out of clouds. It looks great at first, but I have difficulty switching the camera from radio mode to take pictures. The wind picks up, and I tell Jamie, “it doesn’t look too good.” She yells at all of us, “It’s a human being, it should be treated that way!” The cloud airliner then dissipates in the breeze.
Dream 04-01-16: Abby and I are in Boeing’s new jet, the 7447, a triple-decker super super jumbo. The jet is taxiing for takeoff, but gets lost in the neighborhoods of Los Angeles. Soon we attempt to take off, but gently crash land in Aruba. As Abby and I wait for drinks at the bar, Courteney Cox swims by and says hi.
I turn to find I am the center of a press conference, fielding questions about my new hydrogen superchain fuel that will replace petroleum. I then drift into a theory I cultivated in my twenties about jet engines that use core fan blades the size of toothbrushes because they can borrow energy from the earth’s gravitational waves, like surfers borrow waves in the ocean.
After waking up, I continue to think these ideas through in the shower, including trying to figure out a way to borrow gravity in space, and how to I would put a station on the moon if I were doing it today. Then I went on a time-travel trip in which I take over Russia before the First World War using 29th century technology, and change history.
Profound dream during a nap, February 2007: My people and I are walking in green wheat. The wheat gets finer and finer until it becomes green ash. I hear a poem about becoming of the ash. Abby and I lie down in it together.
Ultra-complicated, ultra-vivid dream 05-26-18: I am a 14 year old black kid who has snuck onto a US Air Force base to use their F-16 flight simulator. It flies well and I demonstrate some sophisticated flight maneuvers. I meet the base commander, who is wearing a new rank between captain and major, which looks like captains bars with a bar diagonal across it. He tells me it is complicated new rank called “Prinz Eugen.” The simulator becomes a real F-16, and I fly it beyond its capabilities because of my extensive video game experience. I then take Abby to the hospital, where we see a woman in a cocoon who has just flown from New York and has no memory of the trip. Doctors tell Abby she either has a spider bite or has been in a knife fight, based on a macro photo they took of her neck. The clerk keeps asking, “What’s Spanish for ‘Joseph’?” We walk from the ER to the Amityville Horror house, which is huge and covers many acres. One of the children has gone insane. We try to take her back to the house, but she drops her turtle and tells it to “stay.” She enters the house, where there are thousands of insane children. We realize we will have to kill them all in a gun battle. Abby and I crouch into a vent shaft, and I tell her to go left, and I’ll go right. I kick open the door and insane children pour out into the shaft. I realize the magazine in my Ruger LCP only has six rounds in it, so I tell Abby, “Fall back!” As we are doing so, we arrive at a checkpoint meant to keep us from stealing Air Force weapons, but they let me keep my Ruger when I tell them it’s mine. The commanding officer says we’ll have to continue our battle inside a video game, which we enter. We install thousands of Nikon cameras to photograph the battle. It turns out the children have the power to literally suck us back into the real world. We have to burn the house down. The end shot is of us driving away with a huge column of smoke in the distance behind us.
Dream 03-18-17: I am in the next Star Wars movie, which is being broadcast live. I am not dressed for my first scene, which is about 20 minutes in, but the floating audience kiosk comes by on it’s first orbit, so I hide behind folding boudoir screen. When I try to get dressed, everything goes wrong: I have a skirt instead of pants, and my undergarments are so tight they won’t go on. I walk about 20 miles south of town dressed like a chicken when I come across Harrison Ford working on a scene in which his cat can walk on water. He does this using complicated red and black devices on power poles high above us.
Three dreams 03-15-18: Dream 1. I am walking to work when a guy in a semi pulls a shotgun on me. I am forced to draw my weapon and kill him. The police are very understanding. Dream 2. I am driving to my parents retirement home at Chaco Wash upstream from Chaco Canyon when I take a detour and see an old girlfriend in a real estate jacket. I don’t stop to talk to her. Dream 3. I arrive at a church and am supposed to be part of an inspirational story about a miracle, but the room in the church where it is supposed to take place is missing.
Dream 03-04-18: Abby and I look outside to see the sky literally on fire. Huge smoke plumes of multiple colors rise in all directions resembling 1000 thunderstorms, some reaching the edge of space. The disturbance is thickest over Seminole to the north, but we are unable to find out anything on the internet or even via amateur radio. We see a shock wave approaching, resembling the first microseconds of a nuclear detonation. As it races toward us, we decide that it will either assimilate us or incinerate us, neither of which we can stand. We decided on a suicide pact, and even draw our weapons, but a short debate ensues over the proper way to kill yourself with a pistol. The shock wave dissipates as it passes, so I take Hawken the Irish Wolfhound and walk north toward Seminole. By the time we cross the river, we are picked up by a school bus. The children aboard want to play with Hawken. I get out to examine the sky, which looks less threatening but still surreal, like 100 thunderstorms at once. When I look up, the bus and Hawken are gone, but I find him in a nearby storage barn.
Courtney Morehead’s dream, 02-24-18: I had the scariest dream last night that I’ve had in a long time and thought I’d share. Lol back when I was a wedding photographer, which seems like a lifetime ago (awesome memories tho!), my biggest fear/nightmare was forgetting that I had a wedding that day. I did weddings so often all thru my 20’s that if I ever had a Saturday off, I would often have a near panic attack sometime during the day thinking that I had forgotten I had a wedding. Lol so last night I dreamed I was photographing a wedding when I realized that I had also told ANOTHER bride I would shoot her wedding that same day! About that time, I’m so glad to see Richard R. Barron show up as a guest, but when I tell him my dilemma, he’s no help (thanks Richard 😂.. he’s usually a huge help btw). Then Jeff Cali shows up and offers to drive me back to my office to get more memory cards so I can shoot 2 weddings at once, and he’s racing me all over town like we’re maniacs. THANK GOD my cat woke me up about then bc I literally didn’t know how in the world I was going to do it all, but thank u Jeff for trying to help. 👍😊 The End.
Dream 02-23-18: My college roommate has a contract to graze his cattle at Monument Basin at Canyonlands to reduce overgrowth. When we look at it from the cliffs above, I see that they have grazed the shape of a beaver in a top hat.
Dream 02-16-18: My family and I are “soap refugees,” meaning that we are fleeing with all the toiletries we are able to carry (based somewhat on an episode of Friends Abby Barron and I watched last night.) We are continually late for the airport, but never make it. I am led by an Army recruiter to a retesting station, where I use a flight simulator to perform basic ground reference maneuvers. I look in a mirror and see that I am Richie Cunningham from Happy Days, and intuitively know I am kin to all red-headed people everywhere. I see Abby Barron, who is creating a fold-out life-size cardboard cutout of me, which folds out slowly, one panel at a time. As she begins to unfold it, music starts, and the event resembles the intro to That Girl.
Dream 2016: Ayn, Robert, Scott and I are driving from Tennessee to go skiing in Alaska. Scott’s car is very overpacked, since it is also a college refrigerator.
We arrive in central Arkansas to discover that a landslide in the Sandia Mountains (which are actually in New Mexico) has covered Interstate 35 (a highway that actually goes north and south, not through Arkansas), and that we will have to walk across the mountains. As we do so, we become refugees among thousands, all of whom are, like us, dressed for snow skiing.
We see sandstone formations in display cases that are actually made of live ducks.
In Edgewood (which is also actually in New Mexico), we are taken into a small meeting room for orientations, then led down a hill in small groups, since we now number in the millions. The town’s Prime Minister holds a press conference. He tells us the landslide has been repaired. I see his executive assistant, Kathy, who is elated to see me. She hugs me, and I do a complete orchestrated version of La Bamba for her.
Dream 02-22-14: I discover that although Abby and I still live in our house and it looks the same on the inside, the outside is a third-world hovel covered in plywood and fallen trees. There is a man in our house in a burgundy smoking jacket. He seems to communicate with the outside world, possibly the CIA, using a trash can that is able to type his thoughts. He receives several messages, including one I intercept that says a radio station is coming to our house to give the man a major cash award. I also receive an envelope with a blank piece of paper in it, but as I hold it, it types a message on itself.
I urge Abby to wake up and get dressed, which she does. I go outside and come back in several times, trying to see if I can clean up the hovel outside. As I do so, the front door becomes smaller and more like a rabbit hole.
Inside, we begin the radio interview, which is also being presented on television, although the television camera appears to be from the 1920s and is made of Bakelite. For a while, I am operating the camera. For some reason, there is another person in the frame, a woman I don’t know.
Someone else takes control of the camera, and when they turn it around, I block it, saying, “I can’t allow you to film in that direction.”
Dream, 02-07-06: a married caveman couple live in our pond. Abby orders a Model-T full of epsom salts for them.
Dream, 08-25-1993: As the director of a documentary, I discover that water actually comes from the ground-up bodies of insane children.
Dream, 09-09-1993: I can perform miracles with the wave of my hand. My most impressive miracle is turning bridge beams into potato salad.
Dream: We are flying wounded soldiers out of Germany in C47 Dakotas during World War II. The aircraft are dangerously overloaded, and we remove seats, luggage, etc. to be able to carry more wounded. On the final flight, we are much too heavy, and unable to get out of ground effect until I realize the fuel selector is set to cloudy. “Wait,” I exclaim, “I’ll set the mixture to sunshine!” We begin to climb out. I am then near the back of the aircraft when I see three crew members from the starship Enterprise beam aboard. Julia Roberts turns from the pilot’s seat and smiles sheepishly. “It’s an infinity paradox,” she says, and I realize that if infinity is real, everything that can happen has happened and will happen. I am suddenly at the Ada airport where we are looking at a 3-engine race plane named the K-Infinity. I want to race it, but when I fly it, it goes faster than it possibly can. Finally, outside the airport, I chase down children who vandalize the bathroom, then complain because the rotating airport sign has wild trees growing on it.
Dream: The back yard is repeatedly invaded by female Irish Wolfhounds who mate with Hawken, our Wolfhound. Eventually, a naked man shows up to get his dog, who leaps back over the fence to mate with Hawken again.
Dream: I am at The Oklahoman, trying to use an old processing machine. I load it with film, but immediately realize that it is a print processor, and is shredding my film. As it does so, it starts to leak and spray chemicals, so I put on a yellow rain suit. I try to hide the machine so no one will know about my giant mistake, but when I try to plant it in a front yard, the gardener spots me. I am then walking through The Oklahoman, which occupies the entire Crossroads Mall. People say hello to me, but are embarrassed when I approach them in the rain suit. I enter the photography department, where it is shift change. Hundreds of photographers are scrambling to their lockers to change cloths, get their gear, and grab their lunches. I sit down and try to remove the rain suit, but photographers are constantly bumping into me. I see a basketball player with three arms accidentally put on one of my shoes. When I point it out to him, he says it is because his third arm is too cold.
Dream: I am in the advertising department at my office, but I am in bed. All the desks have a bed attached, which I think is a sketchy idea at best, since the boss, Amy, will know if we are napping instead of working.
Amy, LeaAnn and Maurisa all have their first initial in a very large block of amber-colored ice, made from their tears, on their desks. Despite being their initials, they are all the letter S. The ice slowly melts and runs down the block, but the block doesn’t shrink, and water doesn’t accumulate below.
I decide to go to the next room, so I collect my Walkman cassette player and my iPad. As I stand up, I say, “I know why these things are crying. It’s because so many people out there are hillbillies.”
Nap dreamed a new word: atlolule. I didn’t dream a definition, so it’s up for grabs.
Two dreams: 1. At a dog mall, Abby and I spend hours looking for Hawken so we can give him a bath, and 2. My newspaper hires 30 new reporters for its television division, all in cubicles downstairs.
Dream: there is a giant Jade Helm-esque training exercise across the nation, and we have been moved into camps. I look into the sky and see bright red dots (identical to a Christmas decoration I set up last night) which are hundreds of military satellites in low Earth orbit. I then see fighter jets (identical to the ones in a video i watched yesterday about the 1979 Vela incident). In the camps, Abby and I are apparently the most dog friendly family, and all the best dogs want to stay with us, in addition to our own dogs. The camps become busses that take us home, and we are forced to say goodbye to a particularly attractive and affectionate dog (identical to one I photographed last week.)
Dream: I arrive at the office in time to see it has been cleaned out by a moving company. They are moving us to a regional newspaper hub in Holdenville. A big boss arrives to wish us well, and we are all required to pledge allegiance to the Constitution.
Dream recorded in my journal, 1995: In an airport lounge, I watch a man cuddle a wad of gum he calls “Schmooggums.” I see the face of a baby inside it. He misplaces it, but I find it on a bookshelf. Suddenly there is an air show, which I am watching with the Ada High cheerleaders. I peel away the gum to find a balloon. One of the cheerleaders pops the balloon and instead of a baby inside, there is a greeting card shaped like a baby.
Dream: Abby and I are four-wheeling in her truck on “quicksand beach” on the west coast. We can’t find an exit, so we try to climb a set of stairs, which we find are too narrow for her truck. We get out and meet a zookeeper with a goat. I pet the goat, but we are then approached by an escaped lowland gorilla. I try to keep the goat calm while the zookeeper tries to text for help, but he can’t get a signal.
Dream: I am searching for a perfectly black snooze alarm. In my search I am at ECU photographing the band, but when it turns instantly dark, they are all furious. We go inside to find the world’s largest collection of analog camcorders.
Dream: I was in a room with a deep purple-violet chair. I am aware that the chair is full of anxiety.
Dream fragment: “And after all, this song has been sung. Still there ain’t no lifelong metaphor for dung.”
Dream fragment: “Her boyhood was vented to worms.”
Dream: at an outdoor opera in England, we are searching for the elusive “Mink,” a 35-foot snake that looks like an earthworm. We break into 12 teams, each represented by a bright color. Kaley Cuoco is our team leader. She uses a garden hose to stir out the Mink, which slithers across the grass and into the audience. Cuoco announces that due to our success, we all receive a pair of blue shoes.
Dream: I open a Coke to find three powdered sugar doughnuts soaked in cola. This means I need to watch a Republican coworker fly his military trainer over the dump to drop practice bombs. He flies too low and strikes a tool box full of dumplings. On the ground he threatens to kill me if I tell his Captain, so I conjure a plan to bury the evidence in my garden.
Dream: At first I am hanging out with an old friend who I never see any more. We are at a creek bed, and her feet are really dirty. Then we are inside a hotel that has been flooded, presumably by Hurricane Katrina or the 2004 Tsunami, and we are playing tag. Water is up to our waists, and there are partially-broken windows through which we climb while we are hiding. I complain to the officials that I don’t have one of the special Frisbees used to tag our opponents (which look like a flying saucer made out of Tupperware.) I get in my car and try to drive out of the parking lot, but discover the bridge to Pauls Valley (Oklahoma) is out. Workers disassemble my car and store it below me, while I sit on a plywood seat and start to ride the makeshift tram that leads across a waterway. As I ride, I realize that I will be thousands of feet in the air, and that I am only secured by hanging on to the plywood seat back in front of me. I can’t see Pauls Valley ahead of me, so I assume it will be hours before we arrive. Suddenly I arrive at the mall, where Joan Rivers says, “Welcome to the Gap!”
Nap dream: I look out the front window to see a white Lockheed C-5A cargo jet fly by. A few seconds later it is followed by an orange one, which is apparently equipped with a STOL system, because it noisily hovers over the power lines in the front yard. It dips its right wing and slowly flies across the house toward the back yard. I feel certain it crashes. I try to open the front door, but to my annoyance, Abby has rearranged the living room and put a piece of furniture in front of it. She then explains to me that Petey the dog lives in our house, but we have to protect him from a dog outside that is exactly like him except for having tiger stripes. I finally go outside to find that without our knowledge, the road on which we live has been stripped out and is in the early stages of being resurfaced. I feel concerned that we won’t be able to leave the driveway. I take my digital Minolta to photograph it, but when I release the shutter it makes a sound like a 1967 Nikkormat with low batteries. This noise frightens the Mexican work crew working on the road, and they all flee in terror.
Dream: Abby, Nicole, Tracey, Lori, Bill and I are in Las Vegas where we find a tattered satchel and a yellowed envelope in the gutter. We believe they both contain treasures from antiquity, but are never able to find a place away from the crowds to open them and find out. I woke up and went back to sleep in hopes of solving it, but we never did.
Dream: My coworkers and I are dismantling the old “photo shack” darkroom down the block from our office. Aside from dozens of enlargers of various sizes and brands, there are a large number of cheesy religious items like clocks, statues, and lamps, all marked down for quick sale. We can have any of them we want for free, but no one will take any of them. I find a film-drying closet and count 14 exhaust fans capable of creating hurricane-force winds to dry film and prints. I see two large holes in the floor that are open to outer space. Once everyone else has left, I turn the shack over onto the street, revealing a small garage containing a tiny, faded-pink Model T. I turn the key and it starts. I drive it back to the office, glad that we will be able to use it as out mascot in upcoming parades.
Dream: Kathryn Sterbenc and I are in her lavish, multi-story apartment high above downtown San Francisco. We are trying to catch up, but there is a raucous golf tournament in the back yard. Several golfers throw objects at her windows, which embed in them like amber. We see Pamela Hudspeth, who asks Kathy for a psychoanalysis. They sit for hours in Kathy’s Greek Room and talk. When I read the analysis, I find it is is a six-point grocery list. Pam tries to make pizza, but when it doesn’t work out, she puts it in a bag and serves grilled cheese instead.
Dream: I am in high school, in a gifted and talented class with six other students. We use upright desks and use metal tubes to communicate. I have absolutely no clue how to do any of the classwork, and feel like I am about to flunk out. The teacher tells me my behavior is off based on the fact that some of the metal tubes have been turned away from me. I try to log in to my iMac to do my work and find that the system has been replaced with a foreign-language version of Windows 95. Trying to fix it, I see the other students throw away copy after copy of Internet Explorer. I finally mouse to the upper-left corner of the screen and select “leave I/O diagnostic mode 3.2”, which returns the computer to Mac OS. I am then in the cafeteria with Elizabeth Redman and Kaitlyn Redman, who tell me the teacher is a jerk. We go outside to see hundreds of dazed students in yellow t-shirts walking up a hill. When we ask, they tell us, “It’s not a movie. It’s an entrepreneurship.”
Dreams:Randy Mitchell and I are at the edge of the Grand Canyon and decide on a suicide pact. I jump first, but the fall lasts for 15 minutes and I get bored. Then I am in Mexico where space aliens have taken over, with Tom Gilbert and Karen Alexander Gilbert. We pack our bags to make the crossing into human-controlled America, but have to cover our work with a towel when the alien patrols go by. I try on several of Tom’s shirts, but they all make me look exactly like him
Two dreams: Co-worker Randy and I are covering a crash at Latta Road and the Loop. I watch as several cars rear-end each other trying to see the crash, which involves a man who had crashed his camper into a building and they can’t get to him.
“I was going to tell you I was at home,” Randy says, “but now that you’ve seen me, here I am.”
I look out to the south to see the ocean. Randy says, “I know a guy who says the Atlantic is the healthiest thing you can drink. It’s full of diarrhea.”
(Get up to feed the dogs, go back to bed.)
I am then on the new space shuttle on a test flight to work the bugs out of the docking system. We get to the edge of space, then turn around and come back to Detroit. I decide to blog about the experience, but the internet is now an outdoor pigpen, so I hang my pictures of the event on the barbed wire fence.
“This was my second time in space,” I say. “The first was in 2001.”
Dream: I am at a party at my friends Michael and Thea’s house. They live on an empty country road. The other guest is a beautiful blond woman with deep blue eyes who sits in the front drawer of Michael’s desk writing love poetry and being depressed. She says she got this way from “the Kozakis stream.” We cut up lemons, which turn to limes. I cut up some other fruit and she takes out a pad and asks, “Will that be all sir?” I tell her she’s not my waitress. I realize I am having too many yellow and orange fruits for dinner. An angry teenager with a knife approaches Michael, who repeatedly provokes the angry man by tugging at his shirt. The angry man head-butts Michael, who falls to the floor unconscious. I walk down the road, which changes from dirt road to the hallway of a housing project. On the walls, I see numerous maps of cell phone service in the Congo. When I get back to Michael and Thea’s, a crowd has gathered and are very concerned for Michael. We then try to roll out a large rubber mat so we can do an MRI, and a comedy ensues when it is too heavy and too floppy to unroll. The angry man runs through the crowd, trying to escape from police, stopping to threaten us with his knife. The crowd gasps audibly.
Dream:Mackenzee Crosby and I are interns in the photo department at The Enid News and Eagle during the film era. The department is run by an old man We see him leave and I explain, “He said when he turned 65, he was leaving and not coming back.” I look in his camera bag to find his equipment to be from the 1970s and filthy. It is such bad equipment, in fact, that some of the focal lengths are wrong; he has 280mm telephoto for example. We go outside and are surprised to see a freight train speeding down a hill out of control toward us, but when it turns at the last minute, we remember it is “the 3:10.” We turn around to find the main highway into town has been turned into a beautiful reflecting pool, and a body luge tournament is about to begin. I open my own camera bag to find the old man’s stuff inside, including three filthy 280mm lenses. At that point one of the dogs woke me up, so I went to the other bedroom. The next three dreams were about trying to restart the first dream.
Dreams: my right arm got uncovered, so for a while I dreamed I was donating blood. After a while, I dreamed I was playing softball for Latta High School. Our pitcher can’t find her uniform, so she cites a rare regulation that allows her to play in a black bra. As a result, I get to wear her uniform. We take the field, but it is the Brooklyn Bridge, and we are golfing. I then realize she has a huge crush on me. I appreciate that because she has such beautiful hair, but when I turn to look at her again, it’s frizzy like a 1980s haircut. She hits a ball off the bridge. It lands in the water, but floats, and we realize that if it sinks, it’s a foul ball, but if we can get it back before it sinks, it will be a home run. We enter the subway, which is served by canals. We see the ball floating by and form a human chain to pull it out of the water. An angry New Yorker says he will no longer support Latta because of this turn of events.
Dream: we are playing Photon/laser tag in an indoor/outdoor arena. As we play and our weapons are upgraded, they change in our hands using transporter technology. I then realize we are shooting each other’s phones. At the end of the first round, I don’t have the highest score, but I did earn the “most hate generated” bonus.
Dream: Abby and I were fighting our way out of a huge, dark grey military complex at night under heavy fire. Shoot-and-scoot, cover-and-retreat, emptying mag after mag from our rifles and pistols. Just as we seem to be out of ammo and lost, Max and Sierra scurry off, then return after finding an escape route, leading us to safety.
Dream from May 2004, recorded in my journal: I am rowing down a muddy river beneath an Interstate highway. I find a box of lolly pops who are being bullied by their classmates. I escort them to a dry spot, where I install an Oldsmobile 403 engine in a lawn mower.
Dream: I was a dog handler at a wedding, in charge of a giraffe-sized Irish Wolfhound. A one point, he felt faint, so I game him a bowl of elbow macaroni and milk.
Abby and I both either dreamed or heard someone whistling a tune. I got my 9mm and cleared the house and made sure all the dogs were okay, but we didn’t hear any sound like that the rest of the night. None of the dogs reacted to the sound in any way, so my best guess is that one of us was dreaming about whistling and whistled.
Dream recorded in my journal, 1995: In an airport lounge, I watch a man cuddle a wad of gum he calls “Schmooggums.” I see the face of a baby inside it. He misplaces it, but I find it on a bookshelf. Suddenly there is an air show, which I am watching with the Ada High cheerleaders. I peel away the gum to find a balloon. One of the cheerleaders pops the balloon and instead of a baby inside, there is a greeting card shaped like a baby.
Dream fragment from nap: “cemetery-grade popsicle.” I then fell asleep again and dreamed that Doug Hoke gave me a personal tour of his collection of toy airplanes and Steyr rifles.
Dream:LeAnn Skeen and I lower a huge semi into a lake at a grade school in Shawnee to separate the rabbit half from the non-rabbit half. Then Abby Barron and i accidentally crack a kitchen tile, opening an infinity. We collect the blue infinity goo in a bucket and keep it in a child’s bedroom upstairs, occasionally dropping things into it to watch them disappear into eternity.
Dream: Ashley Williams and I are recruiting for a minor league football team. We get Tom Cruise and Burt Reynolds to join. After a couple of games, we find ourselves being chased by boxes, which were throwing smaller boxes at us. Eventually we realize we are in a race in an obstacle course. Ashley is in the lead, and after crossing several difficult ladder obstacles, gets to the finish line and solves a complex puzzle to open the cabinet housing our first place award.
Dream: I was at an Allen football game when the quarterbacks tried to punch each other out. The teams were so ashamed they threw their pads on the field and went to the locker room, even though the game wasn’t over. The final score was settled by seven year olds playing tetherball.
Alternate title: Dogs Preserve Dreams.
I got up at 4:30 this morning to feed the dogs. I got back in bed and laid awake for 15 minutes memorizing the following dream:
We were in my Grandmother Barron’s back bedroom, the one where Nicole and I used to stay when we were kids, when we noticed the wind was picking up in one corner of the room.
We went outside to play volleyball, but noticed the wind was approaching hurricane-force. I began to notice flooding, and numerous waterspouts in the water all around. I shouted this as loud as I could, but no one seemed to hear me. Soon I realized I needed to be home, so I walked home several miles in knee-deep water.
There was a period in the dream during which I was absent, like a time gap in the movies. I woke up in poverty, which resembled 1890s England. The family in my house help saying things like, “He hates us today,” but won’t tell me who “He” is. On the floor I see a transparent plexiglass Scotty dog and realize this is the “He” they are discussing, and that he is responsible for all the suffering around us.
The dream shifts to a train station, and we are able to trap the plexiglass dog by placing sticks on top of him and beneath him so he is too tall to fit in the tracks. This allows us to board an old school bus, where it becomes clear that my family is The Waltons. I sit on the floor of the bus and color in a coloring book with Kami Cotler, the actress who played the youngest of The Waltons until I look out to see that John Walton, the father, is driving us over a huge body of water. As we enter a city, he turns to bus around and drives the city streets backward, explaining that it better allows us to admire the chrome fenders of our bus.
Dream: A Southwest 737, a nice new 700-series, was trying to land in our garage.
The approach was high, so the pilot tried to go around, but did so too late and his landing gear clipped our roof. Our house wasn’t damaged (since for a few seconds the aircraft was miniature), but the jet careened into the pasture by our pond and burst into flames. Aghast, I rushed inside to get my cameras, but when I got inside I found myself unable to find the right cameras, then unable to find the right lenses, then unable to get the lenses to mount on my cameras.
By this point in the dream I feel certain that emergency personnel and other photojournalists would arrive on the scene and get pictures that I won’t, despite the fact that the crash occurring literally in my own back yard.
Dream: Abby was killed by a porcupine. :>(
Dream: Since it was windy outside as I slept this morning, which made a rumbling sound on the bedroom windows, I dreamed that there was a nuclear war.
I was preparing to go to an Ada High School football state championship game. I drove past the practice field to verify the game time, then started to drive north on Broadway toward home.
At this point in the dream there was a complex subtext that didn’t respect the timeline (it seemed to occur after the main events of the dream) about another photographer going to the game with me. He needed a camera with a decent lens, which I was unable to supply. At one point we were searching a van, presumably mine, for a 300mm, but what we found was mostly just tripod legs.
Then in the dream I was back on Broadway, driving home. I noticed a smoke plume far to the north that became a mushroom cloud, but it still looked like some kind of conventional explosion. I continued to drive and tried to call my wife Abby at her office.
I had the scanner in my car on, but there was no note of this event.
A flash occurred closer, followed by another mushroom cloud that was classically nuclear. I said out loud, “A nuclear war? Really?”
The blast wave approached, so I got out of my car (the Chevy Cavalier I had in 1990), and laid in the ditch by the side of the road. When it passed, I looked around for my car, which had been blown back into a yard about a block back. I walked back to get it, and was amazed that it would start. I tried again to call Abby, and while I was surprised to see that EMP hadn’t disabled my phone, for a moment I couldn’t remember the number for her desk. As I tried to think of it, there was a blinding flash from the Ada airport.
I got out of my car and covered by face with my hands, which were now wearing leather gloves. I realized I would die. I said out loud, “Goodbye Abby. I love you, I love you, I love you.”
(Now that I write this dream down, it all seems pretty transparent and obvious.)
One of my favorite Ada community events, Open Mic Nyte, ceased meeting in May for a variety of reasons. But the gathering came roaring back for a one-time event Thursday on the patio of Hot Shots Coffee House in Ada, drawing many regular artists and readers, and a few new participants.
The event was precipitated by the death of Terry Ragsdale, father of Open Mic’s original founders, Lisa Ragsdale and Rhonda Ragsdale. Since they traveled to Ada for their father’s funeral, they decided to get Open Mic back together for one night.
The event was Open Mic’s first occasion to be outdoors, and the weather was about as perfect as anyone could ask. Since Hot Shots is in the Ada Arts District, the neighborhood had an air of night life about it. People came and went from various businesses, or passed us as they walked their dogs.
Without an Open Mic event all summer, it seemed to me that our creative energy built up, then came out in a flurry Thursday night. We all still write and sing and read and play music, but expressing it in a public gathering allows us to hear it out loud and assess our voices. Someone told me once that a thought isn’t really real until it’s shared, and I think Open Mic Nyte helps us bring our thoughts to life.
My reviewance of Kurt Cobain’s journal continues. I am about halfway through, but I grab his big red book at every commodal sit-down and late afternoon nap. So far, it has been every bit the epic roller coaster I hoped it would.
“No matter what you write, it will be completely misinterpreted by everyone who reads it every time.” ~M7
“Don’t read my diary when I’m gone.” ~Kurt Cobain, in his journal
When I got ahold of the journals of Kurt Cobain and published an insistent social media post about it, I was set upon by immediate misinterpretation by friends and acquaintances, the most significant of which was the notion that this was about the band Nirvana or the grunge music scene in the early 1990s.
The Initial Commentary...
“I’m not a fan of Cobain or Nirvana. It’s not because I specifically dislike him or their music, it’s just not my thing.”
“…never cared for Cobain or Nirvana. I know the ‘Teen Spirit’ thing always made the charts and lists as a great song and I never understood why. Love music and my taste runs from Pink Floyd to Johnny Cash and a lot in between but Nirvana wasn’t one of them.”
“Nirvana was meh. I don’t think it translates very well post-90s, but that is just me.”
“Overrated band….period..and history has now proven that.”
This has nothing to do with music.
I saw these journals and, as a journal writer and reader, I was fascinated. I said that in the initial post, but… sigh. Maybe M7 was right. Maybe my best efforts to unravel Cobain’s thoughts are doomed from the start.
Sometimes I see myself as far too organized, far too careful. Part of me admires Cobain’s total chaos. Even when I try to let myself be chaotic, in writing or photography, the chaos I create is pretentious and fraudulent. I am not, however, a fraud myself. Two works I admired as a teenager and later found out to be complete fakes were Go Ask Alice and Jay’s Journal, both conjured by a religious nutbag to try to scare kids away from drug, the occult, and Satanism. Ironically, it drew more kids to those things than away, so hmm. Maybe it was a false flag. I don’t know. Maybe no one knows.
I won’t make this post a review of Cobain’s journals, at least not until I have made a couple of complete passes through it, but this is an indictment of myself: too careful, too controlled, too controlling, too disgusted and afraid of what I might become if I let go of all that.
I wasn’t into Nirvana when the band was huge. I found their sound, like a lot of grunge/garage of the era, a bit too ratty and melodiless.
In the video, Nerdwriter mentions front man Kurt Cobain’s journals. I literally stopped the video right then, swiped over to the Amazon app, found and bought Cobain’s journals. Why? Everyone who knows me knows that not only have I curated journals since 1978 (when Cobain was just 11), but also that I read all the journals I can find, from friends who shared theirs with me or gave them to me, to famous journalers like Anaîs Nin or Franz Kafka.
I read Cobain’s suicide note years ago, and it left me wanting more, and more than just music.
Today I got a fat book in the mail. It is photos of his journal pages, which, honestly, is beyond cool. It is messy, chaotic, vulgar, brilliant, interesting. I will dig in with my multi-colored highlighters, and attempt to decode the journal of this troubled, complex, dark soul. Watch this space for a review.
I am saddened to report that Open Mic Nyte, which I have attended since June 2017, has suspended performances.
We saw this coming when its long-time home, Mojo’s Coffee, closed in October 2018. The Grandview hosted us for a while, which was unassailably generous, but the space wasn’t quite conducive to our scene. Another factor that contributed to this was that many of the musicians who performed at Open Mic moved to Sessions, a new live music and alehouse venue, which hosted performances on the same night just down the street.
Sterling Jacobs, a friend for decades, organized the event, and though he has been a poetry rock star, attendance has been faltering. Sterling said in a video that he hopes to keep it going via Facebook, but it’s definitely not the same, not a scene. Besides, my writing is overwhelmingly here at richardbarron.net, not on social media.
We had some great times at Open Mic Nyte, and I feel like I expressed myself well. I always looked forward to it. I met some great people, and reconnected with some old friends.
I hope to find another frequent open microphone event where I can read soon.
Editor’s note: I read this at Open Mic Nyte recently, and I felt is deserved a wider audience. It was written by a long-time friend of mine in one of the notebooks we share.
At Right Angles
by M7/Rectal Infectant
My pet kangaroo gently bounces in front of me – ears atwitch. I lustily attack her brownie and she farts off into the azure distance somewhere. I mount her ghostly afterimage and slobber all over the back of her neck. Her poltergeistly marsupial climax timpanied at the end with a massive kick of her rabbit/clown feet. I double over in grief, semen dripping from my defeated unit like absinth dripping from Lord Byron’s lips (or like the condensation from a rickety mid-August Oklahoma window mounted air conditioner.)
“Fuck you, Kangaroo!” I groan as I fumble through her ghost pouch for the “off” switch. After seeing my hand pass through the insubstantial pet, I settle for the 24th century super- Quaalude I fish out of my vest pocket.
After a bit, I am calmed and there are no kangaroos about – ghostly or otherwise. Yet I still feel the clammy clutch of her chocolate roo vagina. 45º crooked perspective… loamy earth surrounds… tumbling grains of sand.sugar.salt…
Matching her bounce this time, I hold tight to her ridiculous ears as she farts off into the azure else. The supersonic breeze buffets my erection, but I had taken special adhesive precautions the night before.
The ghostly image was left alone in my room to gleelessly masturbate to the Hoover.
Last semester a photography student of mine told me that she visited this site and took a trip “down the rabbit hole,” meaning she got involved and lost in the content. It was very flattering to me to have someone say that. I try to be as entertaining as I can and as poignant as I can. The internet can be unforgiving, particularly when you tell a truth some people don’t want to hear. I appreciate any approbation offered.
Here’s a little history. In 1978, I started a journal for English class in tenth grade. I wrote in full-sized spiral notebooks for 20 years. After that I switched to smaller hardback volumes. In 2007, I started a blogger.com page. Within a year I migrated to my own web site, and have administered it using WordPress since then. That gradually replaced writing in longhand.
Interestingly, I bought a number of hardback blank journals in the early 2000s that remain unused. I have toyed with the notion of giving them away, but we live in a world of such plenteous paper and so little demand that I expect anyone who would take them wouldn’t use them.
That leaves keeping them for either a special project or some kind of handwritten journal reboot, neither of which is likely in the internet age; I am much more comfortable at the keyboard these days than I am with a pen or a pencil.
An Open Mic Nyte buddy of mine, Timothy, calls them his notebooks “codex” books, which is an elegant name for the same thing. Another OMN friend, next door neighbor Jenn, keeps journal notes all the time. Ideas?
I’ve always had a soft spot for the café culture. Artists and Bohemians like Henry Miller and Jack Kerouac seemed to lead lives of densely-layered creativity. For similar reasons, I’ve always been interested in getting together with fellow writers and poets, to share and compare and express. One result of these interests is the formation of various writing groups over the years: in 1980, in 1992, and in 2000.
So when I was recently invited to join a social media group called Open Mic Nyte, I didn’t hesitate, and in June 2017 I attended my first session.
Though many people recognized me as Richard the news photographer, I told them I was just Richard.
One thing Open Mic Nyte co-founder (along with Steve Brogdon and Lisa M. Pyre) Sterling Jacobs emphasized is vulnerability and its value in situations like this; the willingness to be emotionally vulnerable is indispensable in expressing yourself.
Abby and I just watched Malcolm X, the 1992 Spike Lee Joint. It’s style summoned some very close-to-home memories from that dark year, so I dove into my journal.
I like to imagine these notes are like Kafka’s or Camus’, but they sometimes sound like they came from a high school girl.
These pearls only scratch the surface of what it was like for me that year, but it’s a good start…
• Return to me, and return to me what you have taken.
• Have you ever noticed that it’s the strong who think the strong should survive?
• Part of me wants her to be happy, and part of me wants her.
• I can see you in your navy peacoat, white scarf, snow melting on your glasses, under the street light.
• Sarcasm chasm.
• And yet, today, I failed to hold anyone close, tell anyone I love them, laugh, cry, have fun. What the hell am I doing?
• Tears always require imagination.
• It’s funny how the most boring people I know find me among the most boring people they know.
• Those who seem to be hiding something are usually hiding the fact that they have nothing to hide.
• Slow dance and mean it.
• Home is a moment.
• Before I go, I’d like to 1. Be famous 2. Get rich 3. Feed the world 4. Marry. Don’t be ridiculous. Who’s gonna marry me?
• If I leave, there’s no chance anyone will want me to leave.
• I’d rather eat cereal than hallucinate.
• Alone. What a wonderful word. Sometimes it’s all that needs to be said.
• I don’t want what you have. I want what you are.
• Today was made of tears.
• Misheard lyric: “The dummy between your legs.” Actual lyric: “The damage accumulates.”
• I hold myself tight because no one else will. Not even you.
• (An exhaustive list of women I dated or wanted to date, along with their best and worst characteristics.)
• I stand still and time passes through me.
• Love is an acquired taste.
• Slow-dancing with my imagination.
• “I’m really glad,” she said, not knowing how much it meant to me and how happy I was the hear her say it, “that you started coming over on Friday nights.”
• There is no place in heaven or on earth better than in my arms.
• She chants and she cries and she holds this night as sacred as I.
• We rise to the levels of strength and bravery that our lives demand.
• Somehow it means more to have someone observe than I am lonely than it does to merely be lonely.
• Most people are made up of their bad habits and broken dreams.
• How does it feel? It feels like I am in a pressure chamber, and it’s all pressing on me, making me smaller, harder. Sometimes I feel like I will disappear completely. Right now, as I sit hunched and write backhanded and yarn tearfully, I remember than no matter who or where you are, you are not thinking about me.
• Don’t go. Stay. Don’t stray.
• The future is up for grabs, and the past is up for review.
• I looked at myself in the cold, harsh, judgmental light of that damned mirror and saw so much of myself I had to look away.
• Read me like a book. I dare you.
• I can still smell her on me, the smell of perfume and tears.
• Her whole life has left her unprepared for the kind of openness I offer.
• 3:13 am. You awaken mysteriously to the sound of my voice calling your name. You hear in me my need, my gifts, my love, my life. You sit up and look around. All seems as it should.
• I sit by the window and listen as the wind chimes play the loneliest song ever written.
• Her soft voice touches me with its illusion.
• The words loomed large when she said, “I love Richard.” Never mind that the rest of the sentence was, “because he always brings cookies.”
• Maybe I was tired, or maybe it was the music, but I swear I could hardly bear the next moment.
• You keep me alive by needing me in your life. Telling you who I am is who I am.
• And you, whose caring ends the minute you walk out that door…
• Even if you have nothing to hide, don’t hide.
• The opposite of hurt is hope.
• The train to yesterday leaves tomorrow.
• Tonight the windy mist does a disappointing job hiding my tears. Miserable weather.
• When I’m with you, I’m as unlonely as I ever need to be.
• The future is our only choice.
• Bachelorhood: the freedom to joylessly masturbate to the uninspired pornography of my imagination.
• “You’re one of the most obvious people I’ve ever met.” ~M
• “Do they abandon you, or do you drive them away?” ~F
• Peace doesn’t come from what you do, but from who you are.
• If there is a god, I want to look him in the eyes. Is that the idea behind mirrors?
• Message from girlfriend on answering machine: “Meat loaf. Pot roast. Yankee pot roast. English pot roast. T-bone steak cut from the side of a cow. Round steak. Rib eye. Fillet mignon. Fried crab. Oyster on the half shell. Pork ribs. BBQ beef, dripping, glistening with sauce. McDonald’s Big Mac. Ooo, I have a deep voice. Hamburger meat, nice and lean and frying in a pan forever and ever. Chicken noodle soup. Beefy vegetable soup. …uh… (BEEP).”
• “Part of your heart you only use when you’re in love.” ~J
• A single wish: don’t let it end in tears.
• I give because I need to give.
• She cried.
• There have been hours beyond darkness in which I was totally alone.
• Good men make mistakes.
August 15, 1992: My first flying lesson.
• You awaken. The pillow is cool, but for a moment it seems like someone is there with you. It’s me.
• Silence wraps around me like a boa constrictor.
• There is nothing inside my heart that is outside my reach.
• Cool night. Footsteps on the stairs. Clouds witness my tension as I wait for Darla or Lee or the last person I’ll ever see.
• Fire and wind from the sky laugh at my frail heart as I sit in the unwelcome darkness and miss your smile.
• Missing her comes in waves. Soon they will sweep me away.
• Dressed in black, I walk the night, not among the shadows, but as the shadows.
• Sometimes it feels like if you were to cut me open, my anger and pain would flood the world.
• “Swirling toilet of despair.” ~Aria
• I have blurred visions.
• The trouble with sex with M is that you’d have to get along with her for at least a whole day, and I can’t imagine being able to do that.
• The chocolate of truth
• Perspective: use it or lose it.
• If I believed in god, I’d hate him, but my disbelief deprives me of that luxury.
• When the New Order comes, anyone uttering the word “codependent” will spend six months in a reeducation camp.
• “Hello, Richard. I just wanted to tell you that life is a tragic and terrible struggle that is made harder by the fact that as a race, we are all tragically flawed. See you this weekend. Bye.” ~David, on my answering machine
On the morning of December 20, 1992, my flight instructor signed my logbook and got out of the airplane, and I flew solo for the first time. In addition to the first giant step to becoming a pilot, it was a symbolically high moment in my personal life. My 1992 was over.
“What do you care what I think anyway? I don’t even count, right? I could disappear forever and it wouldn’t make any difference. I might as well not even exist at this school, remember? And you… don’t like me anyway.” ~John Bender, The Breakfast Club
We Were Young
“When you grow up. your heart dies.” ~Allison Reynolds, The Breakfast Club
As I read an old journal – my first journal – as research for another blog entry, I found that it led me to think about my writing. When I was 15, I was so proud of my journal. My journal was everything to me. But it was nothing. It was just me recycling M*A*S*H jokes, stealing Charlie Brown quotes, and being obsessed with waifish girls in my class. I wanted so much to be doing something creative, but it was just masturbation.
December 23, 1978
I spent a lot of time out behind the house today. (We have a creek and a dump.) I was constantly thinking about – no, no I wasn’t really thinking of anything. I was just thinking. I came to no real conclusions.
Somehow this epiphany extended to the present, and at the moment I am feeling that every word I’ve ever written has been a jumbled, better-spelled, better-grammared version of those first whiny spiral-bound entries from tenth grade.
January 14, 1979
I’ve been thinking lately. In what do I excel? Am I totally useless? No. I have three outstanding abilities. Firstly, I am a good orator, seeing that I got first place at Cameron [speech contest]. Secondly, my hobby. I am a pretty fair photographer. Lastly, and probably most important to me, I am a highly prolific writer. This paragraph may sound conceited, but I must occasionally remind myself that I am not totally untalented and worthless.
I tried to quench this deserted thirst by re-reading some of my blog entries and short stories, but that was just shooting blanks. Maybe I really am a bad writer. The only writing I’ve ever actually gotten published is in Ada Magazine, and that wasn’t much of an accomplishment since I am the editor. By this time in 1979, after a school year of journal writing, I fantasized that I would end up writing novels.
January 14, 1979
I feel surrealistically sad right now. I feel so much as if I am going to die. But of course, it is only a feeling. Or perhaps, a hope? After all, what’s there to live for? A few novels, maybe one of my photos on a magazine cover, an award for best oratory? Maybe nothing, maybe everything.
The journal entries themselves from that period seem – at least from my probably too-close, too-critical perspective – much more self-involved, self-indulgent, and self-piteous than I imagine other 15-year-olds’ thoughts would be.
January 30, 1979
I just don’t understand. Why? Why am I the one and only Richard R. Barron? The totally untalented and superfluous RRB? The great unsung hero of absolutely nothing of any importance? I really should call X; she hardly knows that I exist. All of my long nights spent in ambivalence, all that pain and suffering was for nothing at all. Then again, maybe not.
So here I am watching a late night documentary about mind control. I don’t think my brain could be washed or mind could be controlled.
And there seemed to be so many violent thoughts; I often used the word “revenge.” I know I never had violent fantasies at the time, so it might be that I was relatively inarticulate. Maybe I just wanted justice, or maybe I just wanted to be heard. “Revenge” is a loud word to write, but no one seemed to hear it.
April 27, 1979
I feel like crying. I want to die. Everything has suddenly gone wrong. Everyone is starting to hate me. Worst of all, I am starting to hate myself. My entire emotional structure is collapsing. Time lingers on and brings back memories. So much has happened inside me since last summer. A good deal has changed just within a few days. I am alone, but I am not lonely. I am at peace, but there is much unrest. I know I exist and yet I do not understand why. I am just a shadow on the wall. I am nothing.
I could vanish from the face of the Earth right now and no one would know.
I effect no one’s life and play no significant role in any society. Who cares? Who DOES care? No one. No one will ever care about or for me. I am totally inadequate and superfluous.
But what about the long run? Is it possible that I could significantly influence the future of the world? Perhaps there is a definite reason to remain part of life on Earth.
Another thing I did in junior high and high school was sneaking out of the house late at night. I don’t know what other kids did when they snuck out; maybe it was to get high, drink, and screw, or all three. In Fast Times at Ridgemont High, Jennifer Jason Leigh sneaks out to have sex with a college kid. I snuck out to explore. A buddy and I would meet up somewhere – a park or the golf course – and go from there, finding and exploring stuff like construction sites, vacant lots, storage areas, whatever. We always did it when it was super cold outside, and I always wore my dad’s surplus army jacket. The next day we made maps of what we did.
I wonder how many kids snuck out late at night, and what they did. Abby and I were guardians of her nephew for a few years during his teen years, and I always wondered if he snuck out. As far as I know, my parents never knew I snuck out, and I was never aware that he snuck out.
May 4, 1979
I have come a conclusion. I am totally and absolutely worthless. It’s not really all that bad that no one else cares about you once you get used to it. It’s just that I really don’t care any longer. I need a way out and I am desperate. No one even really likes me. I am simply an outcast, a loner, an oddball in a great crown of normal, happy people.
What would really happen if I killed myself? What would REALLY happen? I would, in a way, have my long-sought-after justice. Justice, indeed, my friend, justice.
Life goes on. I must continue regardless of the world’s meaninglessness.
Like most kids, or even most people whose perspective becomes myopic and self-centered, I thought of my life as miserable and difficult. I honestly had no idea how good it was; carefree, full of potential, healthy. George Bernard Shaw pierced the heart of the matter when he said, “Youth is wasted on the young.”
May 5, 1979
My life is going very badly now. I am filled with pressures and anxieties. Learning to ignore problems… especially those unsolvable ones… is hardly a solution. Something is wrong… deep down inside, something is wrong. Is it just that I am very tired?? Am I losing my sanity??
One thing is for sure… those vast, untapped and long forgotten memories will soon return. Once again I will wish and hope and eventually be hurt, disillusioned and disappointed.
Nothing has gone right in a very long time. I must have a reprieve or I will go insane. Why is the world so deeply set against me?
All I can tell you now is that I feel like nothing in a world of something, and that something wants to push me deeper into oblivion.
One fairly impressive thing about all these crazy, sometimes seemingly dangerous, things I wrote in my journal: my English teacher completely respected its implied confidentiality, and made dozens of mostly helpful, understanding comments in the margins when he graded it. I’m not sure a teacher in the 21st century would be as understanding about my teen angst, but might instead regard me as a threat and report me to authorities, the result of which is to push such feelings and expressions deeper into the shadows.
May 10, 1979
I am losing control over my emotional status once again. My feelings have, as usual, suddenly and profoundly changed. I am again confused and somewhat afraid. I am falling apart. I am under a great deal of stress in all ways. I am so tired. No one really cares right now. I would try to care, but I tried to care one and failed. No longer is there poetic justice in the world. There is only work and bad feelings. No rest.
Another lesson I might take from these ramblings is the value of communicating clearly. Teenagers can’t really do it. Part of that is the Small World syndrome, a subset of wishful thinking, in which we believe the things closest to us are the only things in the world, and everyone else surely sees them.
At the end of the year, the English teacher hosted the infamous luncheon at his home that devolved into the famous “social pressure” conversation. It was an odd experience for me, since I spent more than a year presuming and assuming all kinds of unhappy fiction about how everyone felt about me. The luncheon laid out before me, to some extent, that there were other people in the world, and that despite their good looks and popular friends, these other people had feelings not entirely unlike my own.
Friendship is as unpredictable and nebulous as anything in life.
Sometimes people look great “on paper” – they share your views or your tastes or your interests – but in person there is absolutely no connection. Someone will say, “You and my cousin should hang out. He loves hiking and the outdoors just like you do.” But it turns out that their cousin likes jet skis and bass fishing, and thinks the desert is “where they should put all the pig farms.”
Sometimes you meet someone with whom you connect from the first moment you are in the room with them. Dan Marsh was such as friend when my newspaper’s publisher introduced him to me on my 50th birthday. Dan was our new editor, and I somehow knew at that moment that I was going to enjoy working with him, and that we were going to have a lot of productive discussions, about everything.
And our friendship certainly isn’t based on narcissism or self-congratulation. Dan and I will challenge each others’ assertions unhesitantly. In fact, I don’t think you can base a friendship on sycophancy.
I’m always glad when I see his name on a text message or an email, or when he rings me up. Dan left our newspaper last year to become the editor at the Magnolia, Arkansas paper, and in the last eight months Dan has cultivated a relationship with a lovely young lady named Christa. The two of them got married yesterday. I was planning to attend as a guest, but when their original photographer got sick and backed out, I stepped up and shot the whole thing for them, which was my honor, and which was mountains of fun.
Congratulations to my friend Dan and my new friend Christa.
“You know why I like being with you? All my other friends are noisy. You’re quiet.” ~Jamie
Jamie is here today, taking a nap next to me on my futon in the living room. It’s nice to have her here with me. I wish Jamie would come over and occupy the futon all the time. It’s wonderful to see her asleep, her beautiful blonde hair spread out all around her.
When I was about 14 and my sister Nicole was about 11, we started writing and drawing in a spiral notebook that we kept under her bed. We wrote in it off and on for several years. It was an ideal fusion of the “Amy plus Bobby 2gether 4ever” type notes you see scribbled on an eighth grade girls’ notebook, and skill-lessly draw pictures of penises.
It included charts and graphs of people we hated or people we wanted to love. The charts were fill-in-the-blanks charts that requested basic information: age, date of birth, virginity status, hair color, eye color, height, phone number, school, grades, use of profanity, voice, and “molestee” for girls and “molester” for boys.
Our class schedules are in there, as are some hysterically funny drawings.
I don’t know if this is an insight into the minds of young adolescents, or a scathing indictment of how weird we were.
A Few Tidbits
Jenny’s bludges. -Richard
And my personality has never recovered. -Nicole
I’m so happy-sad! -Nicole
Sure, I hated him this morning. That’s when I didn’t know him. -Nicole, quoting Peggy
(In different handwritings)… Hot stuff. Stuff. Stuff. Hot stuff. Cold shit. Blotchey. Blotchey pen. Blotchie? No no no. Blotchey. -Richard and Nicole
Let’s be friends, okay? -Nicole
Let’s hear it for the real people. -Nicole
Freshenup gum! -Nicole
(Name of Nicole’s date)… Stupid! Dumb! Ugly! But at least he’s nice. -Richard
I wish he would get into me. -Nicole
(In large script handwriting)… The Crystal Chandelier -Nicole
What? What? What! That’s what I said. I said what! -Nicole
P.S. Remember our secret about why we were late getting back to the bus at the Spanish Club trip? Keep it a secret.
I have always wondered about that secret.
Nicole's List of First-Day-of-School Fears
No one will talk to me in the morning.
On the first day, I’m going to wear corduroy and I scared everyone will think I’m dressed wrong for the season.
My hair is straight on one side and curly on the other and I can’t get them to match.
My face is all broken out and my makeup fades too fast.
I’m three inches taller than my boyfriend.
There is at least one “make a face” game in it, which Nicole and I developed during long drives to see our grandparents in Missouri. In it, we each took a turn adding a feature to a face, with emphasis on making it as funny or grotesque as possible.
There is a certain chaos about “The Book” that I find compelling, yet am unable to reproduce in latter-day efforts.
The cover to the spiral-bound book was lost many years ago, so I don’t know where it actually begins and ends. There is an A thru Z comparison of my handwriting and my sisters, so I treat that as the cover.
Apparently I was into a girl named Peggy at the time, but I only recall ever seeing her once. (Updated May 2018 to add that I recall it was Peggy Crockett, the girl I hugged under the streetlight in the summer of 1978.)
The biggest surprise about the book is that it made our parent’s move from Lawton, Oklahoma to Palm Coast, Florida in 1987. I would have thought they would have thrown it out.
These are notes from one time I went to dinner with my friends with whom I later formed the writing group called Robert’s Frost.
Pink = Audrey | Green = Shana | Blue = Richard | Red = Merida
Mickey Hamstrings the Pope by Minimus 7.0.1
In the future, everything will be made from leather; leather furniture, leather kitchen utensils, leather consumer electronics.
In restaurants, leather will be served on rice, on the side, flambéed, grilled, smoked, and on ice.
Certain leather, expensive and sensual to the touch, will be soaked in a substance from the future that is part drug and part 24th-century psychotropic herb that yields perfect perception when stirred with gold foil and pressed atop a leather pyramid.
Cows will be forced to eat their own processed hide.
Chips are crunchy, chips are good, chips are my favorite munchy.
My friend says tortillas smell like cum. My tortillas never smell like cum., but if they did, I would swallow them.
Mickey liked the way women would smile graciously and gently masturbate the Pope with a special leather apparatus. “I’m apparatus man!” he would proclaim.
When I am cold goosebumps I grow. They appear any time of the day. Goosebumps or “freeze dots” are not fun. My legs turn prickly and that’s when I know I’VE GOT GOOSEBUMPS.
Try biting your own crack. Goosebumps gone.
I saw myself eat!
“Flush, twice if you have to. Flush your stuff. Why is this so hard for you to do?” -Sign in bathroom
I’m a cat. Meow.
Maybe they had cum on them. Maybe you should see your tortilla maker.
He could just think about getting it up and it would get up.
Yea, I’m thinking about getting it up right now.
Richard, stop poking me!
Yes, I would characterize myself as an avid masturbator.
I got gunk on the page. [There was gunk under her comment.]
In September 1998, my journal (sometimes lightheartedly referred to as “Lord Byron” from a name I gave it in high school) turned 20. I thought of marking the occasion in several different ways. One somewhat radical concept I had involved writing the next 20 years in the margins of the first 20 years, which were all handwritten in huge Mead spiral notebooks. It had a conceptual high art feel to it, but my friends talked me out of it.
A woman I dated in the 1980s also wrote a journal in Mead notebooks, but insisted on writing a pun associated with the word “Mead” next to it on the cover, like “Mead and Podadoes.”
It was around this time that I was frequenting book stores. Remember those? Borders and Barnes & Noble were in their heyday, and had whole sections of blank journals. Some of the journals were fairly plain, while others were clad in the finest Italian leather. Some had faint designs on their inside pages, while others were entirely blank. My pages of choice were simple ruled paper, so I could just write. All of them were dimensionally smaller than the college-rule spirals, which I stuck with for the first 20 years because that was what I had when I started writing the journal in tenth grade.
It was on September 5, 1998 that I made the switch. In addition to smaller paper, I abbreviated the date, which I had always written out in the Mead books.
Upon looking over the transitional period, I began to discover that I was really writing well during that period. At least I thought I was.
February 25, 1998
I wonder if this journal is what sets me apart from the millions who toil like Sisyphus every day, pointlessly churning out paperwork or rubber dogshit or the culture of excess and disease. Or is it my photography? What sets me above?
March 14, 1998
I desire to be brilliant. Ready? GO!
Cynicism is not the answer. Who is happy? Not the cynic. By definition, happiness is the goal. But the definition of happiness eludes us. To believe one’s self to be happy but in actuality being destructive, ignorant, lazy, stupid, or not using one’s potential is not happiness, just the illusion of happiness.
May 11, 1998
The biggest imagination gap: self-image. So many people look and act like complete idiots and believe they are the coolest thing since ice cream. How can you think you look good in that ball cap, that moo moo, that pair of urine-soaked golf pants?
LOOK AT YOURSELF!
Then there were the lists.
Write It Down
The only happy teenagers are the stupid ones.
I am the sky, and I must go home.
What I wouldn’t give to write this page in my own blood.
I would snap you like a twig.
There but for the grace of not being a flipping idiot go I.
I feel that I can write much more honestly now that I have a document shredder for my notes.
Sometimes I feel like I need my anger the way I need my next breath.
“That was very sexy.” -T, after watching me lick salt from my margarita glass.
Never in my life have I been so good at concealing my feelings.
I have written a lot of words over the years. Most of it is drivel. In fact, almost all of it is drivel. Occasionally, however, there is a pearl.
It was September 1978 when Eisenhower High School English Teacher Gil Hernandez assigned my English II class to write in a journal three times a week.
Less that a year later I almost lost the damn thing.
Dad let me take his car to school. It was the Cadillac our family bought years earlier for our vacation to California, but as it got older, it became Dad’s everyday car. (It’s hard to fathom today that a car that guzzled fuel at a rate of 8 miles per gallon could be an “everyday” car.) Michael and I decided to hang out after school, so we got in this 5000-pound rolling house of a car and rumbled off down 53rd Street in the direction of my home.
Journal, November 2, 1979
Having to face adversity every day, my share has been dealt for today. A car ran over my journal. Fortunately there were no fatalities. Almost all of the pages survived, but the spiral part of the notebook is hopelessly crushed. Ironically, I only had today and tomorrow to enter and this book would have been full. How, you may be wondering, could my journal possibly be run over by a car? It fell off the roof, of course.
As we drove on, something didn’t seem right, and when I looked in the back seat, I didn’t see my journal. It dawned on my that I’d put it on the roof of the Cadillac while I unlocked the door, and left it there.
In something of a panic, we turned the boat car around and raced back toward the high school. We spotted the journal sitting forlornly in the middle of the road in the very busy intersection of 53rd and Gore. In my mind I began to formulate some kind of a plan to pull the car up to it when the light turned green and grab it through the open door as we passed it. But before my plan was concrete in my head or the light was close to turning green, Michael was out the door. He dashed like an idiot into traffic and grabbed the journal like a football, then dashed back to the car and got in.
Nearly losing the journal wasn’t nearly as embarrassing as many of the things I wrote in it.
Journal, April 28, 1979
My entire emotional structure is collapsing. Time lingers on and brings back memories. So much has happened to me since last summer. I remember. I remember all the days and nights of bitter, sad, angry, empty feelings. And I know, now, that absolutely no one cares about me. Right now I sit and write and no one on earth is thinking of me or remembering me. I am just a shadow on a wall. I am nothing.
Another pile of dreck from the blue filigree notebook, marked for my reference in fuchsia and powder-blue Post-It notes. Sigh…
I want someone to tell it’s alright, even when it’s not.
“At least it’s intense.” -Kathy, 1986
“At least you know you’re alive.” -Ann (who is no longer alive), 2002
I look at pictures of us together and think, “did it really happen?” (Applies to everyone)
In his last dying days and suffering a brain tumor, V was asked if he saw people where he was going. He counted eight.
There’s no going back now. There’s nothing back there, anyway.
c 2001: Disappearance..
My problem is very obviously too much imagination when it comes to romance. That they have beautiful eyes is more about their mastery of mascara than the depth of love in their hearts. Their slender hands grow without any help from their concepts of right and wrong. The intoxication I feel when I smell their soft hair isn’t from inhaling their brilliant insights.
Then I find that even looking in the mirror is too much to bear.
I lent him a cent for lent
but now I relent
for the scent
is that the cent
I lent him for lent
has been spent
for lent ~Dream fragment, 1993
As if any of you care, that’s it for the blue notebook.
In addition to the scores of blog entries here over the years, I’ve written dozens of notebooks full of journal entries, as well as the hilarious green and red notebooks full of stuff my friends and I thought was funny or ridiculous. I also kept a few “other” notebooks. Some of them were full of personal observations I hoped would lead to story or poem ideas, while others were just phrases or sentences I though were deep or meaningful. I quoted movies, I quoted friends, I quoted Camus and Nietzsche and Kafka. I was deep and pretentious, honest and phony, brilliant and idiotic, and all the while I was self-involved and myopic.
Since the early 1980s, I had a couple of extra spiral notebooks where I could carve out some of my inconclusive free-verse or jot single-line ideas. I also used them for shot lists of movies I never made, and outlining novels I never wrote.
I really liked the hard cover notebooks that were popularly for sale at bookstores in the 1990s, so I switched to them from the old spirals.
As an aside, I was wondering the other day what I did with my free time back in the old days before the internet, and except for obsessive masturbation and the occasional video rental, writing in my journals and these notebooks must have been it.
Almost all of the things written here about women were written before I was married.
There is no chronology to these items. In fact, I usually just opened the book to a random page or a page that looked particularly empty.
Also of note: writing a lot of material doesn’t necessarily make any of it good.
Life is a song. Time is the voice.
Home is a moment.
Hell is the moment of ultimate regret.
“You don’t conquer fear. You learn to get excited by it.” –Gary Busey
It’s all there, in shades of grey.
“All is not lost, only misplaced.” -Unknown, quoted here from M. Z.
I have as much paper as I want. The day will never come when I say to myself that I’ve written too much.
“We shall meet in the place where there is no darkness.” ~1984
She had that damned black soul that got all over my fingers.
I feel happy on purpose, but often feel sad by default.
Prepare and Prevent
What do we mostly offer our children? Candy, sugar, fat, video games, television, the internet, violent movies, cigarettes, alcohol, bad advice, empty morality, hypocrisy, Mr. Self Destruct. What kid could possibly resist? Moral: don’t act so surprised.
Medicine is not candy. Food is not medicine.
I despise women who date and marry loser guys who are really good looking, but I fawn over really beautiful women.
Story idea: a man spends an entire winter cutting down a huge oak tree with his bare hands.
Is confession an action?
Unhappiness fuels the engine of passion.
Violate my tender place and witness the darkness.
Everyone else is so ridiculous. I wish I had a clearer picture of my own ridiculousness.
Spirit is Psyche
Don’t tell me who I should be. Don’t tell me that buying something will make me happy, that I’ll be loved, that I’ll be The One. In fact, don’t tell me anything. Give me the truth.
“I use hate as a weapon. Had I been strong, I never would have needed such a weapon.” ~Ann, from her journal
Fear: If I let this all out, the explosion of violence and rage will destroy me.
“Anger and sorrow frighten me because I fear losing control and becoming a raging maniac.” ~Letter from girlfriend, 1992
I look into their beautiful chestnut eyes and think about the bold, uncaring ingratitude their husbands will show them tonight.
Demanding that I demand nothing is a demand.
I don’t miss you. But I miss who I was when I was with you. Or thinking about you. Or missing you.
Story idea: “The Disk,” about a writer who has misplaced a computer disk full of intimate erotica she has written, and the search to find it through subtle dialog and observation.
Having others around me suffer helps because I think they deserve it.
Lots of people call me for advice to ignore.
My life is raw material for writing.
It Is Your Destiny
Wherever I am is where it seems like I was destined to be. When I am with someone, it seems natural, obvious, inevitable. It’s the same when I am alone. The truth is, though, that I am alone much more than I am with someone.
I am not insane, but I sometimes have insane fantasies.
If you castrated me today, would I care about anything in two weeks? How much of what I feel and desire is in my glands?
Today I walked venomously close to that place of dangerous insanity. My hate, all clad in white and red, led me by the hand.
Then there’s that intensely person moment, in the dark, shared with no one, when you finally say you’re sorry.
That day, I was her hero.
I’m lucky: I fantasize about violence that is so ridiculous that I could never actually do it. (K called this “utility tempered vengeance.”)
That brings us about a third of the way through the blue book with the gold filigree. More to come.
Most people are aware that the Chevrolet Nova was not a big seller in Mexico, for the obvious reason that “no va” translates to “not going” or “it does not go” in Spanish.
There are, however, some lesser-known examples of car names that were not entirely successful.
Nissan SNOT: Originally an acronym for Synergistic Naturalistic Operational Transport, this mid-engine Nissan bragged that drivers would be able to pack as much luggage as they needed in its nose. Japanese marketers failed to connect the acronym with the word.
Diahatsu Dîarria: Described in marketing literature as “the slickest new car around,” Americans may have rejected this model due to cramped conditions in the driver’s seat.
Volkswagen Kråutenjap: Named after a popular Bavarian flower, the Kråutenjap sold especially poorly in Russia, the United States, and England, despite the car makers’ market research suggesting it would assume global domination in a few short years and had the potential to “be the car for the next thousand years.”
Kia Cunt: This sleek design took its name from a colorful South Korean bird. The Cunt sold well in the Pacific Rim nations, but failed to catch on in the West. Marketing strategy was aimed at making Cunts the most desirable item in the world, particularly with men. Kia forecast that if successful, half of all Americans would have a Cunt.