What keeps rich people
Showing posts with label dream. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dream. Show all posts
18 January 2019
11 May 2018
dreamstate writing 11 May 2018
During much of this morning’s dream I was worming my way through the hallways and staircases of a vast series of interlocking, cliff-mounted structures. Sometimes I was alone, and sometimes hordes of other people crowded into the structures’ rooms, making it hard for me to move around. I was trying to get from one disc golf tee-box to another, but these were spaced far apart from one another and the layout of the place was confusing, causing me to climb many stairs and squeeze down many tunnels built into and through the homes of the people living there. Each time I threw my discs, they sailed out of view. Although I knew were they had landed, I had a difficult time figuring out how to get there through the maze of interlocking buildings.
At one point, I was standing at the top of a staircase conferring with some of the people judging the event (or who were at least doing something officious). Turning around, I found the stairs behind me so impossibly packed with people that my only recourse for descending to the floor below was to jump out over the side of the railing and hand-carry myself on the outside edges of the individual steps to the floor below. As I reached the bottom my legs brushed against the stockinged feet of a lass resting with two other women on a couch. She immediately stripped her socks off whilst giving me evil looks, to which I responded (as I was walking out a nearby door) by mocking her concern for her striped and colorful socks, saying something like “My legs aren’t that dirty.”
Later in the dream sequences, I was in an alpine city built onto level ground that was covered with a few inches of slushy snow. Despite the presence of frozen precipitation I knew the city was on Bali, the Island of the Gods, somewhere high up the side of one of its towering volcanoes. The city was party ruined, many of its sparsely-placed high-rise buildings damaged or collapsed, but its streets were packed with cars, buses, and people attending to business. Twice whilst in the city I stepped up into a burnt-out single-family home in which stood a representation of my deceased father, an older man with grey hair but strong arms and big hands who embraced me in a great hug and asked why I was groaning in pain and weeping loudly. (After the second time meeting the older man I indeed lay awake in bed crying, hugging myself about the chest, and basking in the memory of those who have died before me.) Falling back asleep, I found myself sitting in the slushy snow talking to a bypassing woman wearing a tan overcoat, who had stopped to admonish me to seek a drier place to sit lest I catch the sniffles.
The thick wool socks I was wearing, though they like the rest of me sat in mounds of cold wet, were nonetheless bone dry, which to my dream-consciousness seemed slightly odd.
[ americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan ]
At one point, I was standing at the top of a staircase conferring with some of the people judging the event (or who were at least doing something officious). Turning around, I found the stairs behind me so impossibly packed with people that my only recourse for descending to the floor below was to jump out over the side of the railing and hand-carry myself on the outside edges of the individual steps to the floor below. As I reached the bottom my legs brushed against the stockinged feet of a lass resting with two other women on a couch. She immediately stripped her socks off whilst giving me evil looks, to which I responded (as I was walking out a nearby door) by mocking her concern for her striped and colorful socks, saying something like “My legs aren’t that dirty.”
Later in the dream sequences, I was in an alpine city built onto level ground that was covered with a few inches of slushy snow. Despite the presence of frozen precipitation I knew the city was on Bali, the Island of the Gods, somewhere high up the side of one of its towering volcanoes. The city was party ruined, many of its sparsely-placed high-rise buildings damaged or collapsed, but its streets were packed with cars, buses, and people attending to business. Twice whilst in the city I stepped up into a burnt-out single-family home in which stood a representation of my deceased father, an older man with grey hair but strong arms and big hands who embraced me in a great hug and asked why I was groaning in pain and weeping loudly. (After the second time meeting the older man I indeed lay awake in bed crying, hugging myself about the chest, and basking in the memory of those who have died before me.) Falling back asleep, I found myself sitting in the slushy snow talking to a bypassing woman wearing a tan overcoat, who had stopped to admonish me to seek a drier place to sit lest I catch the sniffles.
The thick wool socks I was wearing, though they like the rest of me sat in mounds of cold wet, were nonetheless bone dry, which to my dream-consciousness seemed slightly odd.
[ americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan ]
28 February 2018
dreamstate writing 28 Feb 2018
[This dream occurred at roughly 7am, after I had crawled back into bed following completion of all twelve steps of my morning qigong meditation.]
We were driving down a steep hill in a grey vehicle. I was in the passenger seat greatly concerned that we would crash into the debris that dotted the grassy hill - beams and bars of steel, piles of sandstone blocks, and stacks of cut wood. At the top of a rise we stopped, where I voiced my concerns to the driver, who merely stared forward, his face an unreadable mien. Below the rise stood the first tee of a disc-golf course next to a dead tree, but my companion turned and walked back up the way we’d come. I followed him back upward onto a dirt path that lead along a ridge covered in snow, from which we surveyed the surrounding countryside of cultivated fields, scattered woods, and distant farm houses.
Walking back down to the tee, we came upon a half dozen other persons kitted out for disc golf. Somewhere nearby but out of sight a person was screaming with horrible urgency, which scared me enough that I ran for shelter. The formerly dead tree had grown tremendously, great reaching tendrils of a hardened, textured, grey plastic that dug back into the ground, forming a wall. Finding my exit blocked, I turned to find the others standing close by, a massive newcomer in their midst. (He reminded me of a figure from my childhood, a giant scotsman dressed in battle fatigues.) The newcomer apologized for the screaming in a way that took my fear away, at which point the dream changed radically.
[ americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan ]
We were driving down a steep hill in a grey vehicle. I was in the passenger seat greatly concerned that we would crash into the debris that dotted the grassy hill - beams and bars of steel, piles of sandstone blocks, and stacks of cut wood. At the top of a rise we stopped, where I voiced my concerns to the driver, who merely stared forward, his face an unreadable mien. Below the rise stood the first tee of a disc-golf course next to a dead tree, but my companion turned and walked back up the way we’d come. I followed him back upward onto a dirt path that lead along a ridge covered in snow, from which we surveyed the surrounding countryside of cultivated fields, scattered woods, and distant farm houses.
Walking back down to the tee, we came upon a half dozen other persons kitted out for disc golf. Somewhere nearby but out of sight a person was screaming with horrible urgency, which scared me enough that I ran for shelter. The formerly dead tree had grown tremendously, great reaching tendrils of a hardened, textured, grey plastic that dug back into the ground, forming a wall. Finding my exit blocked, I turned to find the others standing close by, a massive newcomer in their midst. (He reminded me of a figure from my childhood, a giant scotsman dressed in battle fatigues.) The newcomer apologized for the screaming in a way that took my fear away, at which point the dream changed radically.
[ americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan ]
30 October 2017
hale, healthy hallucinations
Dreams are, in essence, hallucinations. While dreaming, we see, hear, and feel things that exist nowhere except within the subconscious mind. Absent the type of appropriate sleep that facilitates reaching dream-state, we humans tend to become listless, our brains foggy, our moods sullen and prone to depression. Some research suggests that dreams help improve social interactions. Another theory is that dreams help us connect with our emotions, reducing the burden of negative ones such as fear and worry.
Consequently, it is important to do everything possible to get a good night’s sleep that is neither too long nor too short. This author knows that strenuous physical exercise during the day helps him fall asleep quickly. He also knows that the presence of both light and sound keep him from sleeping well, wherefore he makes his bedroom dark and quiet before going to bed. One of the reasons he doesn’t drink booze is because he knows that the use hard drugs such as alcohol poses a danger to healthy sleep patterns. Also important is not eating food or drinking water before bedtime, as these can interrupt nocturnal cycles.
There are few if any drawbacks to having the kind of sleep that allows to occur dreams, but many risks associated with poor sleep-related habits. For long-term health and a free bout of beneficial hallucinations, please skip the mind-altering drugs and try to get a good night’s sleep.
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
Consequently, it is important to do everything possible to get a good night’s sleep that is neither too long nor too short. This author knows that strenuous physical exercise during the day helps him fall asleep quickly. He also knows that the presence of both light and sound keep him from sleeping well, wherefore he makes his bedroom dark and quiet before going to bed. One of the reasons he doesn’t drink booze is because he knows that the use hard drugs such as alcohol poses a danger to healthy sleep patterns. Also important is not eating food or drinking water before bedtime, as these can interrupt nocturnal cycles.
There are few if any drawbacks to having the kind of sleep that allows to occur dreams, but many risks associated with poor sleep-related habits. For long-term health and a free bout of beneficial hallucinations, please skip the mind-altering drugs and try to get a good night’s sleep.
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
07 July 2017
a seaside promenade
The dream started inside a building, which I escaped through a side door that opened onto a street paved with cobblestones. The outside was lit by a bright, white light. With me (on the right-hand side) was as always my psychopomp, as well as a female (on the left-hand side) whose face and features have faded from memory.
Together, we climbed through the open rear door into a automobile that looked like a standard, black Londonite taxicab. It was hitched via leather strapping to four-legged beasts that at first glance appeared to be cats. The driver’s perch had been mounted onto the roof, meaning that I had to climb up through the car’s open sunroof to man the reins.
We took off, rounding corners at speed, and were soon riding astride a seaside promenade made using cut blue granite and featuring an iron railing. People in Victorian-era dress strolled along the sidewalk to our right. Below and beyond them stretched the sea - deep blue and vastly calm, nary a wave or ripple. The vehicle stopped and I leaped off to see if there was a beach at the base of the cut-stone promenade. Using a nearby flight of stairs, I climbed down to its blond sands (with someone or something else in tow), and had just dipped a toe in (to check the waters) when I awoke.
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
Together, we climbed through the open rear door into a automobile that looked like a standard, black Londonite taxicab. It was hitched via leather strapping to four-legged beasts that at first glance appeared to be cats. The driver’s perch had been mounted onto the roof, meaning that I had to climb up through the car’s open sunroof to man the reins.
We took off, rounding corners at speed, and were soon riding astride a seaside promenade made using cut blue granite and featuring an iron railing. People in Victorian-era dress strolled along the sidewalk to our right. Below and beyond them stretched the sea - deep blue and vastly calm, nary a wave or ripple. The vehicle stopped and I leaped off to see if there was a beach at the base of the cut-stone promenade. Using a nearby flight of stairs, I climbed down to its blond sands (with someone or something else in tow), and had just dipped a toe in (to check the waters) when I awoke.
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
14 June 2017
dreamstate writing 14 June 2017
The first dream I remember was a waking one in which my eyes were open and I was looking across the room toward the door. A face slid out from behind a patch of darkened wall and I greeted it out loud, saying, “Hello.” Something scared me - either the face greeting me back or a subsequent but forgotten part of the dream - and I awoke into full consciousness.
In the the second dream I was inside a long, rectangular room that was filled with diner booths or work cubicles. There were people sitting in most of the booths, and the room was loud with conversation. For some reason I kept walking from the front of the room down the corridors separating the booths to my own cubicle, which was in the back. At some point I met a dark-haired man of about my age, whom I allowed to sit at my booth. I went again to the front of the room and when I came back there was another man sitting at my booth also, a bald and aged fellow. I was concerned for the valuables stored inside my booth and became angry with the two men, telling them to leave my area. Upon waking up soon thereafter, I remembered my expressed desire to be kind to and accepting of the people visiting me in my dreams, and felt remorse for yelling at the two men.
The third dream I remember involved me looking into a mirror, adjusting my hair. (This is unusual, since I rarely look at myself in the mirror while awake.) I was in a poorly-lit bathroom wetting my forelock when I noticed a crescent-shaped tattoo that ran across my forehead from one temple to the next. The tattoo was an image (such as the one seen here) of a sunset viewed from behind the little or seaside shrine, Pura Luhur Enjung, located in Canggu, Bali, Indonesia. Above my right eye were the curved tops of the shrine’s holiest of holies, above my left eye was a sun setting over the waves of Old Man’s surf break.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
In the the second dream I was inside a long, rectangular room that was filled with diner booths or work cubicles. There were people sitting in most of the booths, and the room was loud with conversation. For some reason I kept walking from the front of the room down the corridors separating the booths to my own cubicle, which was in the back. At some point I met a dark-haired man of about my age, whom I allowed to sit at my booth. I went again to the front of the room and when I came back there was another man sitting at my booth also, a bald and aged fellow. I was concerned for the valuables stored inside my booth and became angry with the two men, telling them to leave my area. Upon waking up soon thereafter, I remembered my expressed desire to be kind to and accepting of the people visiting me in my dreams, and felt remorse for yelling at the two men.
The third dream I remember involved me looking into a mirror, adjusting my hair. (This is unusual, since I rarely look at myself in the mirror while awake.) I was in a poorly-lit bathroom wetting my forelock when I noticed a crescent-shaped tattoo that ran across my forehead from one temple to the next. The tattoo was an image (such as the one seen here) of a sunset viewed from behind the little or seaside shrine, Pura Luhur Enjung, located in Canggu, Bali, Indonesia. Above my right eye were the curved tops of the shrine’s holiest of holies, above my left eye was a sun setting over the waves of Old Man’s surf break.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
03 April 2017
dreamstate writing 3 April 2017
(After my pre-dawn qigong practice I had crawled back into bed, at which point these dreams occurred. It had had been a difficult, trying practice, the right side of my brain raging and intrusive.)
I was sitting with a blonde-haired girl on a concrete sidewalk next to an asphalted motorway. We were on the top of a low hill. It was bright, daytime; the sky was blue. Brick structures stood across the road to our front left and farther down the rise to our right rear. Walking paths had been worn into the scrub grasses that covered the now-empty lots around us where buildings had once stood. My bicycle lay in the grass behind us, and some part me remembers having just left a cluster of abandoned and crumbling single-storey buildings somewhere nearby.
A person drove past in a rocket-powered sled of some sort, gunning the engine to maintain speed. Though it was a warm spring day there was still enough snow on the motorway to allow the the sled to slide along quickly, without its steel skis kicking up sparks. I pointed it out to my companion, who seemed nonplussed, saying something like “Oh yeah, that’s a...” (I forget the name she used for the contraption.)
The next thing I remember was being in a house with colorful walls, watching a couple - a man and woman I knew well - getting ready to venture forth on an outing. They bustled back and forth within the large kitchen where I too stood, gathering things and talking to each other in quiet, friendly tones. Bright, golden light streamed into their abode from windows set into its thick outer walls to my left, warming the parquet flooring and wooden kitchen furniture. To my right was an inner wall painted an earthy red. The two were dressed in mismatched but colorful clothing, leggings and long-sleeved undershirts under shorts and t-shirts. Both wore what appeared to be straw hats with bandanas tied around their chins to keep the hats in place. They vacated the structure through a door to my rear, leaving me behind. I went to a cupboard at the far end of the room where I knew I would find a vacuum-sealed coffee thermos and a rolled up yoga-mat. The items were indeed there. I spoke with a companion, the blonde-haired girl perhaps, explaining something to her as I took out the items. I remembered, then, that I had similar items elsewhere, and put them carefully back into the cupboard.
Realizing that I had other places to be, I exited into an inner courtyard with red walls. Rectangular stones paved the courtyard, which was littered with wheeled contraptions, ancient wooden pushcarts perhaps. As I was walking toward the gate that led to the outside, I passed under a broad arch that led to the exit. In the adobe above my head, directly in the center of the arch, was an opening that appeared to have been hastily-patched with a rusted ventilation register, into which I peered, finding however little of interest.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑
I was sitting with a blonde-haired girl on a concrete sidewalk next to an asphalted motorway. We were on the top of a low hill. It was bright, daytime; the sky was blue. Brick structures stood across the road to our front left and farther down the rise to our right rear. Walking paths had been worn into the scrub grasses that covered the now-empty lots around us where buildings had once stood. My bicycle lay in the grass behind us, and some part me remembers having just left a cluster of abandoned and crumbling single-storey buildings somewhere nearby.
A person drove past in a rocket-powered sled of some sort, gunning the engine to maintain speed. Though it was a warm spring day there was still enough snow on the motorway to allow the the sled to slide along quickly, without its steel skis kicking up sparks. I pointed it out to my companion, who seemed nonplussed, saying something like “Oh yeah, that’s a...” (I forget the name she used for the contraption.)
The next thing I remember was being in a house with colorful walls, watching a couple - a man and woman I knew well - getting ready to venture forth on an outing. They bustled back and forth within the large kitchen where I too stood, gathering things and talking to each other in quiet, friendly tones. Bright, golden light streamed into their abode from windows set into its thick outer walls to my left, warming the parquet flooring and wooden kitchen furniture. To my right was an inner wall painted an earthy red. The two were dressed in mismatched but colorful clothing, leggings and long-sleeved undershirts under shorts and t-shirts. Both wore what appeared to be straw hats with bandanas tied around their chins to keep the hats in place. They vacated the structure through a door to my rear, leaving me behind. I went to a cupboard at the far end of the room where I knew I would find a vacuum-sealed coffee thermos and a rolled up yoga-mat. The items were indeed there. I spoke with a companion, the blonde-haired girl perhaps, explaining something to her as I took out the items. I remembered, then, that I had similar items elsewhere, and put them carefully back into the cupboard.
Realizing that I had other places to be, I exited into an inner courtyard with red walls. Rectangular stones paved the courtyard, which was littered with wheeled contraptions, ancient wooden pushcarts perhaps. As I was walking toward the gate that led to the outside, I passed under a broad arch that led to the exit. In the adobe above my head, directly in the center of the arch, was an opening that appeared to have been hastily-patched with a rusted ventilation register, into which I peered, finding however little of interest.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑
24 March 2017
a dreaming carnivore
To my rear was a broad and flat stretch of railway bordered by a low metal fence. To my left, parked upon a darkened cobblestone street, sat a police car. From within it I was being watched by something of infinite and massive proportions, That Which Cannot Be Named.
I had bought a piece of meat in a nearby store, which I cooked using a pocket-sized flamethrower. The thick steak bent in upon itself sharply as it reacted to the scorching heat. Every juicy tendon and sinewy muscle fiber, the milky envelope of fascia, was clear to me, as was the essence of the beast slaughtered to produce it. (Soon after awakening, I realized that eating animals raised in conditions of torture and neglect contributes to sad and aggressive thought patterns.)
Other dreams followed in the hours I spent sleeping rather than practicing my usual morning meditations. They have vanished, however, from memory.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
I had bought a piece of meat in a nearby store, which I cooked using a pocket-sized flamethrower. The thick steak bent in upon itself sharply as it reacted to the scorching heat. Every juicy tendon and sinewy muscle fiber, the milky envelope of fascia, was clear to me, as was the essence of the beast slaughtered to produce it. (Soon after awakening, I realized that eating animals raised in conditions of torture and neglect contributes to sad and aggressive thought patterns.)
Other dreams followed in the hours I spent sleeping rather than practicing my usual morning meditations. They have vanished, however, from memory.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
22 March 2017
hollow but pretty
It was daytime, and I was making my way along the side of a lake. To my left was said body of water, to my right a high bank with low green plants of some kind growing upon it. From up ahead, I heard voices. Then, through a thicket of partially submerged reeds to my fore, two people came walking my way.
The first person I saw was a stunningly beautiful and raven-haired maiden who looked similar to a young hoppa actress. I felt a strong love for her but little sexual desire. Unlike in previous dreams, her full face was visible to me, yet her gaze was averted from mine and she never made eye contact. I could tell, however, that she was conscious of my presence. The man behind her (who was wearing a baseball cap on his dark-haired head) was droning on about something trivial, hollow but pretty-sounding words that annoyed me. Judging by the maiden’s body language and facial expression, his mindless talk annoyed her too. Just before stepping onto dry land he paused to lift up and wipe off his knee-high wading boots, which were white with black trim.
The pair moved to my left, onto what could have been an outcropping of rock. I had not noticed it earlier. They ascended, their tones and presence rising above my own sense of self in the dream’s physical space. Faced with the same bed of submerged reeds the two had just exited but having no watertight footwear I started climbing up a jumble of rocks that had appeared upon my right-hand side. I started to pull myself up it as best I could, the reddish stones a type of granite. Behind and above me, I could still hear the man’s droning speech and still feel the maiden’s watchful presence.
Sometimes, I could only find purchase for one or two fingers within the rocks. But, grunting and laboring upward, eventually I reached a level spot. To my right I discovered a walking path of hard-packed earth that was bordered by a low wooden fence. It appeared to me that the path lead straight through the rocks into a dark wood, up ahead. Then, I awoke.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
The first person I saw was a stunningly beautiful and raven-haired maiden who looked similar to a young hoppa actress. I felt a strong love for her but little sexual desire. Unlike in previous dreams, her full face was visible to me, yet her gaze was averted from mine and she never made eye contact. I could tell, however, that she was conscious of my presence. The man behind her (who was wearing a baseball cap on his dark-haired head) was droning on about something trivial, hollow but pretty-sounding words that annoyed me. Judging by the maiden’s body language and facial expression, his mindless talk annoyed her too. Just before stepping onto dry land he paused to lift up and wipe off his knee-high wading boots, which were white with black trim.
The pair moved to my left, onto what could have been an outcropping of rock. I had not noticed it earlier. They ascended, their tones and presence rising above my own sense of self in the dream’s physical space. Faced with the same bed of submerged reeds the two had just exited but having no watertight footwear I started climbing up a jumble of rocks that had appeared upon my right-hand side. I started to pull myself up it as best I could, the reddish stones a type of granite. Behind and above me, I could still hear the man’s droning speech and still feel the maiden’s watchful presence.
Sometimes, I could only find purchase for one or two fingers within the rocks. But, grunting and laboring upward, eventually I reached a level spot. To my right I discovered a walking path of hard-packed earth that was bordered by a low wooden fence. It appeared to me that the path lead straight through the rocks into a dark wood, up ahead. Then, I awoke.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
03 March 2017
dreamstate writing 3 Mar 2017
In this morning’s dream, I was walking around outside (in an overgrown lot) looking for a place to bed down for the night. There was little ambient light, the sky above me a gray blanket trimmed with the rosy promise of dawn. Rounding the side of a one-storey brick building, I started to make my way through the trees and bushes that grew beside and behind it. Treading carefully so as not to alert to my presence the people living nearby (three-storey inhabited brick structures stood beyond a chain-link fence on a rise above the first building), I made noise nonetheless, the underbrush below my feet crackling loudly. On my way to the rear of the building I passed two makeshift blinds, one a flimsy construction of bent cardboard, the other a sturdier model made from a metal framework and some type of plastic cloth. Behind each blind was a pillow and a worn-down area where someone seemed to have slept recently.
Security lights turned on, illuminating the area brilliantly, and I became aware of what looked like many cameras watching, unblinking eyes that tracked my every move. Little red lights glowed upon them, indicating that they were recording. I attempted to lay down in an effort to avoid their gaze, but a thin beam of piercing white light shot through the chain-link fence, thwarting my efforts to escape it.
Time passed, for the sky had lightened considerably. I was standing in front of the one-storey brick building speaking to its apparent proprietress. She had dark hair, an attractive face, and the type of exaggeratedly-proportioned body normally found on girls' fashion dolls. Apparently, this woman realized I found her attractive, for she turned to one side to show me her large breasts and slender waist. Then, a different woman - this one with blond hair tucked into a tattered baseball cap and wearing a bulky coat - walked out from behind my field of vision to enter the brick building, a basket of what looked like soiled clothing in her arms. I then examined the structure in front of me more closely, leaning over to look past the dark-haired gal, and discovered it was a laundry-mat of sorts. The last thing I remember before waking up was that all of its washers appeared to be running, full steam.
Huzzah, mahalo, and om swastiastu.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
Security lights turned on, illuminating the area brilliantly, and I became aware of what looked like many cameras watching, unblinking eyes that tracked my every move. Little red lights glowed upon them, indicating that they were recording. I attempted to lay down in an effort to avoid their gaze, but a thin beam of piercing white light shot through the chain-link fence, thwarting my efforts to escape it.
Time passed, for the sky had lightened considerably. I was standing in front of the one-storey brick building speaking to its apparent proprietress. She had dark hair, an attractive face, and the type of exaggeratedly-proportioned body normally found on girls' fashion dolls. Apparently, this woman realized I found her attractive, for she turned to one side to show me her large breasts and slender waist. Then, a different woman - this one with blond hair tucked into a tattered baseball cap and wearing a bulky coat - walked out from behind my field of vision to enter the brick building, a basket of what looked like soiled clothing in her arms. I then examined the structure in front of me more closely, leaning over to look past the dark-haired gal, and discovered it was a laundry-mat of sorts. The last thing I remember before waking up was that all of its washers appeared to be running, full steam.
Huzzah, mahalo, and om swastiastu.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
10 December 2016
Tuesday morning’s dream
I was again in a house, but this one had lots of windows as well as blond beams of wood exposed to a bright blue sky above. Its roof was gone in places although I was confident in the structure’s overall integrity. I’d gotten to the house after climbing a steep hill, meaning that I had been climbing a steep hill and then found myself inside the house. Unlike in previous dreams, the house was not too scary, dark, or replete with series of ever-smaller doors I felt compelled to crawl through until I was squeezed in so tightly I could not move. I experienced the sensation that the house was moving or rolling as if floating on high seas. For some reason, I climbed up onto the roof, discovering it was a hybrid between hill and house. A Buddhist temple and other shrines stood on the roof’s peak, and as I was walking along it I wondered where the hill had gotten to. To my left were other buildings, a quaint town constructed in a medieval European style. To my right was the hill, an impossibly steep mountain shrouded in mist. I was running past the temple toward the shrines at the roof’s far end when I awoke back into full consciousness.
© JPR / whorphan / americanifesto / 場黑麥
© JPR / whorphan / americanifesto / 場黑麥
11 March 2016
or jungle beyond
(dream-state writing March 2016)
I spend Balinese New Year's Day, or Nyepi, house-sitting my friend's villa in Umalas, north Kuta. During the day of silence I do yoga, meditate, play video games, contemplate my place in the universe, and star-gaze. The next morning, after having scaled the wall into his own compound, he wakes me up by banging on the downstairs room's door, whereupon I stumble out of bed mumbling apologies in Indonesian. Mightily groggy and feeling a strong tug to keep dreaming, I decline his invitation to have a morning surf, pack my few belongings, and head back to Canggu Permai. As the morning is hot, I turn on the air-conditioning, wait for the room to cool down a bit, then crawl under my light blanket, tossing and turning a few times before I fall back asleep. My ensuing dreams are recorded here, to the best of memory.
A convoy of vehicles and pedestrians is making its way along an elevated roadway that runs through both unkempt plots and well-maintained rice paddies. I am pushing a bicycle piled high with goods of some sort, but realize that I forgot my flip-flops on the road behind me, let my bicycle drive itself, and sprint-hover (a form of locomotion I often experience in my dreams, a type of bouncing that allows me to cover large distances quickly) back along the left-hand side of the road. My feet do not sting or hurt as I hurry along although the road is made of pitted and crumbling paving stones. As I am passing a number of shiny cars (whose drivers are staring straight ahead and not making eye-contact with me), a part of my conscious mind wonders why the convoy is still moving even though I had just abandoned my bike. As soon as I slip into my thongs, the dream changes. I have a vague memory of bartering for a coconut, which I drink, leaving the spoon that came with it on the edge of the now-deserted causeway, whereupon I remember a few elements of bartering for the coconut from a woman standing amidst heaps of rubble and broken houses by the side of the cobble-stone road. Still carrying the coconut, I reach a break in the elevated roadway, which has for some time been running alongside deep, stone pits filled with crystal-clear water. Leaning over the barrier installed above the break, I look down to find a pagoda (wooden pillars, roof of fired red tiles with adorned ridges) floating in the water, which is blocking mounds of water-borne trash from entering a lake on my right. Ahead of the break is no elevated roadway insight, only an open field of dry earth with a darkened wood, or jungle, beyond. I hurl my coconut down onto a slab of broken concrete, but instead of breaking it bounces out of sight. Moving carefully through the rubble, I make my way down the right side of the elevated roadway and step onto the pagoda, which tilts and begins to sink under my weight, whereupon some loose bits of plastic and other trash wash over my feet. I look down into the clear water and see great seams in the sunken rocks, as if it had been built by man. As I step off of the pagoda onto dry land, the dream changes again.
Next, I'm in a courtyard paved with gray stones. It has buildings on three sides of it and a wrought-iron, sliding gateway to my right. I'm facing a row of planting boxes in which are growing bushes and small trees. In front of me is a basin filled with water. In my hand is a piece of an engine which I am taking apart with a knife. I am using a short-bladed knife to cut away at the piece, which suddenly resembles a carburetor made entirely of rubber, and when I have sliced it in two, a reptile pokes its head of out the piece in my left hand. Standing up, I dump the piece in the basin of water, which I can see is about 2 meters deep, nearly 1 meter square, and lined with white, porcelain tiles. Bending over to look into the basin I see a large frog (possibly female) whose limbs are strong and human-shaped, dressed in a brightly-colored kimono decorated with the image of an Asiatic woman holding a parasol. The frog is also wearing a traditional Chinese scholar's hat, complete with red tassel; it turns to look at me, then kicks its legs and swims deeper into the basin, allowing me a full glimpse of the colorful image imprinted on the kimono. There are 5 or 6 other frogs in the basin as well as some swirling debris. The frogs are all past the tadpole stage but their rear legs are of different sizes. All have long flaps of skin that connect front to hind legs, in the manner of butterfly wings. I reach into the basin and pull out a bit of debris, a length of furry vegetation that I throw into the yard behind me. Excited at the sight of the kimono, I exit the yard through the gate and call to my neighbor, a blond woman, to come see, but she for some reason cannot get past the gate – her long dress keeps getting stuck on a hook of some sorts on the other side of the gate. The dream changes.
The next thing I remember is sitting in the lobby of what looks like a hospital. There's a counter to my left, a door behind me, a door to my left, a door in front of me, and another, larger door to my right. Through the large door on the right I can see sunlight as well as people and cars coming and going. Across from me are two rows of chairs with three seats each set up so they are facing each other. Five or six people are sitting there, but I can only make out a man sitting cross-legged on a seat closest to me, on the right-hand row. I'm on the phone with some sort of customer service representative, a woman, who asks for my new phone number, whereupon I start trying to find it while yelling into the phone's mouthpiece for her to be patient. At that point, the cross-legged man starts yelling louder and louder until I become annoyed enough to hang up my phone and confront him. I am not aware of walking across to him, only that I'm suddenly standing over him. The five other people seated there with him are only dimly visible. He looks away from me, down to the right, and I realize that he's yelling pure gibberish, non-sense sounds, whilst flapping his jaw in an exaggerated fashion that mimics talking. Taken aback at his offensive behavior, I lean away, whereupon he looks back up at me. His torso and legs are blurry but I can see his face and arms more clearly. He has reddish hair with a somewhat bloated and freckled face that looks a bit like my own, and his right arm is tattooed almost entirely with elaborate tribal designs, though his left arm has but few tattoos. At that point, I wake up, feeling refreshed.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥
I spend Balinese New Year's Day, or Nyepi, house-sitting my friend's villa in Umalas, north Kuta. During the day of silence I do yoga, meditate, play video games, contemplate my place in the universe, and star-gaze. The next morning, after having scaled the wall into his own compound, he wakes me up by banging on the downstairs room's door, whereupon I stumble out of bed mumbling apologies in Indonesian. Mightily groggy and feeling a strong tug to keep dreaming, I decline his invitation to have a morning surf, pack my few belongings, and head back to Canggu Permai. As the morning is hot, I turn on the air-conditioning, wait for the room to cool down a bit, then crawl under my light blanket, tossing and turning a few times before I fall back asleep. My ensuing dreams are recorded here, to the best of memory.
A convoy of vehicles and pedestrians is making its way along an elevated roadway that runs through both unkempt plots and well-maintained rice paddies. I am pushing a bicycle piled high with goods of some sort, but realize that I forgot my flip-flops on the road behind me, let my bicycle drive itself, and sprint-hover (a form of locomotion I often experience in my dreams, a type of bouncing that allows me to cover large distances quickly) back along the left-hand side of the road. My feet do not sting or hurt as I hurry along although the road is made of pitted and crumbling paving stones. As I am passing a number of shiny cars (whose drivers are staring straight ahead and not making eye-contact with me), a part of my conscious mind wonders why the convoy is still moving even though I had just abandoned my bike. As soon as I slip into my thongs, the dream changes. I have a vague memory of bartering for a coconut, which I drink, leaving the spoon that came with it on the edge of the now-deserted causeway, whereupon I remember a few elements of bartering for the coconut from a woman standing amidst heaps of rubble and broken houses by the side of the cobble-stone road. Still carrying the coconut, I reach a break in the elevated roadway, which has for some time been running alongside deep, stone pits filled with crystal-clear water. Leaning over the barrier installed above the break, I look down to find a pagoda (wooden pillars, roof of fired red tiles with adorned ridges) floating in the water, which is blocking mounds of water-borne trash from entering a lake on my right. Ahead of the break is no elevated roadway insight, only an open field of dry earth with a darkened wood, or jungle, beyond. I hurl my coconut down onto a slab of broken concrete, but instead of breaking it bounces out of sight. Moving carefully through the rubble, I make my way down the right side of the elevated roadway and step onto the pagoda, which tilts and begins to sink under my weight, whereupon some loose bits of plastic and other trash wash over my feet. I look down into the clear water and see great seams in the sunken rocks, as if it had been built by man. As I step off of the pagoda onto dry land, the dream changes again.
Next, I'm in a courtyard paved with gray stones. It has buildings on three sides of it and a wrought-iron, sliding gateway to my right. I'm facing a row of planting boxes in which are growing bushes and small trees. In front of me is a basin filled with water. In my hand is a piece of an engine which I am taking apart with a knife. I am using a short-bladed knife to cut away at the piece, which suddenly resembles a carburetor made entirely of rubber, and when I have sliced it in two, a reptile pokes its head of out the piece in my left hand. Standing up, I dump the piece in the basin of water, which I can see is about 2 meters deep, nearly 1 meter square, and lined with white, porcelain tiles. Bending over to look into the basin I see a large frog (possibly female) whose limbs are strong and human-shaped, dressed in a brightly-colored kimono decorated with the image of an Asiatic woman holding a parasol. The frog is also wearing a traditional Chinese scholar's hat, complete with red tassel; it turns to look at me, then kicks its legs and swims deeper into the basin, allowing me a full glimpse of the colorful image imprinted on the kimono. There are 5 or 6 other frogs in the basin as well as some swirling debris. The frogs are all past the tadpole stage but their rear legs are of different sizes. All have long flaps of skin that connect front to hind legs, in the manner of butterfly wings. I reach into the basin and pull out a bit of debris, a length of furry vegetation that I throw into the yard behind me. Excited at the sight of the kimono, I exit the yard through the gate and call to my neighbor, a blond woman, to come see, but she for some reason cannot get past the gate – her long dress keeps getting stuck on a hook of some sorts on the other side of the gate. The dream changes.
The next thing I remember is sitting in the lobby of what looks like a hospital. There's a counter to my left, a door behind me, a door to my left, a door in front of me, and another, larger door to my right. Through the large door on the right I can see sunlight as well as people and cars coming and going. Across from me are two rows of chairs with three seats each set up so they are facing each other. Five or six people are sitting there, but I can only make out a man sitting cross-legged on a seat closest to me, on the right-hand row. I'm on the phone with some sort of customer service representative, a woman, who asks for my new phone number, whereupon I start trying to find it while yelling into the phone's mouthpiece for her to be patient. At that point, the cross-legged man starts yelling louder and louder until I become annoyed enough to hang up my phone and confront him. I am not aware of walking across to him, only that I'm suddenly standing over him. The five other people seated there with him are only dimly visible. He looks away from me, down to the right, and I realize that he's yelling pure gibberish, non-sense sounds, whilst flapping his jaw in an exaggerated fashion that mimics talking. Taken aback at his offensive behavior, I lean away, whereupon he looks back up at me. His torso and legs are blurry but I can see his face and arms more clearly. He has reddish hair with a somewhat bloated and freckled face that looks a bit like my own, and his right arm is tattooed almost entirely with elaborate tribal designs, though his left arm has but few tattoos. At that point, I wake up, feeling refreshed.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥
18 February 2016
behind the central
My alarm in the waking world sounds at 7 a.m., but a part of me really wants to go back to sleep. I can sense a chasm of promise awaiting me back in Morpheus's grasp, a pit of pregnant nothingness that must be explored. After getting up to shut off the alarm I go back to bed, roll over onto my side, and slip immediately into dreaming. Twice more I wake up, each time the pull of the chasm, the nothingness, less strong but still present. When I finally awake feeling rested, memories of my dreams linger. They are recorded here.
I'm on a bus that has no roof driving through a brightly sunny landscape, sitting toward the rear, just behind the central doors. It's unclear to me where we're going but I recognize features outside and feel the journey has purpose. A few other persons (4, excluding the driver) are on the bus, also, all toward the front, all with their backs turned toward me, although I can tell they are aware of my presence. The bus slows to a halt in the middle of some featureless scrub and 2 more persons clamber aboard. They sit next to and slightly behind me. I turn to look at them. They are talking to each other and both are in military uniforms of sort. Neither of their uniforms bear insignia. Further from me is a woman with curly blond hair and an attractive but acne-scarred face wearing a light blue shirt, dark blue long pants, and a black belt. Closer to me is man in what could be Marine Corps blues. He has closely-cropped dark hair and his seemingly crippled hands are raised in front of his chest, fingers curled and spread wide. His eye-sockets are scarred and sunken pits devoid of eyeballs. He asks me what branch of the service I'm in, and I tell him something akin to 'I've never served.' The two talk to each other for a while and when I look back, the woman is sitting a row further back, low in the seat with her crotch thrust forward. I imagine briefly if I have a chance to make sex to her but the notion evaporates immediately.
The bus accelerates. We're driving down a snow-covered dirt track through a wintry scrub landscape at high speed and I remark at the driver's skill in negotiating the narrow and hilly path. I can see fresh tire-marks in the snows that cover the road. We pass a road-marker for the 'York Historical Society,' a bronze plaque atop an iron post that features a picture of an old barn or covered bridge. I'm speaking with the service-members about where I come from, explaining to them that I was in a sad place for a long time, much like the town the bus is driving into. The road is lined with boarded-up houses, burned-out cars, and weedy lawns. Because of an obstruction up ahead, the bus driver stops, reveres, and is doing a 3-point-turn when he runs us into one of the houses, cracking its barn-like sliding door. At that point I awake, refreshed.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥
I'm on a bus that has no roof driving through a brightly sunny landscape, sitting toward the rear, just behind the central doors. It's unclear to me where we're going but I recognize features outside and feel the journey has purpose. A few other persons (4, excluding the driver) are on the bus, also, all toward the front, all with their backs turned toward me, although I can tell they are aware of my presence. The bus slows to a halt in the middle of some featureless scrub and 2 more persons clamber aboard. They sit next to and slightly behind me. I turn to look at them. They are talking to each other and both are in military uniforms of sort. Neither of their uniforms bear insignia. Further from me is a woman with curly blond hair and an attractive but acne-scarred face wearing a light blue shirt, dark blue long pants, and a black belt. Closer to me is man in what could be Marine Corps blues. He has closely-cropped dark hair and his seemingly crippled hands are raised in front of his chest, fingers curled and spread wide. His eye-sockets are scarred and sunken pits devoid of eyeballs. He asks me what branch of the service I'm in, and I tell him something akin to 'I've never served.' The two talk to each other for a while and when I look back, the woman is sitting a row further back, low in the seat with her crotch thrust forward. I imagine briefly if I have a chance to make sex to her but the notion evaporates immediately.
The bus accelerates. We're driving down a snow-covered dirt track through a wintry scrub landscape at high speed and I remark at the driver's skill in negotiating the narrow and hilly path. I can see fresh tire-marks in the snows that cover the road. We pass a road-marker for the 'York Historical Society,' a bronze plaque atop an iron post that features a picture of an old barn or covered bridge. I'm speaking with the service-members about where I come from, explaining to them that I was in a sad place for a long time, much like the town the bus is driving into. The road is lined with boarded-up houses, burned-out cars, and weedy lawns. Because of an obstruction up ahead, the bus driver stops, reveres, and is doing a 3-point-turn when he runs us into one of the houses, cracking its barn-like sliding door. At that point I awake, refreshed.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥
02 December 2015
dream-state writing – Bali
I was standing on a white, sandy beach that stretched roughly a mile into the distance. Before me was a fence of finely-meshed metal, eye-like segments kept upright by slender, silvery poles. On my side of the fence were shallow pools and small waves crashing upon the sand but little vegetation or other signs of life. On the far side of the fence, however, was a lush, thick, dark jungle whose tendrils, here and there, had crept through the fencing, low green feelers. I then became aware of a figure standing directly opposite me, on the far side. Tall and fit, she had dark brown, almost black skin, and breasts without nipples. Upon her shoulders were epaulets of some sort, golden metal covers attached to one another with a golden chain or rope. About her waist was a belt of some sort, round and golden segments that shimmered in the bright sunlight. What appeared to be wings sprouted from her back where the center of a human's scapula would be, sharp edges with concave endings and eye-like adornments similar to the fence's meshing, too many of them to count, moving so fast they could also have not been moving at all. Her dark and unblinking eyes were scanning the horizon behind me, but then she turned to match my enraptured gaze and suddenly her head grew tenfold in size and all I could see was her enormous, dark-brown face between the thin mesh links of the silvery fence, and there was something in the center of her forehead I could not fully make out and her great mane of black hair appeared to shimmered in the dazzling light but all I could really see were her eyes, dark pits of impartial nothingness, as inconceivable and deep as the cusp of an event horizon, yet they contained a certain spark, or presence, an essence that while invisible was nonetheless there, nonetheless, on some level of my consciousness, tangible. Her head shrank to its former size, she turned, and in her wings was that same impartial nothingness, that same pregnant and chaotic void I had seen in her gaze, but there were also innumerable eyes looking back out of the unfathomable darkness there, eyes I could not really see but feel as they probed my spirit and all that I am and ever was. She turned to look at me once more then vanished and reappeared perhaps 200 meters down the fence, turned again to look at me, then teleported two more times, each time a bit further down the far side of the fence, four times turning back to look at me. When she had reached the farthest point of the island I could see, she vanished altogether.
I awoke deeply moved by the experience, humbled before the unimaginable power my dream-visitor possessed, and knowing, somewhere deep down, that she had been and would forever more be watching me, my every thought and feeling, that if I chose a path of Light and Truthfulness I might one day join her on the far side of the fence but if I chose a path of Darkness and Deceit I would forever stay upon the barren sand, burned by the brilliant sun and denied the riches the far jungle had to offer. I thank this mighty force for paying me a visit and love her beyond mere words can say. Mahalo, suksma, namaste.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥
I awoke deeply moved by the experience, humbled before the unimaginable power my dream-visitor possessed, and knowing, somewhere deep down, that she had been and would forever more be watching me, my every thought and feeling, that if I chose a path of Light and Truthfulness I might one day join her on the far side of the fence but if I chose a path of Darkness and Deceit I would forever stay upon the barren sand, burned by the brilliant sun and denied the riches the far jungle had to offer. I thank this mighty force for paying me a visit and love her beyond mere words can say. Mahalo, suksma, namaste.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥
05 August 2013
on going deeper
This morning, I awoke at 3:45 and stumbled over to sit on the toilet. There I sat for 7 minutes, dozing and finishing up the rest of my dream. With a start, I forced myself awake, stood up, pulled on my underthings, and went into the back room, for yoga. I lit sage and prayed to the four directions, sang three morning songs, and at around 4:10 am started my two hours of sweat-lodge yoga. It was a new class, one I had not done before today, one focused entirely on going deeper and peeling back the layers of self-mutilation with the intention of healing the psyche's rotten core. After stretches but before starting abdominals I paused the playback and went into the living room (taking care to keep the heat in by shutting the sliding door) in order to write down the fading details of the dream I had been having just before I woke up. (In this dream, I was about to run cross a 6-lane freeway during heavy traffic, even though I had the option of using a nearby bridge to cross over it.) After writing down the details of my dream I stepped back onto the mat to do many sets of abs with a roll and as well as twisting abs with a roll, during which I began to feel muscles and tendons in my pelvis that I haven't felt in an age. The class continued and I followed the spoken instructions, breathing into and peeling back layers of hatred and self-doubt, delving with each pose deeper into the ripples of my mind, rooting around in the dank and fetid cellars of my soul. Oh what I found there! Thoughts and feelings, heartbreaks and ecstasy, all types of energies twisted up into complex knots and pulsating balls, all types of memories choking the free flow of chi, of prana, of joy. The distress I felt upon discovering these choke-points was so great that I turned off the recording and finished my session on my own, warming down gradually and granting myself a long final resting. I know that these blockages won't dissolve by themselves; it will take many more years of effort and breathing and yoga to loosen their deathly grasp, to bring healing to the zones they but poorly hide. Sitting there on the mat frustrated with myself for ending class prematurely, I remembered that in my dream, just before waking up, I had run through a gap in traffic and successfully crossed the freeway, eschewing the beckoning footbridge and landing in an entirely new world, in a place with giant walking robots and mists shining in soothing neon light. Patience, I told myself, salvation lies in patience, in practice, and in persistence. What tomorrow holds is mystery, but today is drenched in hope. Aho.
mentiri factorem fecit – 場黑麥
mentiri factorem fecit – 場黑麥
11 January 2013
trees tease amputees
Trees are fascinating creatures. If one should lop the top off of a sapling, the growth-nodes directly below the cut will send forth shoots that, if left to their own devices, will keep reaching for the sky until they erase all but the last signs of injury. Some trees, such as hybrid poplars, grow so large within a few decades that they become hazardous to power lines and dwellings alike. The speed with which these poplars attain great height and wide circumference means that they will provide much useful lumber once they are felled. Their felling, however, shall require specialized equipment, many thousands of dollars, and much personal risk, which is why they still stand, today. On the one hand, these poplars are a nuisance; on the other hand, they are beautiful and majestic beings that are only doing what they were designed to do: to grow tall, quickly.
Human bodies function differently. Our limbs don't grow back once they are removed, and our bodies tend to stop growing once they have reached a terminal height. We surmise that an individual's maximal height is determined by a range of factors, including epigenetic markers, food supply, and such environmental conditions as average daily temperatures and levels of atmospheric pollution. Human minds, however, and our elusive but ebullient spirits, are more akin to the tree than we might image. Cut someone down to size, and she springs right back. Hack away (verbally, of course) at a person's high-flying dreams, and she aspires merely to greater heights. Such is the resilience of the soul that it will emerge from the ashes of its erstwhile destruction time and again, through Holocaust, gulag, and Inquisition, suffering the slings of televised content and the arrows of religious fervor but always and again re-inhabiting the pulsating core of these our poor mortal coils.
Human amputees often suffer from something called phantom limb syndrome, a condition characterized by the experiencing of pain in such parts of the body as are no longer attached to it. Do trees suffer from phantom branch syndrome, always yearning for tops that were lopped off and pining evermore for twigs and berries that will never be? I think that, similar to the more psychologically-resilient persons among us, trees accept the lot thrust upon them by the shifting winds of Fortune and make do with such gifts as they receive, even ones that come cloaked as curses. To conquer the desire to judge things as good or bad according to a narrow, human view of the universe is among our greatest challenges. Who among us can know for certain that what is lamb today won't be wolf tomorrow? Not I, dear friend, but, then, I am but a lowly whorphan of poor and stunted intellect.
(The author does not intend to disparage of amputees, human or otherwise.)
mentiri factorem fecit © 場黑麥
Human bodies function differently. Our limbs don't grow back once they are removed, and our bodies tend to stop growing once they have reached a terminal height. We surmise that an individual's maximal height is determined by a range of factors, including epigenetic markers, food supply, and such environmental conditions as average daily temperatures and levels of atmospheric pollution. Human minds, however, and our elusive but ebullient spirits, are more akin to the tree than we might image. Cut someone down to size, and she springs right back. Hack away (verbally, of course) at a person's high-flying dreams, and she aspires merely to greater heights. Such is the resilience of the soul that it will emerge from the ashes of its erstwhile destruction time and again, through Holocaust, gulag, and Inquisition, suffering the slings of televised content and the arrows of religious fervor but always and again re-inhabiting the pulsating core of these our poor mortal coils.
Human amputees often suffer from something called phantom limb syndrome, a condition characterized by the experiencing of pain in such parts of the body as are no longer attached to it. Do trees suffer from phantom branch syndrome, always yearning for tops that were lopped off and pining evermore for twigs and berries that will never be? I think that, similar to the more psychologically-resilient persons among us, trees accept the lot thrust upon them by the shifting winds of Fortune and make do with such gifts as they receive, even ones that come cloaked as curses. To conquer the desire to judge things as good or bad according to a narrow, human view of the universe is among our greatest challenges. Who among us can know for certain that what is lamb today won't be wolf tomorrow? Not I, dear friend, but, then, I am but a lowly whorphan of poor and stunted intellect.
(The author does not intend to disparage of amputees, human or otherwise.)
mentiri factorem fecit © 場黑麥
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