kidchamp dot net

07.20.02


Keep a dream notebook in which, on awakening, you record whatever fragments or scenes you can recall. Do this over a period of two or three weeks, or longer.


Not every dream will be useful.


01. whistle of a drill from an unidentifiable direction
02. dry hiss of tinnitis
03. sediment in a mug of tea
04. san judas tadeo translated hastily, the product a fifth of its source
05. mustachioed praying mantis
06. rolls against my back and nudges me awake, signaling the crisis that will consume the day
07. bare cobs the size of crocuses
08. convincing an antique to lend its history to the apartment's bare cheapness
09. spectre of ancient Pacific swallowed by taquerias
10. vendors with freshly iced churros sweating in the sun
11. and television taught itself a dozen new languages while I was asleep
12. the cats blinking awake as I pronounce their names, their cries an approximation of their names for me
13. a catastrophe in satin
14. platform shoes chuckling on the sidewalk
15. specific sadnesses
16. evolution of the modern hat rack
17. a boy with a port wine stain, a woman with a deviated septum
18. a warm valve packed into ice and papered against the wall
19. bubobs unsatisfactory in the mirror
20. i drip with conviction
21. useless profusion
22. my proud father hammering analogies into the table
23. a grim equation of serotonin and bile
24. a great bolus of years I can regurgitate on command
25. lonely ghosts disappear through the walls of the garage
26. the year's early thaw coursing through the gutter in clear streams
27. he pauses with the assumption that he will be interrupted
28. promises hanging crazily like laundry from washpins
29. a foreigner wraps his tongue around new slang
30. thin voices naming obstacles
31. studied eccentricity of a packed hall
32. the tragedy of my dream secondary to his breakfast
33. a mortar board wrinkling between electric bills and postcards from Europe
34. cable car squeals down the hill, tourists clinging to its sides like joeys
35. discipline is posture, is schedule, is a daily affirmation of the probability of greatness
36. inquisitors snatching refugees from the sea and stoking a great belief in causality
37. the eucalyptus leaves scissoring the air
38. quotations and pop broadsheets
39. ripples in the crowd as an alarm shrieks from the automatic toilet
40. as the sky blossoms in every direction
41. light of the great flowers reflected in the bellies of skyscrapers
42. hymns rise in my throat for a nation that clings to secular wonders
43. a cactus that learns to tap its neighbors' roots
44. waxy fingers clutching the edge of a strawberry crate
45. milk curdled into dirty clouds
46. fruit flies humming above a bag of apples
47. wrinkled like forgotten babies
48. a tourist rattling at his camera
49. the plane disgorging us like a pelican
50. a raccoon with wide eyes and wrinkled hands
51. the bland necessity of groceries


holy shit, i dream in bad poetry! automatic writing rocks!


both-eyes-open-lights-on stuff has been considerably more successful. our parade of guests have tapered off for a little while - i think jake will be dropping in for ladyfest next week, but the soldeveres / osters / kerschen / erwins / osters run is over. i'm lonely, and the apartment sure does look nice when we have visitors, but getting back to the notebook is probably a good thing.


- and i'll be updating. no, really.