Dreams

My dreams are coming back to me. I am dreaming again. And that's good, it means I'm not using drugs or consuming vast amounts of alcohol like I have in the past.

I keep a journal of my dreams, the significant ones, I'm not the first to do so, and if you read them through you'd likely think I was crazy or special. I like to think I'm special.

The value of dreams is debatable, it's constantly debated or cherished or tossed off by one theoretician or another. For me, my dreams have great value, inspiration. They often make me very happy--casting a light on my day, even many days--or very depressed, sending me back into the darkness. They make me think. I can only hope the same for you.

I've been recording my dreams for nine years. Here's last night's three part dream and the dream from nine years previous, the first entry in my journal, as they are, unedited:

July 18 2003 - look out window (dorm?)->group of black people->see me and chuck tons of stones, breaking many of my windows...tell Dad, he comes over, go down street + approach (same?) group, he ends up shooting one.

July 18 2012 - (1) Indoors, I think I see/hear ghost outside, maybe in the garage. Then it starts raining wildly. A heavy trickle of water comes into living room from ceiling, then from places all over house. I'm afraid house will cave in, be flooded; rush upstairs, calling for Henri, but can't find him.

(2) I'm Jim Morrison; I walk through the crowd, go backstage. Certain forces impair my ability to walk, I crawl along against gravity, ask people to help/push me forward. I just want to get to the stage. Meanwhile I score a couple nickle bags of weed. Another dude hands me a couple of his 'special' joints, which are horribly rolled--very loose, they go up in flame and I barely get high.

(3) Manager Chris giving me ride home in p/u truck. We're talking, he mentions he comes from area where I know Mothman Prophesies to be from--I ask if he's read it + he gets a weird look, like he doesn't want to talk about it. I ask again + then look out the windshield, up into the sky ahead of us--I notice an orangish speck flying up there. Then the speck/ball divides into three, these fly off in different directions. I ask Chris to stop car + get out. I see another up there + it acts the same way--they travel fast. I ask Chris + he's seen them too. We're in a housing dev. + I notice 3-4 adults conversing in front of a garage. I go over + ask if they've seen anything in the sky + they have! It seems the whole neighborhood's abuzz. By this time I notice Chris has driven off, leaving me stranded. I go into a house, come across some Hollywood directors/producers all laying around a room, they know me. I talk w/ them. Go outside--it's the 1970's, I'm in Hollywood Hills. There's a scooter-thing by the curb up the street + I get on + ride off clunkily, go up a hill. I still think I see those specks in the sky. They seem to be all over up there. I turn around, go back down hill--owner of scooter is waiting. I hand it over to a girl, explain how it works (brakes are testy, etc.), she drives off. Owner points to cup on ground, suggests I drop some change in there + leaves. I drop in some change for her troubles.

I Miss The Block

Sometimes I really miss the block. Not the idyllic block I grew up on, no--I'm talking about the block where I used to buy weed. It has been many years now and I find myself missing the adrenaline rush, the abandoned car and rotting houses scenery, the pleasant interactions and transactions with my drug-dealing friends.

I miss D-Bone, P, T, Tee and Lil' P. I miss Little T and Little C, D and Bubba.

Most of all I miss Terry, the original "T", who first went by the street name of Shady. I remember when he threw bullets out my window as I drove him around the block. He said he "just shot somebody." I remember when he asked me if I wanted to hang out sometime, if I could "take him to some parties and introduce him to a few ladies." I said sure, why not. Then he called me five minutes later. I turned off my phone, thinking it best we probably didn't hang out together. Ours was more of a professional friendship, a bond with lines that just couldn't be crossed. At least to me.

One day Terry vanished from the block. I didn't see him for more than a year. Then one day he returned, smiling and jovial as ever. He'd been in prison for whatever reason and now he was back, right back in the game and ready. Nothing would keep this dude down. He hugged me through my open window as I sat there, happy to see me again, and then he hooked me up with his trademark overflowing twenty bags, three for $20, and I was off, back to my safe, cracker-ass world just seven minutes away.

Yeah, I had it timed to just around seven minutes, taking into account the 80 mph-plus it would require me to travel down the freeway to get there within seven minutes. Then I moved out of my parents house and moved into an apartment only three minutes from the block.

But by then Terry was gone. I hope he's doing all right. He was a nice guy.

I used to have a lot of crazy dreams about the block. Here's one dated 9/15/02, transcribed from my journal of dreams:

I'm inside a house on the block, sitting on a long couch in a living room with a few dealers, we're all playing XBox. Suddenly there's a huge bang on the front door. The house is getting raided. The door flies open, cops run in, chaos ensues, we all run in different directions. Somehow I make it outside and keep running for a bit down the block. Then I stop--where am I going to run to? I don't even have a car. I'm not even wearing a shirt. I look down at my feet--no shoes.

I sort of miss having dreams like these.