Analog by Night

12 13 Dream

January 13th, 2011 § 1 comment § permalink

I’m sure I’m only ever getting the last dream of the night, and I know that I should be having two-three more dreams before that. it is as if I have two “starter” memories that are unavailable to me because I am not awake to recall them at the time. Dreams fade so quickly from memory. I believe the brain is TRYING to throw them out.

To ask yourself to remember your dreams means a few things. 1 your brain DOES attempt to store them, maybe it can’t help it? Maybe the same mechanisms are involved, maybe not.

I believe that again I was with my family. Mother and sister perhaps? Or two friends? I can’t recall, I know I was with two people and I have a strong feeling that one was Lois. We went to a house in a suburb that was not ours. We were not coming home, we were clearly going to another persons house, and I believe we were either there to take the house; to start living in it. Or we were robbing the house. It was a one story rambler, modest in size and architecture. It was that same simple sterile pattern that was my first home.

I remember having some difficulty moving around in the house. I had to step gingerly over large barriers separating the front from the back and move around large piles of clutter. It was overstuffed with furniture and knick knacks objects standard domestic objects. It was the home of an older person, who, however clean , had sort of been forgetfully acquiring things for years.

All three of us separated. I explored the property while my other two companions spent their time in place rummaging for valuables.

I remember being very interested in some of the older objects, and particularly the cultural history they represented. It reminded me of the times I used to spend at my grandmothers houses and in used book stores and antique shops simply trying to learn by touch what life used to be like, what they valued, felt, expressed. It was as if my search for “retro” fashion items, clearly having social cache in this world, had turned genuine anthropology by accident. In looking for something of value in today’s society I had thrust myself into a museum, whose story was more powerful for me than the narrative I was in. I could be trapped by a house of mirrors, as long as that mirror never reflected me.

She came home. Someone came home, and rather than flying into a rage at the thieves, she was mildly happy to see one of my companions. She was a peer, and quickly dismissed the whole robbery premise without even mentioning it. She spoke of this place and it’s messiness with apology I believe.

I believe she had very short light colored hair. She was very thin and somewhat boyish. Not super attractive, but sort of cute and had a head that was more oval, or pill shaped. Not grotesque but it was no diamond. I remember as tall, and sort of relaxed in demeanor, care free. Gen-X.

I remember that we seemed to sort of hover around each other. We stayed in the same rooms, in the back yard, or wherever. It was as if she wouldn’t lose me, and I wouldn’t lose her.

At some point we must have been sitting on a couch quite close to one another and either the two of us had been talking or she had been talking to one of my dream companions and I was getting to know her. Name, occupation, character.

She sat very close and leaned across me, over me, definitely in my space, and was reaching for something beyond me.

Our heads were next to each others, my face nearly on her shoulder, and my nose was magnetically drawn to her neck, her jaw, ear. She stayed so long in that position that our heads came together and stayed. My nose stole into her jawline, and stayed. She felt my skull on hers and we began to rub, to nuzzle, to push. There was connection and passion. We made that clear to each other and when we did, she pulled back and apart. We searched for rejection in each other’s face and found none. So we kissed. We were in love.

My arms rose up behind her and pulled her in, and we kissed and kissed. We were giddy and relieved to have found each other.

I was warm and soupy, and confused with this new passion for this girl I had just gained access too. I now needed to confirm to myself, to re-assure, and to simply swim in this love for the rest of the afternoon. At her cluttered house, her backyard, our new place.

Best Caption

January 12th, 2011 § 0 comments § permalink

Brilliant caption (sorta)

That picture, sourced from this Defense Industry Daily extract, is presumably a Trident II D5 nuclear tipped submarine launched ballistic missile (SLBM). The caption is immediately accessible given our popular imagination of how missiles work, and would imply that this nuke is catastrophically out of control. It may be. It’s really no big deal though. The big deal would be pre-mature detonation, ostensibly irradiating a patch of ocean, rocking the hull of the sub, and giving away intelligence info to anyone with sufficient monitoring equipment. Even if it was to hit the water, it’s not likely to have gone nuclear. There is a bittersweet but lengthy record of nuclear bombs being dropped on American soil without the ensuing detonation, including this juicy tidbit from 1961:

On Tuesday, 24 January 1961, at about 12:30 a.m., two hydrogen bombs fell to earth near the tiny farming village of Faro, NC.

Obviously, neither bomb yielded its awful potential, or the world would today be mourning an infamous catastrophe. The two model MARK 39 devices came down when the B-52 bomber in which they were riding suffered structural failure and disintegrated in mid-air 12 miles north of Seymour Johnson Air Force Base in Goldsboro, NC. The plane exploded as it fell. Five crewmen parachuted to earth safely. Three died — two who went down with the doomed bomber, and one who was found two miles from the crash site hanging by his parachute in a tree, his neck broken. The H-bombs jettisoned as the plane descended, one bomb parachuting to earth intact, the other striking a farmer’s field at high speed — “probably mach 1″ (about 760 miles per hour) speculates one retired Air Force Colonel. – Full Article

Back to the story. There is also the probability that the Trident II D5, which is burning solid rocket fuel, is performing a sort of spin maneuver in order to burn off excess fuel. Why would it do that? So that it doesn’t travel as far. It’s technique I learned about while reading Jeffery Lewis’ post about Bulavas.

If you remember, there was an incident of a spiraling missile over Norway last year. It provided a couple days worth of media frenzy, and was addressed technically by one of my favorite blogs, ArmsControlWonk.com in this post. Lewis even reminds his readers that people thought it might be a UFO. I guess for most it remains a UFO, as few of them are likely to know what kind of missile it REALLY was.

I wonder if the arc of that spiral is too tight to suggest the fuel-burning technique, and do indicate an out-of-control nuke, but I’m not technically aware enough to know.

Still, the calm pith of the caption made me grin.

An idea for security cameras

January 12th, 2011 § 0 comments § permalink

Why not have security cameras make a little noise when they detect the motion of a person approaching? Like a beep or a baby noise, or a click. People have a tendency to turn their ears towards unexpected or confusing noises. This would give the camera an opportunity to take a picture of the person’s face.

Imagine the situation where somebody behind you all of a sudden says, “Excuse me.” If it was coming from 20-30 feet in the air, or from what seems to be the ceiling, I bet you’d look for that voice. Snap.

Oily Woolen Sky, Clay, Blut und Ehre

January 11th, 2011 § 0 comments § permalink

The dream begins with my family a home. My sister is there, my nephew, her husband and my mother may or may not be there; it is unclear. We have all risen for the day and have mostly exited the house having individually dressed, washed and eaten. She, however is still sleeping. Her husband has spoken very loudly close to her face, not angrily, but to wake her, “Name, it’s time for you to get up. You need to go to work today.” He is firmly pressing the importance of this. I am afraid of what is about to happen. If she is should be angered by this, she’ll get up, and start stomping and yelling. She’s quite childish and ugly when she is angry. Alas she is so weak and tired, and perhaps in pain, that she barely stirs.

I’m worried for her brain. Perhaps she has a migraine or some other coma-like brain ailment. Harold is worried too. Sleeping was always a bad pattern for She. She would sleep when depressed, which would further depress her. She would sleep for hours and days on end seemingly. I too have done this, but very very rarely. Name had no qualms about sleeping through a weekend.

I remember the image of a tub of bath water being filled very rapidly. A powerful pipe of water pushing out and filling up rather quickly as Tracy slept.

I could not leave her. I also remember thinking of her as Also Named. Also was cranky and difficult to rouse from bed also, but this image of Also aroused my sympathy. I knew I had to stay with her. She/Also, smirking, informed me that we would both be going to work again, “tomorrow.”

At this point I begin to wander around what is not really a home, but a camp. We are in sort of tent city, and most of the inhabitants are gone. It is the tent of travelers, gypsies, and all of the imagery in this dream is cut in grays, dirty whites, obsidians and aubergines, deep velvety greens. Even the salty earth and the sky have heavy middle grays. It is overcast. The sky is wool and ground is salt and clay.

I remember a television being on.

Then I am outside. I am on a steep hill. I look laterally across the hill and I can see a fox hunt is about to begin. Gentleman are gathered in loose groups and packs of large dogs are standing obediently or being allowed to swarm, mix and play. Soon they will go to work.

After a minute I hear one of the men shout, “RELEASE THE HOUNDS!” Hounds sounds like how-uhnds, and I am aware that this man is saying it loudly to men who are close by, to dogs his attention he is commanding and to that creature whose lead is not large enough to save it. These animals are not thinking of whether or not they’ll find and kill the fox. They are thinking of their performance, and the ensuing treats. They’re thinking of completing the first part of their day. Finding and mobbing this animal, in what appears to be a very small area, will be a matter of minutes.

Up and down this hill they run in groups, charging like horses. Some are mountainous Neapolitan mastiffs, others smooth-backed oily hounds and Labradors. One is built like 1957 Bel-Air and seems to be the leader. He looks severely and mechanically in one direction. The rotation of his body, beginning at the neck and head, and launching the body towards the top or bottom of the hill. Watching him stop was like watching a book-case full of bricks hit the brakes. The other mustangs would charge long past his stop, having been given, by his very stare, the order to kill everything “over there.” The would run to the base of trees and would bark and claw at the bark looking up into it’s branches as if the wish to pull the tree down into the earth,and bring the sky with them into their mouths.

At one point all of them stopped in front of me and the mass of dogs swirled around this master as he stared at me. He was a full head taller than most of the other dogs. They all seem to be about his color too, rusty irons, blacks, weak browns and veteran grays. His face was so thoughtful and singular. He really looked like a general. His stare wasn’t threatening. It was simply an exploration. I was neither prey nor master.

Two or three of these surges and finally from the bottom of the hill the armored division brought back it’s query. I full grown bull. Who struggled some, but was clearly their earned prisoner.

I do remember the old man shouting from time to time. It was surely he, like a subconscious urge that was controlling the lead dog. He and the old men moved in groups as well, and they would call the dogs into the groves, or to pound the earth in a spot, or to roll in this direction or that.

I awoke nearly breathless. Worried still about my sister sleeping, Curious about this new encampment and what my new world of dark grays is.

Flickr Cars

January 7th, 2011 § 0 comments § permalink

Melanie

December 30th, 2010 § 1 comment § permalink

“Sometimes I had a mind to ask her if she’d ever let herself be fucked by a Shetland pony.” (Miller, Sexus 233)

A Short Letter to My Father About Today

December 29th, 2010 § 0 comments § permalink

The cabin is just off a small gravel driveway about 1-2 miles from the ferry docks, so it was pretty painless getting here, and it’s been easy to make trips into town for dinner and little things I need. So far I’ve cooked both nights and made myself lunch. I brought a few things in my cooler, and have purchased about as many to support those dishes. I had bread, but no butter or sandwich meat. I had chicken, but no marinade or sauce. Over the past two days I’ve gone through almost an entire jar of green peppercorn dijon mustard, and probably a pound of chicken breast, but it’s been excellent. I’m not as fond of this place internally as the other two places I’ve stayed. There’s a small iron stove that looks like a woodburner but burns gas that has to run almost constantly to keep it at around 67 degrees, and my feet still tend to be cold. » Read the rest of this entry «

Writing Exercise Part 1: What is the writing impulse in me about?

December 28th, 2010 § 1 comment § permalink

I think the impulse to write comes from being filled up with a swarm of words and thoughts for each of the experiences I have. I feel a kind of rapture, for things I see. Sometimes it’s loathing and disappointment, sometimes its embarrassment at the garish and undignified design of things. Sometimes my feeling, for the things that excite, which is nearly anything I give my descriptive eye to, is huge and broad and powerful. It’s as though, when I stop to stare, my stare becomes an abyss, a vacuum, a rich immersive symphony of words and emotions. Yet there is nothing but quiet on the outside of my head. Or worse than quiet, there is the verse, chorus, verse, and bridge of the doddering song that civilization makes. » Read the rest of this entry «

“Your Anger and My Anger”

December 28th, 2010 § 0 comments § permalink

Dorothea Brande reprints this passage in her book Becoming A Writer,

“Agnes Mure Mackenzie, in The Process of Literature, says, ‘Your loving and my loving, your anger and my anger, are sufficiently alike for us to be able to call them by the same names; but in our experience and in that of any two people in the world, they will never be quite completely identical’; if that were not literally true there would be neither basis nor opportunity for art.”

I tend to quickly lose respect for people who abandon the effort to explain their experiences to me on the latter condition Mackenzie speaks of. Usually it’s the position of someone who sees race or gender as some sort of impenetrable experience force field. Do they believe themselves to be at the opposite pole? It just seems obviously lazy. Of course, by being who I am, I am not you, but my experience of you is made enormously less alien or impenetrable by the very language, cognition, education, period and design that makes in you that awareness. Start there, and come to me with your experience of difference. If you do not, I can not be expected to celebrate you, redress your grievances, or know how best to exist peaceably alongside you.

Middle yes

December 16th, 2010 § 0 comments § permalink

It matters little that America is losing it’s middle class, which I think is a myth, but it doesn’t matter anyway. China and India are about to produce the largest middle classes the world has ever seen.