joeseph

more dreams last night about being stuck in a subpar environment. my old roommates from college were there, in this house, smoking pot. they had big bongs but were careless with the way they smoked, dirty. they pulled out huge chunks of weed from inside the pipe, then turned it upside down and shook the bong water around, mixing green with ash. do you wanna smoke? nah, i don't do that shit anymore. twilight in the house, bad lighting. maybe that's just the morning sun and how it's been coming through the window as i sleep. morgan is there, in his own room, inaccessible. i go into my own room, and i have two screens. i resign to the computer, here's my screen, here's another to the right of me. emily guitierrez sits next to me, doll. i look at her. "this is a lot of screens." she nods, silently.

i think later on the dream turns sexual, as i'm fingering a girl with a small pussy. it's like on display; she says "no, the clit is down more." and someone else is with me. i put a finger in her ass and make a point about the contractions of her vagina and how these two are related. weird and explicit.

after awhile i get up and walk around the house. i can hear morgan in there, talking to himself. there's a part that i can go into, another part that i can't. his dad james is there. they are working together, on some project that they keep in the garage (his room). i can hear him from outside, on the computer, talking about what he's doing and laughing to himself. i can't decide if this is crazy or noble, that he should be so expressive even on his own. his tone of voice seems a little desolate.

later on i get a chance to see what he's doing. i've been hired to work with them. There's a big apparatus with little metal grips that come together to hold up a log with holes in the middle. Like a centipede, two metal arms come together at regular intervals along the whole length. There are pads on the end, and they stick through the holes in the wood. They can rotate all around. Very sophisticated machinery. I get the sense that this thing is edible...

We watch a movie in a big group of people. As the crowds are leaving, we go around and pick up loaves of bread. These are related to the edible project. I grab some from outside, through a car window as we depart, and throw them over. Cool, nice job. The shared satisfaction of throwing something to someone and having them catch it.


That's about it for that one, but there's another pretty telling dream I remembered halfway through writing. I've gone to the end of the land with my dad. There are fish in the water, which is kind of dirty. I have actually built a submarine, constructing it out of plastic parts--old bins and buckets, coffee bins, etc. I'm piecing it together, excited that we're gonna go underwater together. But he's too big. I submerge, and I see him kind of just hanging out on the surface cheering me on. Pretending like he's doing this thing with me. After I grab some fish or relics or whatever I was looking for under the water, I come back up (it's not very deep) and confront him about it. You didn't even go down with me!!

This is a sticking point, I'm pissed. He mentions my mom and my sister, and the word "love," and says "...doing whatever the hell you guys do on your own." Those weren't the exact words, but it was an alienating statement. Fuck you!!! What do you mean, "whatever I do"?! He was insinuating that everything I do is senseless, meaningless, and unimportant. Maybe because he's not there, or maybe because he can't do it. The adventurous stuff, like the submarine. I go off on him. This is bullshit. Just because you are INCAPABLE of doing something, you can't see the IMPORTANCE of it. He was writing it off, everything I do. Everything I do.

Reflecting a bit, there's definitely dumb shit I do (same as everybody), purposeless shit. The feeling in the dream with which I sat down to the computer screens was pretty important. People are out there smoking weed and being buffoonish, but that's my escape. The computer. Even when there's questionable stuff going on around me, it's rarely the best option. That feeling of melancholy and apathy is one and the same. I mean, come on though. A submarine that I built by myself. That's pretty sick.

There's a lot of emotion regarding morgan, one of my primary dream figures, still, but I feel like it's still hidden, repressed, forgotten. Whatever it is. Just a hint of him is there. And maybe that's all that's left anyways, after he died. Even before that I didn't know him very well, not for years. It's like I'm sleuthing to figure out just what happened to him; maybe I know the answer, it's just deeper down.