Ms. Entropy

Got signed up for classes today, so there's that. Just another solidification, another reminder of some paramount changes in a future that's approaching quickly as it is hurdling away, as all things are until there's nothing left. Time is of the essence, so when I say I'm writing a book I mean I'm staring very hard at those first four lines and contemplating how to write a believable passive martyr character. I've also been watching lots of some cheesy nineties alien t.v. show called Roswell, which would be an indulgence save for all the brain cells driving off in my teal Z3 convertible with a younger man and flipping me the bird. It's a good show, though. I like it. I still haven't received my housing information, which troubles me because I submitted my application late and requested a single room after realizing I'm devolving into a misanthrope. It's unfortunate but at the same time I picture myself as some unkempt madman and I just have to laugh. The dreams have been alright, lingering on the benign familiarity of everyday life. Friends' faces decomposed and then resurfacing in household objects. Always smoke and laughter, and music. Once I felt my tooth come loose in a red and gold theater with my parents. I tongued it in my mouth for a while wondering if I was awake, but then the dream shifted and I was someone else entirely.  I'm not doing them justice. Some were particularly fantastic, bits of stories I moved through to pick up the patterns with which I should maneuver my real life. But they were all dead, flat-lining in the morning when I tried to summon them to memory. Lost to the NyQuill which covered me with heavy black tar for 14 hours a night. It clung too, through the days I kept slipping into my imagination as easily as I had in my youth. I forgot to mention I was sick; I was. Just a common cold that hit me pretty terribly. I took long baths with all sorts of oils, salts and candles, ate little, and slept during the day in a large white bed. All the while everything blurred together and when I finally emerged I felt as though I had taken a trip or come home after a night at a carnival. It's so bright here, it's so blinding. The kaleidoscopic array of poppies, avocados, mountains and the pacific spinning 1,040 miles an hour in universal silence.
It's okay that I write without purpose because there is none.

vultures on somerset drive

I've decided to sit and write something down now because I probably should. It's been a while, and I can feel the leisure slipping away like a dream cut short that comes wailing out of your stupid head in the morning and leaves you thirsty through the week. I had one recently. Some stage version of our old shit climaxed in its mediocre plot and left me sitting on a couch with a giant vulture, dead on the floor. For some reason I think that means I've won this battle, but it doesn't make me happy.

After the dream I dug myself a hole, got in, and stayed comfortably for a few days with my whatifs, nursing a bruise. Most of the time I just tried to conjure the images back but sleep kept bringing something new. I didn't have a say in the matter at all and that seemed to say everything.
Meanwhile, I got a meningitis shot and celebrated my father's 47th birthday. I completed a plot outline for a novel; attempted to create a plausible scenario for an earth that's hundreds of years older, drowning both physically and within a dichotomous economic situation.

I rode a bicycle for the first time since the crash that blossomed permanent scars on both my knees and somewhere inside me, I'm sure, though I don't think about that anymore. My defense has a brilliant gleam. But this week it was all that dream, mostly that dream, some of that dream. I watched it slip out of the frame, like a balloon shrinking into the sky as I biked down streets that have already forgotten you.