Too Much Laziness, Dreams, Computers Can Read Your Mind, Technological Trouble, And Walt Whitman

While I am writing this, it is 7:30 am on Sunday morning. I simply cannot lie around for one more second. There are a couple of reasons for this, the first of which is that my neck and back are still all messed up (and, no, I haven’t gone to the doctor yet. I hate those freaks). The second reason is that the Fiery One and I spent all day yesterday lying around. Granted, it wasn’t that hard, because neither of us roused ourselves out of bed until after 2:00 pm, but we did not move our butts from either sitting or lying positions once. That we eventually went to bed was a decision based solely on a collective desire to change location, if only for the sake of variety. Now that I am up so early with a drive to blog, the internet connection is not working again. It seems to like to conk out occasionally and need to be prodded along with all the usual plugging and unplugging of cords that seems to coerce almost any machine into an operational state. Right now, I have resorted to disconnecting the modem from the power bar. It so hates to be without the juice that five or ten minutes without it should impress it with who has the real power around here.

My dreams over the last couple of nights have been vivid but most disappointing. I am always disappointed when my dreams rely almost entirely on lifting events from my day and simply mixing them up for nonsensical effect. I feel that it is my brain’s lazy way out. The night before last was filled with the same snippets of my real-life Friday played in different sequences over and over and over. It got so that I would be in a dream and thinking, oh yeah, I’ve seen that rabbit not only here but there and there, and this person I’m talking to has messy hair now but so-and-so and so-and-so had messy hair before. It got pretty tiresome, and I actually got bored of the whole dreaming scene. Last night’s dreams were much better. There was some of the predictable stuff from the night before, but there was also some choice stuff that felt worth the experiencing. In one dream, I was both me and not me, which is a common state for my dreaming self. I am both the person experiencing and the person observing the experience. I was looking down at the back of my left hand with curious amazement. There was a large eye there. It was blue in colour, and the flesh around the eye was connected to it, because it changed to alter the expression of the eye. The sadness, the abject loneliness, that this eye was experiencing pierced into me, and I could not help but feel for it. It was an intruder into my body, and so there was this sense of a great personal violation, but at the same time, this eye was able to communicate to me by its expression that this was not a choice it had made; our conditions were the same – we were now forced to exist in the same body without the ability to truly connect with one another. We were comfortless in our condition. See what I mean? The emotional depth in that dream was choice.

Here is a time-waster for you. It totally knew that I had picked the Jack of Clubs.

Yay! I got the internet all operational again, so I will be able to share this post with you. In the past, I have lost a few, and it is never pretty on this end when that happens. There is one problem, though. My connection is so beastly slow this morning that I will be unable to complete the “Facts and Links” section of this entry. This makes me a little sad. Boo hoo.

Due to this lack of content, I will leave you with a bit of Walt Whitman.

Song of Myself (excerpt)

Houses and rooms are full of perfumes, the shelves are crowded with perfumes,
I breathe the fragrance myself and know it and like it,
The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it.

The atmosphere is not a perfume, it has no taste of the distillation, it is odorless,
It is for my mouth forever, I am in love with it,
I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked,
I am mad for it to be in contact with me.

The smoke of my own breath,
Echoes, ripples, buzz’d whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and vine,
My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing of blood and air through my lungs,
The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore and dark-color’d sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn,
The sound of the belch’d words of my voice loos’d to the eddies of the wind,
A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms,
The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag,
The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields and hill-sides,
The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising from bed and meeting the sun.

Have you reckon’d a thousand acres much? Have you reckon’d the earth much?
Have you practis’d so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?

Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems,
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions of suns left,)
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.

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