Written 04/24/2011 by Les Monstrelli
A slight exaggeration of surrounding perception forms around the base root of dreams and stock quotes. If the two were to ever mix you might find yourself buried within a pit of shame wondering how creative imagination were to be infiltrated by hopeless gambling. A certain carelessness of worry, yet chaotic sensitivity to the slightest noise guide way into realizing that the inner self is connecting to the physical being by only a frayed string of something resembling dental floss. This reminds you that your swollen lymph node glands and plaque collected teeth need as much attention as an old dog sharing the home with a brand new puppy.
Nightmares of truss rod adjustments and soggy socks swivel but are swooped away like cartoon birds circling around Top Cat's face, led to go off and bug somebody less resistant to illustrative follies. Waking up in a sleeping bag with uncoordinated zippers, you realize you're out in the middle of a field. It is started to drizzle but you don't give a damn.. You'd rather wait to give a damn for when you are soggy and surrounded, even a part of the mud puddles that were not birthed when you first lay down. What state are you in and how did you get there? You've heard the stories of people waking up to wandering bulls, in places that they did not remember entering the night before, only dragged along by a certain phasing of survival and numbed away concern of consequence.
Ideas of truth, image, quest, all seem laughable and even hunger has lost sense of desire in the bath of 'the ever drenching rest-lack' the absurdity of viewing a world of worry from the eyes of what sleep deprivation expertise torture tests would seem tame in comparison. Worry-gone in a worry-world, however. The drizzle picks up, you test to see if your feet are still working.
Hills surround.. A circle of hills. What kinds of creatures may lurk within. No cows, no bulls, not even any animal shit to slip in or mud-puddles built up from the young rain. You get up onto your feet, surprised to connect a feeling to them and feed yourself with the operation of moving them to a place of dryness before the puddles grow.
Two lovers fall into an awkward state of humility in sexual escapade, a fender bender occurs on a hesitant trek to work, an arcade machine eats 50 cents, and somebody else on the planet is in just as much of a hysterical sleepless inertia at the very moment. Count until minutes later and there will probably be another fender bender, this time from some drunk, a favorite t-shirt will be shrunk in the dryer, a man will kiss a woman with a long lost guilt in the back of his mind which will hide some truth never admitted and eventually cause a crash of irrational behavior between the two but at least they didn't get in a fender bender.
Of course, none of that crosses your mind, because by this time, on a different location of planet Earth completely, you happily reach a dry spot towards a ridge of a cavern as the hill sides grew nearer. Where you are you will just have to figure out when you are well rested enough to give a damn, To plug events together and see if this itself is not just some dream.
A flame awaits the inside cave and you care not to fumble with the zippers. They were like that since your friend gave the shoddy thing to you. Something about Plato comes up in your mind, but you figure other people must have written about flames within cave walls and then you laugh at the absurdity of finding yourself where you are and wonder the threat posed upon yourself in entering without proper etiquette.
If you're unwelcome, you'll know.. If you're to be devoured down to a bone-rattle, you'll surely know.. If you're dreaming, you'll have to pinch yourself damn better than that. You start to think Twilight Zone and raving violent goblins but only see to it as embedded images from the fantasies of writers during chaotic times. Chaos never settles, but that's a thought for after well-rest.
Take off your shoe as it serves as the worst pillow you've ever had.
Wake up, a cold breeze. Radiant smile.. It somehow happened, Batteries slightly charged, eyes kept closed. The last time it's been with such a lost collection of Zzz's was a horrid cranky town full of expensive pay phone calls pleading for escape and irritable folks with city accents hoping for your death.. But that adventure is destined for later days. You open up your eyes, see the sun from out the cavern coming from the curves of tall hills. There's a sound of swooshes in the distance.
Highway. Stream. Alright knees.. connected back to having to concern the body. Stretch, groan those human groans of "Can't stop now. I've known people nearing a lost liver who haven't stopped downing drinks, 'seen race car drivers enter the trip of coma but came back to the wheel' so you follow that stupid philosophy though it's less on base of self-destruction, follow your own feet towards that sound of a hiss.
A new hiss enters your perception as a stream enters ear-way. You think of how it is that the sound stays put once it enters in perception, right after you 'lock in' or notice it's relevance.
Dip down, find a lucky stone. Cold on your finger pads but not as much compared to the water now through your palms and against your face. Clean enough to drink, this isn't pond scum or city water.
One foot falls in jumping the rest of the stream from over a bank. Damn miscalculations. Awe well, you hadn't awoken gnawed on by cavern dwellers nor faced the despicable nightmare of truss rod adjustments just yet, so the soggy-shoes dilemma will have to be met with a collection of briers and small vines wrapped around your wet pant legs.
Car insurance signs stand tall near a thin 'highway' if you can call it that.
Thumb out, intentionally non-threatening-seeming 'I'm not going to kill you' smile on your face.
Inner admittance of 'nobody, no-fucking-body is going to pick me up. Thanks a lot, predictable, gore-filled hitchhiker murder movies.'
Somehow the sarcastically infiltrated beta version of the word 'cute' comes up as you see the wet prints of the one soggy shoe follow behind with the sloppily folded and tied sleeping bag shrugged upon your shoulder.
You get to read even more tall billboards the further in miles you have gone on and the only other traffic around had been older cars going the opposite way and one travel bus going yours.
You take your thumb and press it up against your nose blowing a snot rocket out onto the sandpaper-like road, all along following the stream sister to the roadway, that you had hopped over from coming out of your little nap 45 minutes ago.
You're no amnesiac yet trying to avoid the worry or wonder of just how you ended up here or where you are. All other memories seem to be all but escaped but at a hidden worry, an alert is set-off to 'freaked outness' when 'WAKE-UP' is glanced upon quickly on the next billboard coming up.
Jitters and quick breath, a quick second of panic mode..
A dream?
Great, you're in some mid-world and a manifestation of a cheesy sign is trying to be that 'Pinch of the skin.'
....'To our new breakfast sandwhich."
'The fuck??' you respond, wanting to backhand reality hard, or your own perception of sign, wondering the coincidence or perhaps reaction of commodity, where this phrase surely is seen everywhere, with a big cheesy smiling yellow 'M' with curvaceous feminine uppers of the shape, yet it's time and place is too appropriate for the lacking of understanding of just where all of this is.
You want to climb that sign and rip away it's paper sheet.
You stop and look up, consider it..
A car comes along, you decide not to.
Things get stranger, or less predictable.
This car stops.
Impala, 1980-something-Impala. You don't know shit about cars, you know it's a Chevy and better than most horrid regular new models.
Man stops... Dalmatian in the back seat is the first thing you notice. A red collar. You look up to the driver..
Round-edged sunglasses, a straw hat, Gillette-commercial shave, long sleeves and vest, passenger: pale-skinned 1950s hair, wrist bracelet, v-line black cut sleeve t-shirt, green eyed lady.
'Rise'N'Shine' sticker on the side back window of the car...
You're in the back being driven down the road.
Douglas.... Shannon. Douglas looks at you from the upper gape of his sunglasses in the rear view when he talks to you. Shannon tells you about how they'd both first met on the road. You admire their ability to pick you up within the mental confines of a superstitious collective, and are surprised of the dalmation's admiration of you.. Usually most dogs try to turn your fingers or organs into chew toys.
You glance over to the window sticker, place your elbows onto the sleeping bag atop your lap.
'Rise'N'Shine' Damn the awake world is weird..
"So where are you going?"
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