Russian Exit

In my REM shutter projection of mind movie, I was leaving my family in Russia to return to the USA, so that I might find them a safe exit. Politically turmoil was surrounding us, outside the mote of our estate. The mote was an expansive lake, calm still waters, and an ever extendable bridge, collapsable. The width of this pool allowed more options for a secretive departure, so I was not neccessarily worried but was exhilerated. In my dream I spent much time packing. That seemed to be the most difficult aspect of this expedition. Which would be the best bag? I had many miles to travel by foot so I needed as little baggage as possible but would have to survive out of this bag for quite some time as I did not neccessarily expect the Russian wilderness to be prosperous. This is where I left off in my dream. My bags were not packed yet and the last thing I remember is spying on the enemy across the water way through heavy duty binoculars. They were smoking cigarettes and adjusting their ushankas. Waiting for us to show our faces so they might display their dissidence.

Upon waking, I looked up what is going on in the world of Russia so that I may see if their is any corresponding universal agitation that may have bled into the scenario above in my dreams. Of course I found nothing clear and direct, although one seemed to resonate. There was an article on BBCnews.com (http://news.bbc.co.uk/nol/ukfs_news/hi/newsid_8070000/newsid_8079100/8079113.stm) and part of the article touched upon the immense anger felt toward the "oligarchs" by the "people" who feel that their wealth was stolen and privatized from them during the turmoil of the 1990s. Looking back at my dream, I was clearly living in wealth and surrounding me was anger indeed. I am rushed with curiosity as to why I had this dream, this cerebral reflection on class struggle. I come from a middle class family, and currently I do not live close to extravagance by any means. Any dining spluring of mine is thrown on the credit card to be paid off slowly, meaning only more debt, the furthest thing from garnering wealth. So why in this dream was I singled out as perpatrator of class conflict, as an enemy of the people? Perhaps I have festering feelings of guilt, from my job, where I was pretty high up for some time until I put in an advanced notice of resignation. Before this decision of mine, many among the staff looked to as though I were the right hand man of the company, and could sway the big boss's decision with great influence. The sad aspect was that no matter how hard I tried to get a good worker a raise, a monetary bump for them never popped, and this especially felt roadblocked as the economy worsened in the fall. I'm sure I was seen by many who did not see their income increase as the kink in the chain that did not follow through for them, that in a two-faced diplomacy made promises then forgot about them. Yes, there were some that talked to me, in which I said I would see what I could do, then as the peak season consumes my scattered energies, I did forget about them, I admit. However there were key people that I pushed for that were met with rejection at the financial request. I guess perhaps I have not atoned the fact that I really did not have the influence that people thought I did, and in turn I believed I had, but still I remain as the figurehead in the field that let them down. I apologize for what I seemed to be and for trying to play that role with precision, for the hope I led on, and for the hope I ultimately did not fight for.

The Igloo Oven Returns!

Hello!

I have gone astray from this lovely platform and apologize for being absent with material. I have been busy "exit strategizing" from the corporate cog which I became heavily cranked into. The good news is: I have put in a notice of resignation from that company and by October 1st, I will be creating 100 % of my day's time. However, the creative wheel can't wait until then, so I would like to make a committment to have something new posted by every Thursday night, every week, by midnight. Feel free to punch me in the face if I fail that obligation, but I think you will lose out on that oppty, I'm feeling inspired.

Also, I have not been completely void of creating, despite the ever escalating occupational pressures I had to persevere. I acted a in a play, The Loitering Hole, written by Matthew J. Swanson of http://thegancer.blogspot.com. I also self published a book, "a bedtime story for the drinking mankind." It is a twisted folkatale of sorts, illustrated like a bedtime story, but of course a little too dark for the children's book market so I thought I'd turn to my fellow imbiber and offer them a tale to stew in their subconsious as the whiskey seaps into the bones and fuels racy dreams that perplex them through the last of their hazy morning ritual, haunting the cab ride into work due to oversleeping. The book is available through http://www.whiskeypike.com. There is a preview gallery with images, sample text, and audio if you have more questions or your interest in a new summer read is perked in the slightest.

But I will leave you with a little observation. The other day I rode the bus and observed a family of four, a father, two sons, and a daughter. The daughter was speaking to the father through sign language. The father responded in kind to the daugher. The daughter also interacted with her two brothers in like means, so I assumed the daughter was deaf/mute, and the other family members had learned to speak like so to her. But then the two brothers began speaking to one another by way of sign language, and the father to the brothers. Was the entire family afflicted with inability to speak by tongue and hear through ear? Or had they by way of learning this particular language for the sake of a loved one, taken up that language in preference to the traditional and ordinaray means to transfer everday information? Or did they learn to enjoy the privacy with communcating through a language reserved for handicap, but conveys speak with every bit as much precision, and much more emphatic?

Silver Fish Diatribe

Blake addled the dynamite charge with seconds to spare before witnessing silence. The silence of what could have been. Of the detriment, the addled fortune in smoke and shards, just bombing down on all around. What could've been. If it had blown. But he is set free for now. By his brilliant adjustment of wire and code. A puzzleman known to have decoded a language for squid by studied sub sonic electromagnetic sound. A true find. Shedding light on animal communication all around man. Open the doors of awareness. At any moment, any one, anything can be speaking to you. When you're in your home, the dust mites and the silver fish are whispering secrets to you. This is how Blake found out about the explosive.

Notations

The ergonomic dishwasher spat in my face.

The tide plays games with the moon raker.

When that leaf hits the ground, the kiss will lose all meaning.

Where does that hound dog get his rythm?

Instinctual salamander flips the page of a book and tears the corner. Your brother is tremendously bothered by this.

Burning panther fur will add 2 years to your life from a bioflanidic aroma that triggers a synapse that fights aging.

Word on the street is, an ambilical cord is poisonous to the alkalinity of fish, if liquified. Only one man has tried this. And the reason for his experiment is another story all together.

Don't forget to flush one gray hair down the toilet the night before a big competition.

Porcupine.

Where the sounds of a porcupine,
ribbit tides in my spin.
The spike clock drive big stock,
and the workhorse soon wrinkles.
The sweat that collects in the
concrete drain will be pressed
by new eras which take heavy slumber
a top one another.
The sweat will be harvest.
Will be oil for a new eon
when lamp light it the least
of man's worries.
Where the sight of a porcupine
spike belt makes you stand up
straight and produce
a little quicker.

Rowboat.

The brawling and the gloom. The distant wedge of cabbage holding the door open against the breeze, debris, twisted sun air. I assume that is cabbage. Can't pull this rowboat all by my lonesome but I must. Three fish slap at that transom upon each bump of rock and sand. I thought this breeze was a joke when out on the surf. Catching sustenance and weathering spray. This breeze, will pass, I had assumed. Luckily the capsizing occurred close to shore, and my catch was tied so tight and nifty, supper was not lost. Can't pull this rowboat all by my lonesome, but I did. Dropped lightly on the grass to the side of the cottage, and confirmed with closer proximity that the lady indeed used a head of cabbage as a door jamb. In the kitchen, the lady was entertaining guests, her aunties. Nagging her on bringing about nieces and nephews into the windy world. The lady nodded at me and said I could only get it poking with a sucking for starters and until she got around to it could she do bend to the sucking and get it poking. That shut up her aunties. Slapped three fish on the table and retrieved the cabbage and let the door slam. I'm hungry, I announced, let's get the stove burning and get on from this dilly dallying. Her aunties get nervous when I'm demanding and don't do much talking. The shutters slap and the stove simmers smoke from a spill from the night before, but the sun is still present and the wind is still vociferous.

Dehydration is a Sin

The pond water dissolved
the rough patched tongue and satiated was the necessity of genuine thirst. Damning the roots is arbitrary fascism.
These cells of yours are not of private ownership, do tend to with care. Hydration is the natural order of things and kin to the solar wind. Arid lands are indeed cursed. Rabid warlords privatize the watering holes and breed centuries of misconduct by men. Lend that sun blistered hand to un-announced generations. Drink a cup and pass the chalice, for if you halt the trickling baton, know, just know, dehydration is a sin. Beware pile driving your efforts into a task so neglectful that long in refrain is the quench. Do not maintain the heavy conscience. Proceed in drenching the Oasis Guard in gritty oil and lighting the impending light to draw fellows the lap their rough patched tongues. The honorable war is for the essentials. Dehydration is a sin.