07-12-2014, 12:00 AM
7/10-11/14 Beloved Inspired?
I was reading Beloved by Toni Morrison, last night. At one point, around page 100, i got overcome with an intense feeling of deje vu. I put down my ipad, and sat u on my bed. It did not leave me, what happened is i got pulled into dreaming awake, something like a memory, something like a vision, and something like a dream. There was no realization, directly, just this feeling. what i saw was an older man, and two younger kids. A house like a farm, and the house numbers. Did i rad this, dream it? i wasn't thinking really. The number was 142. Not 124 from the book, but even this seemed relevant. When did i dream this, if i ever did? Something in the last two weeks, and then before, was the impression. Something about the way the man spoke, of things, people, it was no more then a few moments, shifted me even more. When im out of it, im sitting on the edge f my bed. My hands are shaking, like when one is tired, or nervous, almost a twitch. I dont fel good or bad, just shifted. I place my head in my hands, and look at my toes, on the carpet. I sit like that, for about 5 minutes. before getting up for some water. I kept reading, and those characters, or some similar, but mine weren't bad, came into the book. But that wasn't it, exactly. I read more attentively. I read until i got to around page 290. It was then 5am. Almost dawn, sky was the milky white just before the sun rises. I went to sleep then. Wondering, if not the book (this generally does not happen to me directly...dreaming about thing si see/read/watch) but because of that moment, and the feeling something in it...what of that, if anything, might come into my dreaming. I only wondered briefly, as i was soon asleep.
After some time asleep, i slowly come out of a fog, its is as if im breaking through clouds. I see a map, or the earth as if from above. I am looking down on southern California, it is not a map, as their are no borders, no political lines. Looking down from low orbit, a satellite like view. I see, a empty earth, or nearly so. Then the heavy weight of so many millions, growing, like deposits, hardening, and yet, from above, it can not be seen, just felt. I look at the contrast, deserts, and forests around hills, subtle differences between grasslands, and sand. I touch it, with a wet sponge. the sponge, it leaves something like green paint, thin, over the spot were humans grow. Gently, several presses of the sponge, like art. It leaves a pattern, the pattern is time. I present this, to another awareness, so show the pattern is growth; like a coral reef, in the warm sun. the golden glow, of heat, around the edges. People. This does not settle my debate with the spirit, but it does illustrate my perception. Its perception takes me into and around a dense cluster of freeway overpasses. "veins" i see them as, the veins in a leaf. this perspective does not shift me. It, and i, withdraw, both deep in contemplation. Its supposed ot be here, the green, the people/awareness/life. It just got to thick, like paint. That's why we need to use the sponge, lightly.
I am walking my town. the past and present, and future, all here, touching in a strange way. I see people from a hundred years ago, native tribal people, people who i can only guess are from the future, and people as if from now. It is not odd, they each have their own setting in the whole. I walk a street. I pass a cherry orchard (we have many around). the cherry blossoms, are sweet. Fields. Fields with current construction, new homes, the space has a boundary, and i see a state where its all filled. Some of the latter ones, in time, are seven story buildings, like duplicates stacked on each other. I have no shoes. I am walking on the side of a road, that now time, has no sidewalk or curb. the dust, is very real. I look at me feet. I am shifted, to the moment i was looking at my feet, on the side of the bed when i was so shifted when reading. I ask myself. Why? I look around, at the buildings filling, on levels, like ghosts, over the empty field. I ask myself, is this connected, to the field in back of my house, the construction going on there right now, the new homes? Mosst likely, but thats not the meaning, its an old...debate. Was with me since childhood.
I look up, and walk some more, to the end of the block, at the edge of the city limits. A man! A man comes out, from the side, one moment he is not there, then i feel the air move, and then, he is crossing the street. I stand waiting for him. He is a walker. He wont take a car. I know him, we know each other. he came to see me, and i him. He tells me he is from Delaware or Boston. (i pause here, i'm almost sure he is from texas or somewhere like that, but i know it means east...also, it was some sort of sly oke, i could tell in his glow, i could get that, but not the meaning exactly so i let it be) Not exactly sure which. He is tall, and thin...not thin, but wiry. Like a hiker, he is older then me by some 15 years it seems. He stops to remove his beat up shoe. We speak. about this place, its very magical. We walk a bit. As we walk we talk. As we talk, and walk, some women notice him and smile. He smiles back. He is more then a walker, he has no home. He is happy, to walk, and meet a lady, smile, and she takes him in, for a night, for a week, then its time to walk again. Something open and honest about his face. Hes not very much like me, this walker, and wanderer, and i stay here...mostly. But we are similar, and friends, it seems. A woman drives by slow in a truck, to look at him. he smiles and touches his hat. Now i look at his clothes more. He has a hat...more like an Indiana Jones hat then a cowboy hat. A plain shirt, buttoned. Some jeans...and the most discongrouse weird plane soft shoes. I point out hes wearing boot cut jeans...shouldn't he wear boots? The girls here, in this level, that are seeing him like cowboy boots. He tells me he wont wear boots, and there is no way he is putting on cowboy boots. I tell him that is perhaps wise, if we walks further, to Los angeles, or San Diego, It wont be nearly so cool. Different sub levels. I mention i have boots, but they are black urban boots, street boots, not cowboy boots. Although now, it seems, i walk bare footed. He smiles, lucid, as we talk. He is what he is. I ask myself, can this character, who in some ways reminds me of the man from the book, be tied to this? To him. Perhaps. He smiles, knowing at my inner question. We finish walking around the city. In time, it all fades, we walk in a circle, and yet, all the city parts slowly fade. We walked tot he past, it seems. But never actually moved.
As we walk, we are surrounded my fields. Wheat waist high on one side, corn, taller then a man, on the other. Here a fallow field. I was warm, the air had a buzz. We are walking to a slow, sluggish river, a creek really, we can smell a bit ahead of us. There is a discrepancy. Some people are"White" and some "black". All are dressed as if it is the 1880's. We come to the river. there are two lines. A long line, full of black folk. A shorter lines, for whites. A preacher, doing marriages, and two helpers. It costs two dollars it seems. As we draw close, i am now, certain this aspect is influenced by waht i read, the recognition of that, makes me, subtly less enthusiastic. The man with me, he looks at me amused. What sort of character am i in the dream? Clearly i am a character in it. I am also aware, the light shows it. this other man also has the light, here and there others, in varying degrees. Im aware, im a character doing, and i'm me. Can i relate this, to my feeling on the bed. this gives the man, who has a feeling beyond the dream, a smile. As i separate myself, a bit, as i walk, to weigh it all. Because, as i do so, i shine even brighter. Too much. The man removes his vest, as it was making it too hot, and laughs silently. We come to the river, we are across the stream, is a couple plank footbridge across...its no more then six feet wide. The parson, marries 4 couples, quickly, all white. He finishes the white line, its short. the black folk are waiting, silver coins in their hands. He says "sorry folks, im done for the day, try next Sunday" Many of them look downbeat. many wait here, i see stakes and stones denoting their place in line, it seems very seldom that line moves. They sigh, and let their shoulders slump, hold hands, leave rocks with names for their place in line, and shuffle back into the oak woodland. I see the whites leave past us, over the bridge, the way we came. I say tot he man with me, "lets figure out where these whites are going". He nods.
We walk a bit, and it skips, fades, comes to a new focus. We found where all the white folks went. there is an edge of a cornfield, a path. They are standing, looking into the corn. Looking away from the corn, but standing in a long line, along the edge, connected somehow, at the edge of the field. I peer at them closely, how they glow or don't, what they are wearing. They aren't doing anything, really, but at the same time, they all seem quite busy. the ones closes to the edge, looks at me funny. Like why am i here. I can read something in this. I can write something in this, and i realize...they can not. they stand, looking. I step towards a man, glowing a bit, the closest man to me. I look in his eyes, and see my face. Im black!? I am surprised by this, i wasn't as far as i know earlier. How strange. I have a small notepad. On it are scratches like no language. I tear it out, and smile, and hand it to the man, he feels it, the shape of it, but cant read. What is this? he asks. "I can read it to you" i say. He says "you can read!!??" some i say, "the dame taught me". I begin reciting the poem, it seems subversive somehow, to their order. But he listens intently, touching the words like trying to feel them, like objects. He asks me, what i the other language in it? "french" i tell him. "like Paris" he says, impressed. when its over, he seems shaken, he withdraws, along the line of whites. I think we may be in trouble. then he turns around, and reaches, impossibly long distance, and touches my arm, pulls at my shirt sleeve. "Its ok he says, i understand i think...Tell her, tell her, no to you... "you i will help" and then he runs along, past them all, past the cornfield, and into the distance. The poem was only partly written by me, it was also...her. Now it is time to find her, we go to "report" what we have seen/done.
We enter something, like a small theater. the room is full of a few dozen women, watching a stage/podium. At the podium, is the woman who wrote this. Solid, very real. It is something like a "society" club for song and gossip and good manors, a touch of refinement you see, to these people. The woman. she sees me, and the other man. she nods. She is talking about something that doesn't interest me, but then its stories, music. Shes getting closer and closer to revealing her roll, but the ladies here, they nod, too polite, to entranced by the "glamour" of far away places, and a life refined, to quite peg her. And so, finally, she plays a song, on a piano, an example. the ladies clap with gloved hands, politely, proper, but enthusiastic. then the woman, she stands on the stage. And looks at them all, at the end of one of her funny stories about high society far away in Europe or New York. She tells them all, with a sly, determined, yet open look. "the truth is, the songs i share, and stories i write, are for the purpose of freeing the slaves". Gasps from the dames. the curtain behind the woman, the red velvet stage curtain, rips at this, a jagged tare, like a lightning bolt, zig, zag, half of it settles on the floor. I see so much light behind it. Around the curtain, no, through the tear, walks a woman, so bright can hardly look at her. Like a form in a shine, she walks around, and steps before the assembled womens league members. their stunned silence, is now a silence of awe. "my sponsor" the woman says, "Marie Antoinette".
Now the gasps were entirely of awe, a historic figure, of refinement, to these country farmer types. Frontier town people. their ideas, i could see, the ladies, and mens outside were simple, and ritualistic in some way. And yet. the dame, shaman like figure, entertained them, and through their childlike wonder, wrote her stories, to...for the very purpose of "tearing the curtain". At this point, the omen her,e wee all sold. Whatever the dame was up to, to be backed by such radiant...civility, splendor, it must be good; as that was their...the flame that drew their gaze, the slave stuff, well, that really can be forgiven, forgotten in the glow. With that, they were off. The dame, said it was time to go elsewhere, to remember the lessons of poetry and good graces...and letting slaves be, yes yes that, the crowd mumbled, as if they didnt understand or even approve but what did it matter compared tot he rest of it? She speaks to me, us. over the mumbles from the crowd, to us. And then she says "ill leave those two in charge, to bring songs, in my absence". the women in the audience notice us look for a moment, then go back tot heir excited talking. Just two men, who cares. the music...silk, real silk from china! a hand ina glove, holding aparisoll...those were the exciting thing, not two men. No objection there, no concern at all. But its a bit more urgent then all of that. We need to leave...now. Not pack, not prep, just walk..me and the walker. I look for him, but he is suddenly gone. Time is weird again, he snuck off to sleep i know. So i go to find him and leave immediately.
It seems he slept...in a burger king of all places. It was night, around 2am. I found him in the unlocked store. somehow, in the brief space he left, he had gotten a job there. Or was that before, long ago? Time again, not really reliable it seemed. He had gotten kicked out. He was closing the store, but was told he could not sleep in it, he was going to sleep in some plants on the side. I told him a story. It was a dream from god knows when, about going to an el pollo loco, was this dram in colleg ei wondered? with friends, and buying lots of everything, and how we got removed for over utalizing the setting, its no big thing, was the point, it happens. He nodded and grunted, as he backed a camping pack, to leave. the hold up was...he couldn't find his brown shoes. He needed shoes. I brought up the cowboy boots again and he laughed, looked at me straight on, said "they are for ridding and standing...but WALKING? they would kill my feet. Yea...i agreed, i just thought they would look iconic i guess. I chuckle. The door opens. A pretty, vaguely asian woman, walks in. He looks at her warily, and sorta retracts and smiles, at the same time. Freezes a bit. The woman is clutching some paperwork. Like a summons to court. She tells him, she warned him, and now, the dame is gone, she is serving him...for...some wrong? Copper. Part of her looks and smells like copper to me. She isn't even unfriendly, really, just...determined. She leaves. I look t the paper. A lawyers careful, cursive scrawl. I look at it, and then him. He says he "staid a time" with her before, then walked. It seemed, from what i understood when i looked at it, that when the dame or marie antoinette figure was "in charge" he could not be held accountable, for his...wanderings, as it was under their "immunity" but they left, left him partly in charge, so that no longer applied. And he was being served. I really did not understand, but i saw something sorta...against me in some vague way, i didn't like it. so i folded and tore the paper and threw it away. I said "who cares, we got to walk". He said...no. It is true... but it doesn't matter, it wont file till tomorrow, we are leaving, walking now. somehow it concerned the "burger king" location. We wouldn't be there. come light of dawn. Also, i saw the paperwork was valid. i couldnt tear it up, and actually, had nothing to do with me, was not my deal. So i unfolded. i noticed how the torn parts...similar to the curtain, were healing themselves. And the script on the page...was similar, but different, to the poem. More sorcery stuff i guessed, and left it on the counter. To file itself tomorrow. I just found the guy some slippers, and wrapped the feet in cloth, good enough shoes he said. i made a sly joke...i hope he didnt get busy HERE...in a "burger king bathroom" (i knew somehow he had) He doesn't get it, me and my silly references. It was referencing the song "humpty dance by Digital underground" He had no idea, but saw me laughing, in energy/glow, so he smilled getting that and not the reference. We leave. And i wake. its noon. Get up for the day.
I want you to want me
I need you to need me
I'd love you to love me
I'll shine up the old brown shoes,
Put on a brand-new shirt
I'll get home early from work
If you say that you love me
Didn't I, didn't I, didn't I see you cryin'?
Ohh, didn't I, didn't I, didn't I see you cryin'?
Feelin' all alone without a friend, you know you feel like dyin'
Ohh, didn't I, didn't I, didn't I see you cryin'?
I was reading Beloved by Toni Morrison, last night. At one point, around page 100, i got overcome with an intense feeling of deje vu. I put down my ipad, and sat u on my bed. It did not leave me, what happened is i got pulled into dreaming awake, something like a memory, something like a vision, and something like a dream. There was no realization, directly, just this feeling. what i saw was an older man, and two younger kids. A house like a farm, and the house numbers. Did i rad this, dream it? i wasn't thinking really. The number was 142. Not 124 from the book, but even this seemed relevant. When did i dream this, if i ever did? Something in the last two weeks, and then before, was the impression. Something about the way the man spoke, of things, people, it was no more then a few moments, shifted me even more. When im out of it, im sitting on the edge f my bed. My hands are shaking, like when one is tired, or nervous, almost a twitch. I dont fel good or bad, just shifted. I place my head in my hands, and look at my toes, on the carpet. I sit like that, for about 5 minutes. before getting up for some water. I kept reading, and those characters, or some similar, but mine weren't bad, came into the book. But that wasn't it, exactly. I read more attentively. I read until i got to around page 290. It was then 5am. Almost dawn, sky was the milky white just before the sun rises. I went to sleep then. Wondering, if not the book (this generally does not happen to me directly...dreaming about thing si see/read/watch) but because of that moment, and the feeling something in it...what of that, if anything, might come into my dreaming. I only wondered briefly, as i was soon asleep.
After some time asleep, i slowly come out of a fog, its is as if im breaking through clouds. I see a map, or the earth as if from above. I am looking down on southern California, it is not a map, as their are no borders, no political lines. Looking down from low orbit, a satellite like view. I see, a empty earth, or nearly so. Then the heavy weight of so many millions, growing, like deposits, hardening, and yet, from above, it can not be seen, just felt. I look at the contrast, deserts, and forests around hills, subtle differences between grasslands, and sand. I touch it, with a wet sponge. the sponge, it leaves something like green paint, thin, over the spot were humans grow. Gently, several presses of the sponge, like art. It leaves a pattern, the pattern is time. I present this, to another awareness, so show the pattern is growth; like a coral reef, in the warm sun. the golden glow, of heat, around the edges. People. This does not settle my debate with the spirit, but it does illustrate my perception. Its perception takes me into and around a dense cluster of freeway overpasses. "veins" i see them as, the veins in a leaf. this perspective does not shift me. It, and i, withdraw, both deep in contemplation. Its supposed ot be here, the green, the people/awareness/life. It just got to thick, like paint. That's why we need to use the sponge, lightly.
I am walking my town. the past and present, and future, all here, touching in a strange way. I see people from a hundred years ago, native tribal people, people who i can only guess are from the future, and people as if from now. It is not odd, they each have their own setting in the whole. I walk a street. I pass a cherry orchard (we have many around). the cherry blossoms, are sweet. Fields. Fields with current construction, new homes, the space has a boundary, and i see a state where its all filled. Some of the latter ones, in time, are seven story buildings, like duplicates stacked on each other. I have no shoes. I am walking on the side of a road, that now time, has no sidewalk or curb. the dust, is very real. I look at me feet. I am shifted, to the moment i was looking at my feet, on the side of the bed when i was so shifted when reading. I ask myself. Why? I look around, at the buildings filling, on levels, like ghosts, over the empty field. I ask myself, is this connected, to the field in back of my house, the construction going on there right now, the new homes? Mosst likely, but thats not the meaning, its an old...debate. Was with me since childhood.
I look up, and walk some more, to the end of the block, at the edge of the city limits. A man! A man comes out, from the side, one moment he is not there, then i feel the air move, and then, he is crossing the street. I stand waiting for him. He is a walker. He wont take a car. I know him, we know each other. he came to see me, and i him. He tells me he is from Delaware or Boston. (i pause here, i'm almost sure he is from texas or somewhere like that, but i know it means east...also, it was some sort of sly oke, i could tell in his glow, i could get that, but not the meaning exactly so i let it be) Not exactly sure which. He is tall, and thin...not thin, but wiry. Like a hiker, he is older then me by some 15 years it seems. He stops to remove his beat up shoe. We speak. about this place, its very magical. We walk a bit. As we walk we talk. As we talk, and walk, some women notice him and smile. He smiles back. He is more then a walker, he has no home. He is happy, to walk, and meet a lady, smile, and she takes him in, for a night, for a week, then its time to walk again. Something open and honest about his face. Hes not very much like me, this walker, and wanderer, and i stay here...mostly. But we are similar, and friends, it seems. A woman drives by slow in a truck, to look at him. he smiles and touches his hat. Now i look at his clothes more. He has a hat...more like an Indiana Jones hat then a cowboy hat. A plain shirt, buttoned. Some jeans...and the most discongrouse weird plane soft shoes. I point out hes wearing boot cut jeans...shouldn't he wear boots? The girls here, in this level, that are seeing him like cowboy boots. He tells me he wont wear boots, and there is no way he is putting on cowboy boots. I tell him that is perhaps wise, if we walks further, to Los angeles, or San Diego, It wont be nearly so cool. Different sub levels. I mention i have boots, but they are black urban boots, street boots, not cowboy boots. Although now, it seems, i walk bare footed. He smiles, lucid, as we talk. He is what he is. I ask myself, can this character, who in some ways reminds me of the man from the book, be tied to this? To him. Perhaps. He smiles, knowing at my inner question. We finish walking around the city. In time, it all fades, we walk in a circle, and yet, all the city parts slowly fade. We walked tot he past, it seems. But never actually moved.
As we walk, we are surrounded my fields. Wheat waist high on one side, corn, taller then a man, on the other. Here a fallow field. I was warm, the air had a buzz. We are walking to a slow, sluggish river, a creek really, we can smell a bit ahead of us. There is a discrepancy. Some people are"White" and some "black". All are dressed as if it is the 1880's. We come to the river. there are two lines. A long line, full of black folk. A shorter lines, for whites. A preacher, doing marriages, and two helpers. It costs two dollars it seems. As we draw close, i am now, certain this aspect is influenced by waht i read, the recognition of that, makes me, subtly less enthusiastic. The man with me, he looks at me amused. What sort of character am i in the dream? Clearly i am a character in it. I am also aware, the light shows it. this other man also has the light, here and there others, in varying degrees. Im aware, im a character doing, and i'm me. Can i relate this, to my feeling on the bed. this gives the man, who has a feeling beyond the dream, a smile. As i separate myself, a bit, as i walk, to weigh it all. Because, as i do so, i shine even brighter. Too much. The man removes his vest, as it was making it too hot, and laughs silently. We come to the river, we are across the stream, is a couple plank footbridge across...its no more then six feet wide. The parson, marries 4 couples, quickly, all white. He finishes the white line, its short. the black folk are waiting, silver coins in their hands. He says "sorry folks, im done for the day, try next Sunday" Many of them look downbeat. many wait here, i see stakes and stones denoting their place in line, it seems very seldom that line moves. They sigh, and let their shoulders slump, hold hands, leave rocks with names for their place in line, and shuffle back into the oak woodland. I see the whites leave past us, over the bridge, the way we came. I say tot he man with me, "lets figure out where these whites are going". He nods.
We walk a bit, and it skips, fades, comes to a new focus. We found where all the white folks went. there is an edge of a cornfield, a path. They are standing, looking into the corn. Looking away from the corn, but standing in a long line, along the edge, connected somehow, at the edge of the field. I peer at them closely, how they glow or don't, what they are wearing. They aren't doing anything, really, but at the same time, they all seem quite busy. the ones closes to the edge, looks at me funny. Like why am i here. I can read something in this. I can write something in this, and i realize...they can not. they stand, looking. I step towards a man, glowing a bit, the closest man to me. I look in his eyes, and see my face. Im black!? I am surprised by this, i wasn't as far as i know earlier. How strange. I have a small notepad. On it are scratches like no language. I tear it out, and smile, and hand it to the man, he feels it, the shape of it, but cant read. What is this? he asks. "I can read it to you" i say. He says "you can read!!??" some i say, "the dame taught me". I begin reciting the poem, it seems subversive somehow, to their order. But he listens intently, touching the words like trying to feel them, like objects. He asks me, what i the other language in it? "french" i tell him. "like Paris" he says, impressed. when its over, he seems shaken, he withdraws, along the line of whites. I think we may be in trouble. then he turns around, and reaches, impossibly long distance, and touches my arm, pulls at my shirt sleeve. "Its ok he says, i understand i think...Tell her, tell her, no to you... "you i will help" and then he runs along, past them all, past the cornfield, and into the distance. The poem was only partly written by me, it was also...her. Now it is time to find her, we go to "report" what we have seen/done.
We enter something, like a small theater. the room is full of a few dozen women, watching a stage/podium. At the podium, is the woman who wrote this. Solid, very real. It is something like a "society" club for song and gossip and good manors, a touch of refinement you see, to these people. The woman. she sees me, and the other man. she nods. She is talking about something that doesn't interest me, but then its stories, music. Shes getting closer and closer to revealing her roll, but the ladies here, they nod, too polite, to entranced by the "glamour" of far away places, and a life refined, to quite peg her. And so, finally, she plays a song, on a piano, an example. the ladies clap with gloved hands, politely, proper, but enthusiastic. then the woman, she stands on the stage. And looks at them all, at the end of one of her funny stories about high society far away in Europe or New York. She tells them all, with a sly, determined, yet open look. "the truth is, the songs i share, and stories i write, are for the purpose of freeing the slaves". Gasps from the dames. the curtain behind the woman, the red velvet stage curtain, rips at this, a jagged tare, like a lightning bolt, zig, zag, half of it settles on the floor. I see so much light behind it. Around the curtain, no, through the tear, walks a woman, so bright can hardly look at her. Like a form in a shine, she walks around, and steps before the assembled womens league members. their stunned silence, is now a silence of awe. "my sponsor" the woman says, "Marie Antoinette".
Now the gasps were entirely of awe, a historic figure, of refinement, to these country farmer types. Frontier town people. their ideas, i could see, the ladies, and mens outside were simple, and ritualistic in some way. And yet. the dame, shaman like figure, entertained them, and through their childlike wonder, wrote her stories, to...for the very purpose of "tearing the curtain". At this point, the omen her,e wee all sold. Whatever the dame was up to, to be backed by such radiant...civility, splendor, it must be good; as that was their...the flame that drew their gaze, the slave stuff, well, that really can be forgiven, forgotten in the glow. With that, they were off. The dame, said it was time to go elsewhere, to remember the lessons of poetry and good graces...and letting slaves be, yes yes that, the crowd mumbled, as if they didnt understand or even approve but what did it matter compared tot he rest of it? She speaks to me, us. over the mumbles from the crowd, to us. And then she says "ill leave those two in charge, to bring songs, in my absence". the women in the audience notice us look for a moment, then go back tot heir excited talking. Just two men, who cares. the music...silk, real silk from china! a hand ina glove, holding aparisoll...those were the exciting thing, not two men. No objection there, no concern at all. But its a bit more urgent then all of that. We need to leave...now. Not pack, not prep, just walk..me and the walker. I look for him, but he is suddenly gone. Time is weird again, he snuck off to sleep i know. So i go to find him and leave immediately.
It seems he slept...in a burger king of all places. It was night, around 2am. I found him in the unlocked store. somehow, in the brief space he left, he had gotten a job there. Or was that before, long ago? Time again, not really reliable it seemed. He had gotten kicked out. He was closing the store, but was told he could not sleep in it, he was going to sleep in some plants on the side. I told him a story. It was a dream from god knows when, about going to an el pollo loco, was this dram in colleg ei wondered? with friends, and buying lots of everything, and how we got removed for over utalizing the setting, its no big thing, was the point, it happens. He nodded and grunted, as he backed a camping pack, to leave. the hold up was...he couldn't find his brown shoes. He needed shoes. I brought up the cowboy boots again and he laughed, looked at me straight on, said "they are for ridding and standing...but WALKING? they would kill my feet. Yea...i agreed, i just thought they would look iconic i guess. I chuckle. The door opens. A pretty, vaguely asian woman, walks in. He looks at her warily, and sorta retracts and smiles, at the same time. Freezes a bit. The woman is clutching some paperwork. Like a summons to court. She tells him, she warned him, and now, the dame is gone, she is serving him...for...some wrong? Copper. Part of her looks and smells like copper to me. She isn't even unfriendly, really, just...determined. She leaves. I look t the paper. A lawyers careful, cursive scrawl. I look at it, and then him. He says he "staid a time" with her before, then walked. It seemed, from what i understood when i looked at it, that when the dame or marie antoinette figure was "in charge" he could not be held accountable, for his...wanderings, as it was under their "immunity" but they left, left him partly in charge, so that no longer applied. And he was being served. I really did not understand, but i saw something sorta...against me in some vague way, i didn't like it. so i folded and tore the paper and threw it away. I said "who cares, we got to walk". He said...no. It is true... but it doesn't matter, it wont file till tomorrow, we are leaving, walking now. somehow it concerned the "burger king" location. We wouldn't be there. come light of dawn. Also, i saw the paperwork was valid. i couldnt tear it up, and actually, had nothing to do with me, was not my deal. So i unfolded. i noticed how the torn parts...similar to the curtain, were healing themselves. And the script on the page...was similar, but different, to the poem. More sorcery stuff i guessed, and left it on the counter. To file itself tomorrow. I just found the guy some slippers, and wrapped the feet in cloth, good enough shoes he said. i made a sly joke...i hope he didnt get busy HERE...in a "burger king bathroom" (i knew somehow he had) He doesn't get it, me and my silly references. It was referencing the song "humpty dance by Digital underground" He had no idea, but saw me laughing, in energy/glow, so he smilled getting that and not the reference. We leave. And i wake. its noon. Get up for the day.
I want you to want me
I need you to need me
I'd love you to love me
I'll shine up the old brown shoes,
Put on a brand-new shirt
I'll get home early from work
If you say that you love me
Didn't I, didn't I, didn't I see you cryin'?
Ohh, didn't I, didn't I, didn't I see you cryin'?
Feelin' all alone without a friend, you know you feel like dyin'
Ohh, didn't I, didn't I, didn't I see you cryin'?