I had a dream with my cat. Her name is Domino. She's a little less than a year old - mischievous but very kind.
I had a dream that her dopplegangers were sneaking into my home and pretending to be her but not very well as I could tell when they were all together that something had gone wrong. Some of them had chrome fangs and some of them were all white instead of pinto-colored as domino is. They varied in size and they all seemed quite dismissive of me. Their eagerness to be in my home and immediately find their hiding places was the most unnerving. I couldn't watch them all and there were signs of intelligence. It gave me a sense of the gremlins.
When I was telling my mother about it, it occurred to me that the threat I imagined could easily have been real. A new bloomed in my mind about a woman, a spinster, who is being manipulated to front for an invasion of demons.
I really want to write this. The campier, the trashier, the better. I owe no one! The problem: I got up and sat down and there were youtube tutorilas and my twitch page and e-mails and facebook AND a reflection of myself in a mirror just behind my laptop reminding me how utterly human I am. I'm only on page 3 of my first short post college, I still have at least half a dozen to edit and post and a bunch of other things to do which I'm tired of reminding myself.
How did a genetic make-up come about with a combination so awkwardly ambitious? I hold my face a lot.
ON SETTING ASIDE TIME
What a beautiful strategy. They don't tell you growing up that even when you're told things you don't really know them till about 20 years later. At least no one told me - the epiphanies I've been having, my goodness! Consciously adapting such a simple idea is the luxury of not being in a third-world country, being at war or being stricken with a chronic illness. I get to sit here on my ass and think . . . for hours. And to think there is a rich history of brilliant and industrious men building our nation. But what the hell was wrong with them?
I don't mean they were bad people. But how does a human being come out industrious? It's absurd. Highly valuable yes but also absurd. There are imbalances everywhere and we are supposed to be the crafty navigators of the treacherous oceans of ideology and personal culture. How's it done if you are a sensitive person? A writer writes, but apparently he also complains a great deal. Sorry for that.
For me there is yet to be a substitute for the time spent crafting original content. It is what it is. Slug it out. The war must simply be waged, season by season and inch by inch. And it saddens me that I've somehow made it three decades on this world without yet honestly determining my ability to successfully engage these wars. That's what frightens me. It's so easy to commit in just about every other way then the way you've been pointed. Knowing this means accepting that discomfort is the waypoint of progress. And if I must choose progress, and how I can I not when mortality is certain, then discomfort must become my new aphrodesiac . . . like miserable foreplay followed by the grim determination of a preposterous act of fornication BECAUSE in the end art is actually very hard work. Consuming it is fun, but making it sucks. And that's what dreams get you: a familiar bitch of a place to belong.
With that said, I will go dark on social media save news of releasing my shorts, videos and Twitch casts. And reopen engagement when the well dries up (or simply when I need it to). Wish me luck!