Thursday, October 26, 2006


I wrote a story in my dream the other night, and all I can remember was that the beginning started "Herbert was thirty five and dressed it. He had spent much of his twenties preparing the not so silent art of old manhood - the hack and hoik, and the meaningful sniff, not to mention the muttering at inanimate objects - and now felt he could finally start to put it all to good use. 'The time' he said 'is right for plaid.'" And I can't remember the rest. I can't even remember if Herbert was to be my protaganist, or simply some random stranger (serving to start a scene, you see) to be killed off on page three (enter our wandering hero). But that's dreams for you. Ephemeral whosiewhatsits. Flowing through cupped hands know. Stuff.
I used to think Camp Freddie was like Camp David. Somewhere the President went to relax and get back to nature. I suppose it still could be, really....
Saturday was full of the joys of fried foods and fermented beverages. Sunday began the time of mourning and rage, fasting and thin strips of humanity roasting over open fires. And today - today begins a blue underwater time of waiting. Counting ripples of information as they pass over my head and leave a shadow on the sandy floor of my brain. Little fish (the music guppies, remember?) swimming in the warm spot near where memories of red formica and Hawaii lie. Blue green. Algaefied. If I wait long enough this may become the evolutionary soup. With noodles.