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I have spent most of it listening to bliss ninnies interacting on Blog Talk Radio... my doctorate, you know... and realize this may be the thing for when I need soapy blather to be going on so I can sleep because the napping has been fantastic. Of course, the general state of the weather out there has helped. I find I sleep the best when it's storming. Must be something to do with ions.
Anyway, I'm trying to find ways not to be a total bitch about Love 'n' Lighters, to see where there may be connectors to their ears... if any. Like I say, it's a slow day, but they are all over the map. The biggest thing that rises off it is their intense need to have a community where they're not the wuwu nitwit. This is a hard one. How can you tell lonely wuwu nitwits that the answer may not be Find The Others?
I mean, yes, I know how damn lonely it is to need more meaningful intercourse than you get from people in your basic Westernized social setting. When I was younger I got some relief from leaving the blather in the kitchen about babies and recipes and sales by going into the living room with the men and talking about history and physics and nature. Even so, when one wants to get to the very kernel of reality, the hardest part is the desperation for company, someone to bounce things off.
This, of course, is self-defeating, unless one is in a group handpicked by a master, because one cannot make this journey with another, and the minuet of polite conversation prohibits the kind of open and honest, seemingly brutal, interaction that actually might help instead of further cement the blight.
And language itself is bad wrong for relating on these subjects. Language is built of the ego's metaphors. Language is for the benighted, and is most often as endarkening as it might ever be illuminating. In fact, much of the work is about getting your brain past the way you usually understand language, getting yourself into squeezes so tight you might at some moment shoot out like a pinched watermelon seed into the wide open space of reality. Not exactly Blog Talk Radio fare... not for the serious.
But, of course, there are some supremely determined to seem serious insincere people out there. OMFG. They're hard to sort out sometimes. I mean, mostly one would not bother, but I seem to be mentally retarded. I seem unable to speak to people when I am trying, when I am aiming to open a way for them... using intention. I keep being gobsmacked by the depths of obtusity extant. I think I need to be ready for it.
So, I try to chip away at it by doing things like this.
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I don't know if I keep dreaming of being clamped in a stranger's arms or if I was only dreaming the once of continually being clamped there whenever I fell asleep. I was having my napping dream in my nap/s again today, where I am sleeping in my sleep. Extremely strong. Beautiful hands. He is behind me and slowly starts squeezing me so tightly I am immobilized. I keep trying to crane my neck around and up to see him, but my neck doesn't go as far around as it's supposed to and he keeps pulling back his head so I can't see his face.
I almost got him to talk today. It's another thing where I'm supposed to be terrified and just don't feel like it, just won't. I am the mistress of all time at turning evil into love in my dreams. I fucking rock. Okay? You try it. I never fail.
He's back there. He's squeezing and it's dawning on me that maybe he doesn't want me to see his face because he doesn't want me to be afraid, or doesn't want me to start struggling. I don't know. But he is coming to squeeze me every time I fall asleep on my great mound of pillows and blankets on the floor of my high school friend's mother's disintegrating mansion. Darlene is usually nearby with her face in her computer, ignoring me. Her daughter is not, when I'm awake, her daughter, but Trish and Scott's daughter, and her mother is her mother but off somewhere on the other end of the decrepit mansion.
He squeezed me awake or something. He turns into a fat black spaniel or stuffed animal in my bedclothes. I can't tell. My contacts are out and I don't know where my glasses are.
I've been distracted, had to get up from my nap about getting the girl to school and Darlene is not at her computer. I want to be back in my nap with the squeezer, but my dreamworld needs some loose ends pulled first. I get whatever it is with the girl handled and she's shuttled out. I seem to have forgotten Lorene is in the house somewhere and completely don't care where Darlene is. She was here before. She's not now. She might as well never have existed. I decide to step out for some fresh air.
A boulevard overpass is anchored in the front yard not far beyond the portico. There are some people, two women and a man, walking by, finding the path up from the yard to the boulevard. They're blathering to each other and ignoring me. I take the path down along the side of the mansion. The rooms to my right are each so different in character and architecture I'm wondering if this is really still Lorene's home. Mox nix, really, because I want to go back and get with the squeezer in my naps again.
My napping mound near Dar's computer is on the other side of the house. I finish a cigarette on the way back. Lo is leaving with her girlfriends to a play somewhere. They invite me. No. I want to stay home. I guess it must've been home because I seemed to be entitled to it. So then I was really alone. Going back to turning terror into love some more.
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