Dreamblog: Sadness Envelops

I am standing near the curb of a well-manicured front lawn and a green grass evocative of any standard vision of the classic American suburban yard.  Standing on the periphery, clearly distraught but detached from the immediate situation, is my Mother.  A very cute, very aloof family dog hops about randomly, not at all noticing the body lying prone near the street.

It is one of my sisters who lay motionless on the soft, slightly damp, slightly cool grass.  I have no clue what has happened, only that for practical purposes she’s “gone.”  Her body is alive, yes, but she cannot move, cannot speak, cannot hear.

I kneel beside her, placing my cheek to hers, my warm ear making slight contact with her cooler one.  To my surprise, she begins to speak to me telepathically.

“The dog won’t even pay any attention to me.  He just keeps pooping and peeing all over.”

“But he’s just a pup, Sis, he doesn’t know that there’s something wrong.”

“But I’m laying right here.  It seems quite obvious I’m not moving, something’s obviously wrong” she sent, her lips still, her eyes open and staring straight but taking in nothing.

“He doesn’t know, honey.” Continue reading

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Oh, Huge Brain, You’re So Funny

Oh, brilliant, weighty, substantial, substantive, clever brain, why won’t you let me sleep?  That’s a rhetorical question of course, but I’m sure you already knew it– you’re kind of smart like that!  :O)

I used to question you, oh wonder of wonders, conqueror of doubt, and multi-tasker extraordinaire–as to why despite your massive intelligence and seeming all-knowingness, you chose to process such awesome amounts of information so very close to bedtime, rendering me helpless, a mere observer to your jaw-dropping information crunching power, power so intense as to be akin only perhaps to the world’s most blazingly speedy supercomputers daisy-chained together and plugged into God’s own power strip and by the man himself I might add!

But now I know better.  I know you are just too powerful, oversized, smart, amazing, gifted, and full of the types of knowledge that gives the most revered and inspired philosophers boy-like wet dreams each and every night—you just can’t contain yourself, can you?!?

You’re so funny, Brain. Continue reading

The Tortured Artist, the Tortured We

They say about the tortured artist that there is a link between the art and the mania, the art and depression.  A toxic fuel coarsening through veins exhilarated but eroding quick.

Would they trade it in if they had the chance?  Burn clean and long, not dark and fast?  Would some steal back from the brink, push violently against their demons and sacrifice what could be their only chance at greatness?  Trash it for some safe, sterilized version of happiness?

And if genius entails depression, requires it of the otherwise meek and average, and if we find ourselves depressed, could the converse be true, could it entail genius? Or is there a middle ground, a godforsaken hell of a place where one can recognize the great, catch its fleeting glimpse, feel for just a moment the thrill of life’s defining, dangerous edges, but where we also know inside we can never retreat and fully leave the normal world behind, nor can we keep the faith required to let loose and really live, whether it means living or dying? Continue reading