i can't help but feel like the line between night and day is becoming sharper in me, in my perceptions. there is a duality in me that, right now, is in synchronicity with the light/dark cycle. i said a bit more about this on dland.
i fell asleep about 7am on saturday morning. i had a strange dream. i was in the house of someone i know only through the barest of online contact. it was a beautiful house on a hill in california. i was there to borrow a book by hakim bey. on my way out, the girl tells me: "watch out for the gardener." i leave, and see the gardener. he is scarred, fingers are butcher knives - my dream killer archetype who has been in my nightmares since i was very young. i flash through bloody scenes like i always do as he cuts up people i love. finally, i break into a lucid state and tell him that we will play a game. he makes the rules: if i don't look at him, he will not kill me. simple. i am on a dark street in portland. he is everywhere, breathing on me, running knives over my neck and back and thighs. i feel my way home, my hands on moss-covered stone garden walls. finally, i touch my door. i open it. he hands me a clipboard, i sign a receipt, he gives me a copy. i cannot read it. i look up and he is gone.
i fell asleep about 7am on saturday morning. i had a strange dream. i was in the house of someone i know only through the barest of online contact. it was a beautiful house on a hill in california. i was there to borrow a book by hakim bey. on my way out, the girl tells me: "watch out for the gardener." i leave, and see the gardener. he is scarred, fingers are butcher knives - my dream killer archetype who has been in my nightmares since i was very young. i flash through bloody scenes like i always do as he cuts up people i love. finally, i break into a lucid state and tell him that we will play a game. he makes the rules: if i don't look at him, he will not kill me. simple. i am on a dark street in portland. he is everywhere, breathing on me, running knives over my neck and back and thighs. i feel my way home, my hands on moss-covered stone garden walls. finally, i touch my door. i open it. he hands me a clipboard, i sign a receipt, he gives me a copy. i cannot read it. i look up and he is gone.
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i didn't have much trouble with gravity's rainbow, but i haven't read much pynchon other than that - oh, and a collection of his early short stories. i have yet to make it 10 pages in to either Ulysses or Finnegan's Wake, though, if that makes you feel better.