Back in May, I reluctantly picked up blogging because my friend Steve, at Robyn, kept on needling me; and I kept on telling him to "blow me". And then, my mother mentioned that I should write more regularly; I listened politely. Maren kept harassing me too but what else is new. So, Thing one led to Thing two, and Thing three led me to reading other people's diaries; or as they say "bloggentries". In the world of photography, Alec Soth's blog is high up on the people's list, but frankly, anyone who regularly posts "Friday Poetry" is a little too Garisson Keillor-ish for me. I'll have to go back and read more of it, but so far I glaze over quickly. Maybe, Ritalin and me have our very own theory about Alec's poetry: Maybe, he is to photography what John Philip Sousa is to infantry; but more twenty first century. If you don't know what I mean, that's okay, I'm already knee deep in shit with this entry. So nevermind poetry....
Meanwhile, back in May and in New york City, I spent one night in Brooklyn. Raul, Jen and I had finished eating dinner when I began to contemplate the long trip back to New Jersey so I begged them to let me stay and play.
The very next day, I tearfully went back to the City, leaving them to potty train and spoon feed purée; rode back to New Jersey and back again to the City. Later, I got on a plane, landed, drove home and waited. Later, after a few days, during those hours between night and day I had a dream about Raul, Jen and Raul Andres. It was one of those dream within a dream, a personal favorite I must say. A dream within a dream; how fucking great? Like Turducken*, but meatless, guey...!
I don't really remember the dream within the dream, just the dream about waking up from the dream within the dream, and it went like this: Raul and Jen had since become "Yurt-parents" and had once again let me stay and play, presumably to save me from the long overnight trip back to Alma-Ati.
Upon waking, I noticed that two of Jen's Korean relatives were covered in frost; the kind of frost you might see ruining a farmer's crop. I too seemed frosty but felt perfectly dandy underneath my flowery quilt. They just told me that this was the best way to keep your cheeks rosy and stay healthy, so, why not me! Next thing I know, Raul Andres saunters over to proudly sit on his potty, right next to me; releasing quite a stink and waking me back to reality.
I have had every possible dreamable dream there is to dream, but smelling shit, in a dream, while dreaming about waking from a dream within a dream, was positively, weirdly dreamy. There is something to be said for waking up to a toddler's feces, I've lived it, but to dream it...and survive it, NOW, that's a blog entry, if I've ever smelled it.
* A Dreamdrucken.