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Insomniacs of the world, awake! Oh, wait, never mind.
dreamed 2008/8/22 by Wayan.
I'm in San Francisco, in a flat on Geary Street
in a drooping flock of writers and reporters:
migrant birds of news (I won't say vultures).
What putrid cow of culture do we tear and eat?
Never mind. Too tired tonight. Too late.
Talk ebbs to whisper; we sag to sleep, sardined
on beds, couches, even the rug--except for three.
A florid old newsman, hard-drinking by the red
Amazonian delta of his facial veins aglow,
interviews author Orson Scott Card, who says:
"Yes, perceptive question. In my new book,
as in my early work like Wyrms, the trick
is to work out personal obsessions, yet
let the book totter on the verge of sick;
never quite enrage the fans, but do upset."
I'm a fan of Card's, and start to interject
"I felt that about Wyrms and--" catch myself!
I nearly added "Firefly"--not Card at all,
Piers Anthony. I blush to link poor Card to that!
But author and newshound both are far
too beat to hear a sleep-addled fan.
Card shuffles to a full bed, hits the deck;
in moments he's out of play, face-down.
Droopy news-beagle flops on a couch. I ask
"What paper you with?" "Uh Delly Noozh."
His fist wields no heroic pen--instead,
shiny pliers and crescent wrenches.
I joke "What fine new clubs to slap
me with, for keeping you from bed."
He grunts a trollish motorboat note
and rolls off the sofa to the floor!
In seconds, Big Drunk Wolf's first snore.
Now what? Sleepers all around. Bored.
Thirsty, squeeze lemonjuice in water,
drink. Bored. Yawn. So dull awake alone!
And then learn I'm not: I wake again.
For real? Just one more snoring brain.
- Reporters nap when they can: staying up to write dream-poetry is perverse! Don't cheat tomorrow's dreams, or they'll punish me like this: dreams of insomnia! Not just dull, insulting.
- Card, Anthony, the Daily News: lowbrow writing? Certainly the latter two are. The dream warns: "Focus, or be second rate!" I wrote up all three of last night's vivid dream-images as poems; should have picked one.
- Firefly: This fantasy/horror book by Piers Anthony (no relation to Joss Wheedon's TV series of the same name) really does as Card preaches: vents personal obsessions. Sick, yes, but success, no. PLOT SPOILER! The fiendish serial-killer-sex-fungus devours them all? Come on, the Squirrel Whisperer would've caught the horny mycelium right away--all his animal friends knew. Sorry, not even second-rate horror.
- Tools: busy work. I moved a light switch and fixed a fan today, then stayed up late writing three dreampoems instead of choosing one and focusing. And now I wonder why I'm tired? Avoiding a decision drained me more than just facing it.
- Card's fan: today, procrastinating, I fixed a broken fan. My punnish-meant is to become a fan myself, of another kind! THAT'll fix me!
- This is Dreamverse #12. Every day, a dream-poem. Only... maybe that's too much. Slow down, look hard, focus on the best.
LISTS AND LINKS:
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ink drawings - the
Dreamverses project - the next Dreamverse:
Kiss the Cats
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