dreamattack | a dialogue in pictures

my boy.

hush, may I ask you all for silence?
the dreamer is still asleep
may the goddess keep us from single vision
and Newton’s sleep

the dreamer is still asleep
the dreamer is still asleep
he’s inventing landscapes in their magnetic field
working out a means of escape
we’ll cut across the crop circles

the seer says no
not much time left for these escape attempts
look at it this way
in ten years’ time
who’ll care? who’ll even remember?
one dies like that, deep within it
almost inside it
it’s there for a reason

I’ll give you my old address
and take that little book
to tear and cut the paper

the beginning is also the end
time defines it, time defines it
it will end
like close friendship
nothing could be further
we forget the space between people and things
is empty
we forget, and don’t notice the loss

pressing into venerable degeneration
such radiant pollution
the god with the silver hand surveys this vast contamination
the dreamer is still dreaming
the dreamer is still dreaming

in the heart of your heart
your eye remains
is that hurt you? is that blister you call loveless?
your whole life is a cold slow shock
your whole life is a cold slow shock

take all your time
track the shabby shadow down
through hissing mists of history

the dreamer is still dreaming
the dreamer is still dreaming

hush, may I ask you all for silence?
will he wake in time to catch the sunset?
hush, may I ask you all for silent?
may I ask you all for silent?

the dreamer is still asleep / coil

The first 28 months of my life, my mother and I lived with her parents while my father was off dropping bombs on Vietnam. My maternal grandfather was my “father-figure” and he relished it. I was the first grandchild, and he was still young enough to enjoy it. We spent hours watching Popeye cartoons and eating slimey canned spinach together. (I still love that crap.) He made bowls and bowls of perfectly butter-&-salted popcorn that we munched together while watching Saturday morning cartoons. And then there were the Wheaties …

Part of the mythos that was Stanley Arnold, Grandpa Of Me, was his love of Wheaties. It baffled me that such a plain cereal could demand such loyalty. I was teasingly told of photographs that existed of my grandfather eating his Wheaties as early as the mid-30s. I found this hard to believe - surely Wheaties haven’t been around as long as the DINO-saurs.

I chalked these stories and Grandpa Stan’s legendary love of the flakey, wheaty cereal with sporting heros on the box up to the tall tales that children believe they are told by all adults. Nuh-uh.

Uh-huh. When I married B., my grandmother gave me the most beautiful album of photographs, going back four generations on all sides of my mother’s family. Just a few pages in, a photograph that I never believed really existed:

Not only was I floored by the fact that my doubts were proven to be grossly unfounded - but I found it hard to comprehend that this little blonde imp was my 6′1″, round, completely bald, white-bearded, dirty-minded grandfather.

The things we learn.

Actias luna

I almost caught a luna moth once. they are extremely rare in my part of the country. it was clasping the wall outside my library, cloaked in shadow. I gazed at it for what seemed like hours, mystified by its beauty.

the most beautiful things in the world should never be caught.

The year is 1899. This is Esther Mary MacDonald, my great-grandmother, as a little girl. She was born into a very progressive and intellectual family. She lived to be 94 years old. She passed away shortly before my 20th birthday.

This is Esther in 1920, shortly after graduating USC with a MA in History. During this era, schools required a photograph accompanying a teacher’s application for employment, to make sure she was a young lady of proper moral construction.

This is the man she married in 1922 - one Wallace Maurer. He was exposed to mustard gas while serving in the military in Europe during WWI and died of cancer when my grandmother was 12. Esther never remarried. This photo was taken in 1924.

This is a photograph of Esther also taken in 1924. It is one of my favorite photographs of her.

decided to make the move from 2g to 0g in my earlobes tonight. it was the most painful stretch yet. it’ll definitely be a little while before I can manage the dreaded 00g. my ears are hot, tight and alive. the breeze from my ceiling fan “activates” the nerve endings and accelerates the pulse. it’s a crazy way of feeling my alive-ness. I have a strange sense of satisfaction. now for milk and girl scout cookies and then bedtime.

muahahahahah!

trudging slowly over wet sand
back to the bench where your clothes were stolen
this is the coastal town
that they forgot to close down
armageddon - come armageddon!
come, armageddon! come!

everyday is like Sunday
everyday is silent and grey

hide on the promenade
etch a postcard:
“how I dearly wish I was not here”
in the seaside town
…that they forgot to bomb
come, come, come - nuclear bomb

everyday is like Sunday
everyday is silent and grey

trudging back over pebbles and sand
and a strange dust lands on your hands
(and on your face…)
(on your face …)
(on your face …)
(on your face …)

Everyday is like Sunday
“win yourself a cheap tray”
share some greased tea with me
everyday is silent and grey

—————————————

and here I always thought the second to last line was actually:

“share some bees’ tea with me”

for some reason I’m finding myself quite disappointed.

perhaps it stems from my bee-philia. one of my other favorite lyrics written by Moz &/or Marr is:

“two lumps, please, you’re the bee’s knees, but so am I”

followed closely by (from the same song):

“you can pin and mount me like a butterfly”

I’m an odd bug-lover, for sure.

hopefully the paint is dry by now so I can add my last layer and go to beddddddddddd.zzZZZZzzzzzz

[ p s : I am so glad it’s finally March. I can’t explain why, tho. ]