Dreams.
I was dreaming about meeting Paul W., in high school, and I was happy. A man I had seen at the auction on Saturday was with me, sort of. He was an older man, maybe a little over five feet tall. Skinny, wearing a gray sweater and a black mock-trenchcoat, blue jeans. He has sandy blonde gray hair and semi-wrinkled skin, and he smiles a full smile that isn�t tacky like a car salesman, but near-genuine. We didn�t speak, but he knew I was excited about meeting Paul W., so I ran ahead of him, and looked for my pass in my wallet that a girlfriend had bought for me years ago, in reality. I found it, and the room where Paul W. was in. The room was called the Pink Room, because the entrance, the door, the walls, the ceiling were pink. The door was short. Maybe three and a half feet tall. I tried to get in, but as I was halfway inside, I noticed the area was long, and tight, but tall enough for folks to stand, though they had to stand close. My belt caught in the door, because the door was weighted to shut if no one was holding it, so it kept pushing me in, even though I wasn�t in, and it grabbed my belt and decided not to let go. Feeling the tightening of my chest, the swirling of my senses into a giddy cacophony of everythingness, I realized I was freaking out due to my claustrophobia, and tore at my belt, trying to loosen the doors grip and backpedaling out of the room at the same time. I made it, after what seemed like eternity, and ran down the hall, outside, behind the building I was in. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
The tears flowed freely, because I was alone and frustrated and disappointed that I would not be able to meet the man who most inspired me to write how I felt, to hell with the world and their thoughts on sappiness and their fear which tastes sweeter than honey and bitter as battery acid. I noticed a lovely red sports car, for no reason, in my sadness. Then Paul W. popped out of the back door, and waved at me, and opened the car door and drove off. I was fumbling with the wallet again, for some reason, and couldn�t make something come of it, as I was still crying a bit, and couldn�t concentrate due to the sudden shock of seeing him. I saw the short man again, with one of Paul W.�s CDs in his hand, signed. He was smiling and walked out of sight.
I realized I was looking for the ticket stub to a show I had been to in �91. Paul W. had signed this ticket, and I wanted to show him that I remembered in the hope that he, too, remembered. It frustrated me so much when I couldn�t grab it out that in my dream, I kept crying.
I woke up, breathing deep and heavy, with deliberation. No tears, but I felt the weight of fear I experienced in the dream all throughout my body. The wallet was still in my pocket. I walked around my apartment, still breathing deeply and sweetly, making sure I was okay, and that my apartment wasn�t full of gas or on fire or something. Once I figured out it was just the dream, I sat down at my computer, and decided to write this out. I also snatched everything out of my wallet (no, I don�t really have the ticket in my wallet), and tossed it in the trash.

Science Hero
02/20/01

Early morning. Late night.
A conversation, sleepy, flowing. Dark, comforting, in bed. Technology flows through my veins, as it attaches me, distantly, to my love. Her voice, as most times, is soft, wispy, and invisibly weightless. We dream through technology, and plan through technology. We compare, we simplify, we tell stories, all through technology, digital lines like magical faultlines, dancing, unseen information. Only heard.
Pride is a killer. Misunderstood lines drawn in the sand. I cross over, a sojourner, looking for a reason to defend myself, when no offensive is intended. Can a broken heart be broken again?
I heard her tears through technology, and realized that technology had no place any longer, where love is concerned. Technology had transformed us into separate beings occupying the same space and time. Magical in form, science-based in application. It could not take the place of flesh, nor will it. Words used in defense, then, via magic-science.
Stop. I�m marrying her, and starting a family. No more time for distant hearts and broken feelings. No more time for the indulgence that comes, must come, with death and disastrous pasts. No more time for picking apart nuances of words, phrases, sounds, body language. Forever is a long time. No more pushing away for no reason at all, or for ego, or for arrogance, or pride. Communication and love and magic-science, still, for a while longer.
Then, a family.

Mad About You
02/21/01

Scene opens. Actors take their places. The crowd, hushed.

Setting: a men�s clothing store, small town, middle america. don�t stereotype, yet. small booth, inset, to the right, with various stuffed leatherbound books showing america�s handsome, perfect men in tuxedos. hats to the left. mirrors further in, halfway to the register, which is adorned with leathers. Your mind, out of the gutter, this instant.

Personnel: Me�30ish, large�ish, ruggedly handsome�ish. Salesman: 60�ish, tall, thin, balding, wearing glasses and an older suit, possibly brown jacket with tan pants.
Go.

Me: I need to rent a tuxedo, please.
Salesman: For what event?
Me: A wedding.
Salesman: Is it registered with us already?
M: No, I�ve just now got around to doing this bit. Yes, I know that I�m terrible.
S: Is it for you, then?
M: Yes, yes, I must rent a tuxedo for my own wedding, right?
S: That would be best, I should think.
[M nods appropriately, his floppy green fisherman�s cap flopping in time]
S: Well, most grooms like to go with the longer coat tails...
M [interjecting]: Yes! Oh, that�s perfect! Could I see some?
S [chuckling at bit]: Yes, let�s go through our books.
[they walk over to the inset, S leading M, M obviously happy and excited, a perpetual goofy grin planted on his face]
S: We have this [points to one, turns the page] and we have this [turns the page again] and we have this...
M: Yes! Perfect! Nearly. I need that in this color. Can it be done?
S: Oh, yes. Many different styles. Let me start writing this down. [takes out a form, and a pen] Now, when is the wedding?
M: March 16th.
S: [nods, writing the date]
M: Oh, but I need it on the 9th. The wedding is in Texas, and I need to take it with me.
S: [writes another date on the side] Hm. That runs into two weekends. We�ll probably have to charge you for half a weekend to keep it both.
M: That�s fine. I want to rent it from here. It�s important to me.
S: [more nodding] Okay, then. Now, this is of a certain design. Would you like to go with a different one?
M: [moves in closer to the book, to catch the nuance] I like the certain design, and will have nothing to do with a different one.
S: [more writing] We have that part finished. Let�s get your measurments.
M: [stifles a gulp] Okay.

[the two gentlemen walk over to the mirrors, where there is a counter with a wrist-designed pin cushion, and a length of measurement tape. M takes off his trusty reddish flannel jacket, and sets it against some slacks hanging from a mid-wall pole.]

S: [measuring tape in hand] Now, bend your arm this way, and hold it out.
M: [complying} Okay.
S: [writes a figure down] Lift your arms.
M: [lifts his arms up]
S: [writes down another figure, then takes the out seam measurement, writes that down] That�s it. Grab your jacket and we�ll check out the dates.
M: [grabs his jacket, and follows]

[the two walk over to the register counter, and look at a calender. the month is set on February, as it should be, and depicts a bird posing regally on a dead, brownish-gray tree. it�s not attractive, but wildly popular here.]

S: [lifts the page of the calender to reveal March] Come in on the Wednesday before, and we�ll have you try it on.
M: Yes, that sounds fine. Thank you.
[M leaves, lights fade, black]

Go back.