Dream Log

Instead of reading my book tonight, I enjoyed a look through some old journals. I've always been an inconsistent diarist, and there are big gaps in the chronology. Just to make things more difficult, I tend to keep four or five notebooks at a time.

Anything I wrote before 2002 is shit - and even worse, uninteresting.

Except for the dreams! Every once in a while I manage to hang on to the shreds of dreams just long enough to scrawl a few words onto the page before I'm fully awake.

I'll start with this one, 'cuz it's my favorite. It's written in pencil, in one paragraph:

1/29/04

Dreamed this morning that I voted for Howard Dean. The votes had to be written on slips of paper and given to little old ladies to put in white envelopes. Then I walked down a set of beat-up stairs and outside. I got in my car and had an accident with a clunky blue car. Rod Stewart was driving it. He didn't even get out of the car, but parked it (parallel parked) facing the wrong way on the street. I backed up the street and pulled into the gas station on the corner. Had to drive up a very narrow lane up a steep hill. When I checked the car only the tire was worn and leaking a little air. There were warning signs posted about which breeds of cats were most likely to be injured if they weren't buckled in.

Make of that what you will.

Design Police

Several months ago, a higher-up at work kept going on and on about "Word Art" and why wouldn't I use it? I'd worked with Photoshop, Illustrator, and either QuarkXPress or InDesign on a daily basis for nearly six years by that point, without ever having learned of the existence of "Word Art."

I wish I had the Design Police's Visual Enforcement Kit with me on the day I found out what "Word Art" is.

Shoveling Snow with Buddha

In the usual iconography of the temple or the local Wok
you would never see him doing such a thing,
tossing the dry snow over the mountain
of his bare, round shoulder,
his hair tied in a knot,
a model of concentration.

Sitting is more his speed, if that is the word
for what he does, or does not do.

Even the season is wrong for him,
In all his manifestations, is it not warm and slightly humid?
Is this not implied by his serene expression,
that smile so wide it wraps itself around the waist of the universe?

But here we are, working our way down the driveway,
one shovelful at a time.
We toss the light powder into the clear air.
We feel the cold mist on our faces.
And with every heave we disappear
and become lost to each other
in these sudden clouds of our own making,
these fountain-bursts of snow.

This is so much better than a sermon in church,
I say out loud, but Buddha keeps on shoveling.
This is the true religion, the religion of snow,
and sunlight and winter geese barking in the sky,
I say, but he is too busy to hear me.

He has thrown himself into shoveling snow
as if it were the purpose of existence,
as if the sign of a perfect life were a clear driveway
you could back the car down easily
and drive off into the vanities of the world
with a broken heater fan and a song on the radio.

All morning long we work side by side,
me with my commentary
and he inside the generous pocket of his silence,
until the hour is nearly noon
and the snow is piled high all around us;
then, I hear him speak.

After this, he asks,
can we go inside and play cards?

Certainly, I reply, and I will heat some milk
and bring cups of hot chocolate to the table
while you shuffle the desk,
and our boots stand dripping by the door.

Aaah, says the Buddha, lifting his eyes
and leaning for a moment on his shovel
before he drives the thin blade again
deep into the glittering white snow.

--Billy Collins

From the "Learn Something New Every Day" File

Giant elephant shrews.
Who knew?

God is Ready to Help Someone Connected with This Address

I have received a missive from the Lord. It was in the mailbox between the National Geographic and the tax statement for my IRA:



MY HOME FIRST! to receive God's blessings, as loaned to me from a "very old church."

Now, I don't know what you think of when you think of a very old church, but I think:



You know, at least a thousand years old.

So I opened up the letter and immediately had to take an Advil. I'm affected that way by Random Capitalization, excessive use of bold and underlining, and misuse of commas. Plus, the letter writer KEEPS YELLING AT ME.



Then I find out that God doesn't even know my name is Occupant.



And the definition of "very old" is 57. I can't wait to tell Dad he nearly qualifies.

Here's the dealio: inside the envelope is a folded 11" x 17" sheet printed to look something like an oriental rug. A representation of Jesus is in the center. His eyes are closed. I'm supposed to look at his eyes and relax and suddenly I will see the eyes open and look back at me. This is not because Jesus has been drawn like one of those Magic Eye posters - this is because "This St. Matthew 18:19 Bible Prayer Rug is Soaked with the Power of Prayer for you." If I kneel on it and pray alone, check off on a form what I prayed for, and return the rug and form (along with my donation-this is an important point) within 24 hours, my prayer will be answered. Testimonials of healed legs and monetary windfalls ensue.

Here's the form:



It's a little small, so you can click through to a larger version, upon which you will see that one can pray for their soul, for their health, to stop a bad habit, for a new car, or for a specific amount of money, among other somewhat self-centered things. I noticed right away that world peace, the eradication of childhood sexual abuse, yellowcake uranium, one ring to rule them all, and "Jesus Christ, somebody please stop the f'in Patriots" are not on the list, possibly because the form could easily fall into the wrong hands.

After I put the prayer rug and my requests in the mail, I can open this sealed prophecy from the Lord about my future.



I note with approval that God seals his prophecies with clear mailing tabs instead of the white ones.

It's not for me, though. I have carefully folded up all this holy copy paper and returned everything to the envelope. I will carry it to K. on Super Bowl Sunday, and we will argue over who gets the one-time-use prayer rug - he wants plutonium, and I want the Giants to stop the f'in Patriots.

Time Sink

If you've got time to kill - or if you're like me and will fritter away hours even if you don't got time to kill - check out the Traveler IQ games. After making it through all 12 levels, my new goal is to break 700,000. The flag one is fun too, but I gotta warn you about Oceania.

Ladies Who Lunch (And One Gent)

I really wish I had a better background than my neighbors' dingy old trucks.

This is better:



And here's the ladies' escort:

Under Construction

New blog.

Primary

Rumi for Your Mid-Week: Let's Go Home

Late and starting to rain, it's time to go home.
We've wandered long enough in empty buildings.
I know it's tempting to stay and meet those new people.
I know it's even more sensible
to spend the night here with them,
but I want to go home.

We've seen enough beautiful places with signs on them
saying This is God's house.
That's seeing the grain like the ants do,
without the work of harvesting.
Let's leave grazing to cows and go
where we know what everyone really intends,
where we can walk around without clothes on.

-- Translated by Coleman Barks