i slept with dreams circling me like a halo. they were beams of white, solid-circular light, no doubt the result of the season and the imprint registered through my eyes into my brain for access at such a time as this.
i could enter the light of each circle and it would be a dream. a tableau, like one of those machines in a turn-of-the-century penny arcade that you crank by hand that gives a one minute movie. there have been so visitors to my memory and others to my life, conjured up by words and no doubt our collective cranial electrical charges out there in the wonderful broth of the eighth electro-plasma-ocean of the ninth dimension. at the moment, i need to glance down occasionally to be sure that my information is saved, thus telling me that cablevision is cabling and not gone to disconnection, a place all-too comfortable for this system. the variety of dreams late last night into the day held friends and family; the living and the dead. images with names i can no longer recall. i wondered if it was trying to tell me something. i wondered if i passed away in my sleep. if i did, i was momentarily upset for a part of a second because in death as in life, i seemed to have to do something. i recalled for a moment in one of the lights of tableau, a ribbon of sorts that was embossed with the words “Dominican Camp.” i can remember i and my brother chris went there, when…1960?
below the name was the coat of spiritual arms or whatever they called it instead of a logo, and underneath that it said “camp hustler” because (among other reasons) i would dive into the deep end of the pool and have to be fished out again and again, so was my desire to swim. as a child, i moved into life aggressively and that would have something to do with trying to stop that chevrolet with my head almost two years later on jauary 22nd, 1962, but i’m not a professional therapist or psychologist, so i probably don’t know what the heck i’m talking about.
my explanation is already a thousand times the length of the dream i had.
some years later, i would dive off the ocean avenue bridge that runs across sheepshead bay, sure that, by now, i should most certainly know how to swim. i would drown but not die. a kid name patty russell would dive in after me at a time that i had surrendered to the water and the serene quiet would fill my mind as the water filled my lungs.
that’s what happens when you’re drowning. struggle and panic then it’s, oh well…..
i don’t recall much except i found myself lying on the wood-slatted bridge, the sun blinding my eyes. patty russell would grow up to almost be a major-league pitcher, but because of throwing too many curve balls too early in his arm’s development, his arm would give out and he’d become a nyc policeman.
in the late-seventies, ten years+ after we ever saw each other, i would be arrested (a cop saw me score weed from a doorway in coney island. he chased me in his car, i threw the pot out of my car, so i went to jail for a traffic infraction) and i would be in a precinct lock-up in east new york or somewhere and he, officer russell, would recognize me as i was being put into a cell. “what are you doing here?” he asked. i told him what happened. he laughed. he’d string a telephone to the floor outside my cell and let me call my friends to find someone to bail me out. i called everybody i could think of.
he saved me from drowning, twice. thank you patty russell.
this was when i was managing that discotheque i spoke about a while back. the plce where robert de niro would peer into on a thursday night at all the fine black girls and where’s i’d steroid and meet spanish, spice factory ghosts. my bosses would show up with gobs of money because all i would tell one of them was that i was in jail. my girlfriend at the time and my father would also arrive at court that morning. when they read the charge, “auto equipment violation,” everyone laughed, even the judge.
i smelled pretty bad. i think it was a fifty dollar fine, i don’t remember.
absolutely none of this was part of my dream tableau, but i decided to run with that memory nonetheless, which ran me into a few more, which brings me back to math i can never comprehend but do so firmly believe in.
as long as i’m “in play” the math will keep happening.
“in play” means “alive” by the way.
which leads to a blog i wrote a few weeks ago in which i recall stealing my artwork from the be-bop cafe a few weeks after being fired from there. scrap bar chronicle #10, from december 6th. four days later, on december 10th, there’s a facebook alert in my gmail account from that same maria-with-monte carlo who helped me in the celebrated be bop caper with the header “beatle’s ticket?” my reply, was “did you read about that in the blog?” and her reply was, “what blog?” she said she just thought of me and tried to find me.
i have enough to do with my business and myspace and all whatever else i do, so facebook is not highly utilized by me, save to be available and garner more friends and the like from being in business. hence, the listing in facebook is under GBM’s name and not my own.
my account is about a year and a half and i have but 71 friends and understand the incredible value of this tool, but it’s those psychic time-connections that will always trump what technology has to offer. we all have them. we think of someone and they appear, we talk about someone and we hear from them….it’s that precog stuff i so strongly believe ties us together in ways that can only be described as something more than human and closer to the atomically eternal, dawn of everything; eveyone has their own eighth-plasma-ocean of the ninth-dimension, if you get my meaning.
so maria and i have spoken for the first time in a dozen or more years and it’s because of this that i decided to go to the beach and mingle with the greater elements.
the sand, the surf the sky and the tires….
here’s the one that seems to be having trouble departing,
here’s the new arrival,
here, maxx boldly goes to the sea to chase the gull…
and here’s the photo before the chat before i learned everything there was to learn about why…