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Thursday, July 30, 2015

Walking along the craters

Last night the moon was just about full—this’ll be a Blue Moon.

Could this have anything to do with me waking at 11:30 and not being able to get back to sleep until, mebbe, two AM? I know that, after checking the clock around 1:30 AM, I decided—I’ll give me until three. If I’m still awake then, I’ll just give up on the Zs . And then, then, sleep decided to make an encore.

Had a dream where I was working at an old printshop where I’d toiled throughout my 30s. The owner was reopening a downtown branch that’d been shuttered. For some reason, I was present on this momentous occasion AND the boss was listening to my recommendations on how the store could be better laid out so that customers would flock in like seagulls to a McDonald's dumpster. AND I looked just like Pam from True Blood.  Wow. So much win!

Naturally, given the True Blood connection, there was an intensely bloody scene where the head of the person responsible for the store’s shuttering exploded—all fireworks-like—in a shower of brains and O positive.

Yeah, that’s when I woke up.
Song About the MoonPaul Simon (full lyrics here)
If you want to write a song about the moon
Walk along the craters in the afternoon
When the shadows are deep and the light is alien
And gravity leaps like a knife off the pavement
And you want to write a song about the moon
You want to write a spiritual tune
Na na na na na na
Yeah yeah yeah
Presto, a song about the moon
 Sandwiched into the those few hours of sandman time was a bitty phantasm about an old friend. I’ve not seen or heard from Jim in eons. Maybe 15 years actually.

He was in bad shape. Depressed. Angry. Didn’t feel like speaking. He was laying in bed, face deeply planted in the pillow. I rubbed/petted his back, speaking soothing words. Something useless like: Things will get better. Life will turn around.

In real life, and I heard this from another pal I’d not connected with in forever and a half, Jim’s been going through a very hard bunch of years. The college where he scored a tenured, head-of-the-department, teaching gig ended up being chock full of heinous political douchebaggery and miscreants. His marriage fell apart. His daughter has some strong, unspecified, emotional troubles. I understand his drinking’s gone up. I understand. I wish I could do something to help, something to ease his struggle.

I’d sent him an upbeat, chock-full-of-art-commonalities email. A Hey, let’s reconnect, mon ami kind of an email. I didn’t send that missive out of pure admirable, altruistic, I-want-to-lend-a-hand/ear goodness. Fuck no. We were friends. I was crazy about the sculptures he built. Sure, I want to do whatever I can (if anything) to help him up and out of his swamp but this is also about just plain missing an old friend.

No reply. I’m concerned. Worried.

Blue Moon—The Marcels

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