and she said.. "how you interpret the dream is probably more important than the dream itself"

I read Jaime's daily life rituals, well, almost daily. And yet I have almost forgotten why I am here; why I come and write and post and debate with the graffitied walls of the internet, sightly staring back at me with all of that silent communication, like a madman in an alley, discussing the times with an old trash can. Perhaps this is why I've written less and less lately, because I feel a bit mad and unclear on my devotions. I feel tumbled about and discombobulated. I don't know which way is up sometimes and if I do then I become afraid of heights.

I am on the cusp of great life decisions and yet, unlike past years, I am unable to mention them here. I have deep premonitions that they will be strangely effected somehow, if exposed to these highways and byways of the electronic persuasion. I don't even mention the little things as much, like going up to camp or saving my motorcycle's rearview mirror as it hung from a thread; me tearing down I95, a yellow streak in the waning light of a dusky June evening. I have now, though. Mentioned them, that is. It's tenuous, this relationship that I have with this space. What dreams may come from these tiny letters? Is there worth in the records of unrealized fantasies?

It is those beatnik bastards of the hippy-forming generation, the Jack Kerouacs and Ginsbergs and Burroughs of the world, who wrote to us in some sort of confessional, tell all, this really happened sort of way that created an environment for you-only-live-once-edness. They are the ones, with a jovial smile and a tip of the hat, that led us down those roads less traveled and so - if we follow and if we be folly or otherwise feign unfalter - are we the rolling stones, grass-less and desolate, smooth yet pitted by the wear of the road? Have we been hoodwinked and hogtied by the horseshit of a haughty and haverish horde of horny hotheads, a team of disillusioned youths unkempt and unfettered by the realism of life - too busy pretending it is out there waiting to be lived and not believing it is here, living and waiting, breathless, for attention to its spirit of thoughtful repose?

All of these questions and many unspoken wait feverishly for the tests of time. They beg to be asked over and over again and that is what we will continue to do. Each with a different approach. I take this blog and all its wavering to be of similar clothe and thus it is so, I come again and again, I write and ponder and in the end I publish; a post gone unread with perhaps its ponderings left to position themselves in a more mortal repose; horizontal, and in the eternal wait.

And of those questions that are actually answered? Those are the ones that apparently go unprinted; the ones that have no time for pondering thought, for they are out there being answered.