7-30-05
10:11 p.m.
Into the dead of night I lay asleep,
Covered by a soft blanket of stars.
My mind unhinged, my thoughts drawn deep,
I sift through the firm corporal bars.
Quick past the guard of that daylight prison,
I unclasp the key to the mind
Through door unbound, and dispel of reason,
My grounding soon falls far behind.
Up over hills past shadowy thralls,
Through kingdoms of fire and snow.
Of great memories past and great visions tall
My body still lies far below.
Through colors rich and sounds ever deep,
My senses are put to the test.
Inwardly strained, then outwardly flung,
The third eye reaches its crest
Then seeing a path broken only in waves,
A shadowy flower doth grow
And upon eating its seed, it tells me its saved,
Thoughts of yesterday, today, and tomorrow.
With dark wings unfurled,
Emergent and free,
What more dreams may come,
Unbidden to me?
* * *
Dreams. Shadowy images that pull on the heartstrings and seek balance of the mind.
Sleep. The mode, the shift through dark interior, the dramatic alteration of daytime thought.
Scientists are beginning to understand that sleep, as the most obvious modification of consciousness, is universal in all creatures. Neuroscientists such as Giulio Tononi seek to prove that, as a behavior, sleep is universal—a fundamental necessity for even the tiniest of organisms. Take the fruit fly for example—a faintly audible floating speck of dust that you know as the flattened black dot at the end of your finger. Does such a pin-brained buzzer need its rest? It turns out that fruit flies have long periods of immobility and decreased arousal threshold for about ten hours every night, during which they become more difficult to rouse with air puffs, light, vibration or heat. Give them caffeine and they stay awake longer, antihistamines and they fall asleep faster. And get this – stick electrodes in their brain and you discover that electrical activity changes when they sleep (this is weird on two accounts: the fact that flies actually have brain waves and the fact that people stick stuff into their brains to determine this). [Particulars gleaned from Discover magazine, “No Rest for Snooze Guru”, August 2005]
So why do we sleep? To divine whispers of the future, to cross the temporal threshold as many ancients believed. Is it to (Giulio again) downscale the synapses and shed the access weight that is deposited as we learn throughout the day. Or is it a way to access that inner counselor, allowing the unconscious mind to disentangle complexities that the waking mind cannot penetrate.
My grandfather told me once that the best way to get a good nights rest is to go to sleep with a clear conscience. For me, this certainly holds true. But I would like to revise the statement. How about, “the best way to get a good nights rest is to never go through a divorce”. Ah yes, a great truth indeed, but you’ll probably never find it in one of those hokey bathroom books.
The frightening thing about dreams is that they become your reality. I am reminded of that scene in The Matrix, when the ever stoic Morpheus directs Neo through his awakening. “Have you ever had a dream Neo that you were so sure was real?” he asks. “What if you were unable to wake from that dream? How would you know the difference between the dream world and the real world?”
Well, the problem is I don’t. And damn near every night I am consumed by nightmare—the same revolving door sequence with the same copycat antagonist. Every night, despite my desperate attempt to fashion some sense of a new life, I dream about her.
The setting is different but the situation always the same. I am there, hands clasped together and fingers tightly bound. She is there, back straight, lofty indignation furrowing her brow. I plead and profess my love, she smiles and turns away. I am left with an overwhelming sense of loss and loneliness, like an empty tin can kicked by a crowd of boys. The worst part about this dream is its intransigence, for as morning comes the feelings remain. I awake not feeling whole or rested, but beaten and depressed. And it usually takes me a good two hours to overcome this dejected stupor.
So I return to the question. Why sleep? What does it do for me? It’s certainly not divining things of the future, nor providing insight into the past. Quite the opposite of Giulo’s hypothesis, I feel as if I’m gathering weight, not shedding it. Sleep seems to amplify, not dispel my pain.
So what, I ask, is its use.
All I have to say is…
Sleep. Dreams. Hurumph and Guffaw!
And…
Drat! It’s time for bed.
8-10-05
Dreams. Vain pursuits of a restless mind, a futile chase after the never more raven who smiles and sneers at the doorstep. Brazil has become my waking dream, a remote but elusive vision that whispers of better things to come. Alas, taking on the countenance of that vile bird, the dream keeps disappearing—just as I capture the sweet lines of possibility mirrored in its face.
My dream of spending a year in Brazil has begun to asphyxiate under the weight of misaligned bureaucracy. In response to the overzealous protective measures of American border agents, Brazilian officials have introduced strict entry requirements for US citizens. All extensions considered, tourist visas allow for only six months of unmolested passage—nowhere near the time I need to acquire Portuguese fluency. Visas that allow for extended visits, such as those issued to students, volunteers, and researchers, require application paperwork/dictates of untold proportion. Hindered by these constraints, the organization that I was slated to volunteer for is now suggesting that I come for only three months, shattering my hope for effective assimilation and philanthropy.
With the date of my departure swiftly approaching, I now must consider shortening my trip or finding some other volunteer opportunity to pursue. But time is limited, and the pressure is mounting. Confound the bird, that sly apparition, all I want is to experience Brazil, to give back, to learn. I hope that my dreams do solidify, and irrespective of the red tape, I can find a way. Perhaps I'll have to go on a tourist visa, come briefly back to the US, then travel back to Brazil for another six months. I'm not sure how to go about it at this point.
Such great ponderings are byproducts of a relaxed brain, a brain with all of the excessive amusements of vacation. Desiring to escape the Oklahoma heat, I took the last week and a half off, heading out to Norman Oklahoma, where my cousin resides, and then to New Mexico. Norman is home to the University of Oklahoma, home to the crazed football enthusiasm of Sooner fans. The entire town is decked out in crimson and cream tribal colors. Flags, stickers, t-shirts, hats, all prominent empty spaces, be them human or architectural, display the unwavering allegiance of Sooner fans to their football warrior gods. I explored the campus, town, and helped my cousin move into her new apartment, ever impressed and bemused by the local zeal.
Seeking out fugida (escape), we eventually left the sweeping plains of Oklahoma behind, heading out across the open vistas of Texas. Two irritatingly expensive gas stops, one Sonic refueling, and a hundred iPod songs later, we reached the Moreno valley, home to lush forests, grandiose mountains, and a thousand of my childhood memories. Our cabin is nestled in a pine bark community known as Idlewild, hoisted 8700 feet into the sky. Idlewild lies just above a circular track known as the Enchanted Circle—a curvy mountain path that passes through Angel Fire, Eagle's Nest, Red River, and the artsy pueblo town of my birth, Taos. It is here, in these beautiful forested environs that family and friends have sought the getaway activities of card playing, four-wheeler riding, hiking, and camping. For the initiated - the smell of the Ponderosa pines, the dance of Aspen leaves, the ethereal sunsets – it remains a place of magic.
As always, I have kept pretty busy up here. Obligatory pitch (family card game) playing has been pursued, I took a couple of adrenaline induced rides on the Suzuki, tried my hand at some fishing (utter failure on that account), and did a few rather frightful rounds on our dilapidated swing (20ft platform drop over rocky hill). More noteworthy experiences include recarving my name on the 2000 Gaiden cross (a wood monument that resides on a hill above our cabin), swimming in the Rio Grande, playing disc golf at Sepipu ski resort, and making pizza dinner ala' Aaron for the fam. I've had my usual daily highs and lows, falling at times into depressive vegetative states, writing dark broken-man poetry in the inner sanctums of the cabin. But all considered, my sanity has been maintained, and I return to Oklahoma ready for more work, ready for more adventure.
* * *
8-15-05
Here’s a funny little tale, one adventurous anecdote, that occurred on my trip back to Okie paradise….
In a convertible yellow Saab, turbo charged like its bumblebee counterpart, my cousin and I sped across the freeways of northern Texas, hoping to arrive at Oklahoma City later that day. The drive was uncommonly wet and cool, interspersed with thick and temperamental rain showers that obstructed through deluge our narrow windowed view. With ample horses and nothing in tow, we made good time, passing swiftly by the mind-numbing tedium of the Texas plains. Josh sat the day out in the pilot seat, while I lazily entertained myself with reading and sleep.
Deeply enthralled by Brazil – a massive fictional narrative on the countries history – I barely noticed when a great shuffling noise issued from the back of the car. Vibrations soon followed, shaking me off the page and out of my mental stupor.
“What the hell!” I said under my breath.
Josh gripped the wheel tightly, easing the car quickly off the road.
“Tire” he replied brusquely, worry lining his face.
On his way out to New Mexico, Josh had heard a strange noise from the wheel well, as if something had violently struck the tire, but seeing no signs of damage once stopped, the noise was dismissed. Clearly the poltergeist had come back for a haunting.
Slowly the car eased off the road, crunching gravel and grass as it came to a stop. Having never experienced the loss of control and destructive surge of a tire break, I was quick to jump out of the car, happy for firm footing and the secure ground of the roadside. Head bent inquisitively, I inspected the flared mess that was the tire—black rubber smoked heatedly, and rubber bits lined the ground.
“It’s toast” I muttered, immediately gripped by the annoyance of the delay.
“You have a spare?”
“Yeah” said Josh, opening the trunk and pulling out a small donut sized wheel.
He set the tire down, looking equally annoyed, and I rummaged in the trunk for the cheap metal jack that would prop up the car. Despite my focus and resignation, I was – with the first fell swoooosh – wholly mortified by the successive beats of wind swept up by the passing semis. All it takes is one driver, I thought, one unintended moment of shuteye to totally obliterate me into nonexistence. I learned quickly, however, that fear can sometimes motivate focus, for with haste we were back on the road – with our crispy cream addition – headed toward the closest city of adequate size. We were dismayed to find that, to our misfortune, the only such town was Amarillo, some 50 miles behind us. Our hard luck was compounded by the fact that we were only moving at 40 M.P.H., that most shops would be closed by the time we got there, and that the following day was Sunday! Everyone would be fixed and resting, including ourselves. With sinking hearts and bitter words, we turned around and began the steady dismal track back to town.
Now, this is where it starts to get weird. Not ten minutes after we set off on our backwards track, a large sign loomed ever impressively ahead on the right side of the road.
“WE FIX UGLY TIRES, 24HRS A DAY, NEXT RIGHT” it stated with blaring resonance.
“Holy S**t!” I yelled, surprised at the discovery. “Check that out!”
Josh took one look at the sign, noticing its faded jerry-rig appearance. “I don’t know” he replied. “Maybe we should head towards Amarillo.”
“What!? This could totally be our golden ticket out of here, lets check it out!” I returned with outward enthusiasm.
With that, we headed slowly off the road, off the exit indicated by the sign. The road T-ed off, disappearing to the left under the highway and on into endless Texas field. To the right, the pavement turned to dirt, leading up to a shabby large metal structure. We passed a water tower that leaned markedly off kilter with the words “Britten tower” painted bold faced at the top. Rounding the corner, we could see the metal structure more clearly—“AUTO DIESEL SERVICE” decorating the exterior. The building was visibly old, falling part, with an office two-pained window area on the east side and two 20ft open faced doors to the middle and west. Broken rusting cars surrounded the area, green plain stretched as far as the eye could see beyond.
Immediately I noticed a man starring at us, leaning against the office windows. He ran hurriedly inside—a large black chow with devilish eyes following closely behind. Stopping the car, Josh turned and looked at me apprehensively. I shrugged, shook my head, and exited the Saab—trepidations silent tendrils creeping into my brain.
“Uhh, Hello?” I yell stepping towards the large middle door.
“Helllllooooo?” I reply to myself, hoping someone other than myself would answer.
Suddenly, with the speed of an older sibling stepping around a corner for a good scare, a man appeared, hurriedly closing the distance between us. His hair was dark blonde and matted to his forehead—a thick beard lengthening his tanned face. Clothed in a green collared shirt, dirtied blue pants, and sneakers, the man stood tall – thickly built – with tattoos randomly placed about his body. His appearance was ruff—obviously someone who had worked or played too hard.
His hand slowly rose as he approached. Taken aback, I flinched, bracing myself for an unwelcome embrace.
“Howdy” came a gruff voice. “What can I do for you?”
“Uhhh…well…uhh…black…round…thing…tire…yes, tire!” I say timidly, suddenly remembering what I was doing there. “We had a flat a few miles up the way. You fix car flats?” The hundreds of tires filling the building spoke for him, but I thought I’d ask anyway.
“Sure do, no problem, you’re the only customer I’ve had today, too cold for the semi tires to blow. Get my tires from Wal-Mart, real cheap, from rich teenagers who get a flat and change all the tires on their car.”
With this I relaxed, happy to have found this strange dude in the middle of nowhere, and happy to learn that he wasn’t going to kill me. Wasting no time, the guy began rummaging through his tire pile, pointing to less worn tires, throwing rejects out of the way.
“Nice dog” I sad, somewhat perturbed by the animals appearance by our car.
“Yeah, good dog.” He replied.
”What’s his name?”
“Black dog” he said matter of factly. I laughed at the obvious choice of name.
As the seconds wore on, the strangeness of the place, of the man, and our luck in landing here became ever so interesting to me.
“Dog was beaten, abused, hit with boards. I found him that way, so I beat the sh**t out of the owner, and then took the dog. Dude had mental problems, but no one should…should…”
“…Project their problems on others.” I said finishing his sentence.
“Exactly!” he replied. “I got mental problems, but no one should do that! I’m a printer by trade, learned if from my dad. Been workin’ here six months, hoping to make my way to Corpus Christi, catch a ride from all the truckers been helpin’ out.”
I chuckled to myself, amused at this wonderfully colorful character standing before me.
The man worked as he chatted. In short order, the Saab – once broken and disheveled – was as good as new.
Looking up from his work, happy with the completion, the man smiled.
“Twenty bucks” he said facing us. Josh and I look at each other.
“Twenty bucks?” we said questioningly, wondering what the catch was.
“Yeah, twenty, and take an extra tire.”
Elated by this wonderfully cheap turn of events I turned and asked his name.
“Steve” he replied.
“Well Steve, it’s been nice doing business with you.” I said with a smile.
And with that we got in the car, a Saab with new shoes, enjoying the weirdness of it all, enjoying the way it worked out so perfectly – for twenty friggin’ dollars – enjoying the sunset as we headed east toward Oklahoma City.
Thanks Steve.
(Yes, this is actually where I live in Oklahoma. It doesn't exactly have the square footage that my last apartment did, but keep in mind that the picture doesn't show the ballroom and double marble stair case just below. Impressive, no?)
(Norman Sooner madness. I visited just before going to New Mexico.)
(Who comes up with this stuff, really!)
(Recarving my name into a mountain cross, just above our NM cabin.)
(view towards Angel Fire) 
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