A Regular Conduit
Early morning dreaming has me trying to focus on the pleasure of lost loves, sex doesn't get any safer, but the object of my mental yearning slips the snare and instead appears she with the last name that is a color, only ever a casual acquaintance, but what an incredible presence she projected on that morning seated across from me at my dream table. Even now, deep breathing her image calms in me whatever lay riled.
It is a mixed bag though, that which goes on inside me, and focus is not a strength I lay claim to. Because focus would have me better controlling the images of my dreamworld instead of what really happens. Case in point the middleclass (in every sense of the word) housewife from the suburbs (probably Metairie, La.), seated across the table from me this morning who rather demands that I call Jesus and ask Him a question to which she desperately needs an answer. I evidently have a hotline to Jesus because only a few numbers dialed has Him responding audibly and patiently (amazing really, the patience, when one considers how many of these calls He must receive in a day) , and I then look over to the housewife (who is now talking to another woman) so she can relay her question through me and she looks perturbed that I should interrupt her conversation with another housewife. Her audacity is such that I explode with vehemence, letting her know quite frankly that Jesus and I are busy people and how dare she interrupt our busy schedules with her carefree commonality and less than adroit mental capacity.
And even inside a dream I know this dream has been occurring since I shut off the alarm, so times up, no perfect lovers for me this morning, and disappointment on top of disappointment, I had Jesus on line and didn't even think to ask him could he nudge it just a bit (okay a whole lot) and put the Saints in Superbowl 2002, inside the Superdome.
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Early morning dreaming has me trying to focus on the pleasure of lost loves, sex doesn't get any safer, but the object of my mental yearning slips the snare and instead appears she with the last name that is a color, only ever a casual acquaintance, but what an incredible presence she projected on that morning seated across from me at my dream table. Even now, deep breathing her image calms in me whatever lay riled.
It is a mixed bag though, that which goes on inside me, and focus is not a strength I lay claim to. Because focus would have me better controlling the images of my dreamworld instead of what really happens. Case in point the middleclass (in every sense of the word) housewife from the suburbs (probably Metairie, La.), seated across the table from me this morning who rather demands that I call Jesus and ask Him a question to which she desperately needs an answer. I evidently have a hotline to Jesus because only a few numbers dialed has Him responding audibly and patiently (amazing really, the patience, when one considers how many of these calls He must receive in a day) , and I then look over to the housewife (who is now talking to another woman) so she can relay her question through me and she looks perturbed that I should interrupt her conversation with another housewife. Her audacity is such that I explode with vehemence, letting her know quite frankly that Jesus and I are busy people and how dare she interrupt our busy schedules with her carefree commonality and less than adroit mental capacity.
And even inside a dream I know this dream has been occurring since I shut off the alarm, so times up, no perfect lovers for me this morning, and disappointment on top of disappointment, I had Jesus on line and didn't even think to ask him could he nudge it just a bit (okay a whole lot) and put the Saints in Superbowl 2002, inside the Superdome.
- jimlouis 11-13-2000 11:05 pm