...one of those utility vehicles that comes around to fix blown transformers and see that no one is pirating cable.

A


s I slept today, I had a crazy dream about Matthew Hart. I was seated at the controls of big yellow crane. This crane had a telescoping arm with a bucket at the end of it, like the kind you see on the roof of one of those utility vehicles that comes around to fix blown transformers and see that no one is pirating cable. Matthew was standing in the bucket, and he was urging me to extend the arm as high as possible. So, obediently, I raised the bucket along with Matthew as far as the machine would go. Then Matthew climbed up to the rim of the bucket and, matter-of-factly, jumped off, feet first. I was amazed. What could he be thinking? But he landed dead in the center of a tiny children's trampoline that just happened to be below him on the ground. He walked away unhurt, with a big smile on his face.

I was increasing the level of Matthew's risk, but doing so only at his behest.

What struck me most about the dream was the way it built, maintained and resolved suspense. I found myself being completely surprised when Matthew landed on the trampoline. Yet something in my head must have been running the controls and known the plot of the dream all along. It's just yet more evidence of the complexity underlying consciousness.

Interpreting this dream is not something for the faint of heart. Let me venture to guess, though, that the jump symbolized Matthew's facing the unknown in the aftermath of his relationship with Leah and the trampoline symbolized my confidence that, though it's a situation fraught with dangers, he'll work it out successfully. As for my role in the dream, I was more than just a passive observer. I was increasing the level of Matthew's risk, but doing so only at his behest. As you can see, the actual complexity of this dream is much more than appears on the surface.

Y


esterday the clear dry air was downright brisk. The ride to work left my eyes full of tears, and that wasn't an emotional response. Today the sky is overcast and the still air sits patiently: hot, humid, but a little ridiculous, like a bored eight year old on a rocking horse. The summer never gives up its life without a humiliating fight.

Sometimes I just prefer relating to quadrupeds.

A


t Kappa Mutha Fucka, Matthew and I were sitting on the front porch drinking lukewarm Natural Ice when Angela showed up. The plan, hatched as usual by Matthew, soon became that of picking up some Scotch at the ABC store. Deya joined us for the adventure. Us four Aquarii rode in Angela's big white Cadillac.

First we went to the Brick Mansion in the 'Hood, where Angela suspected she might have lost a necklace. While she and Sam rooted around through things, I entertained first an aggressively affectionate jowly grey tom cat and then a goofy, happy, rambunctious Irish Setter. Sometimes I just prefer relating to quadrupeds.

I've never bought Scotch before, so I selected a half gallon of the mid-priced variety. It happened to be on sale.

W


e got back to Kappa Mutha Fucka to find the smell of fart in the air. Deya's new kitten had taken a royal stink in some inappropriate place, the way little kittens always do before they know any better. But Deya cleaned it up and burned some incense, just like the hippies do when a bong is spilled. Today Matthew said this about Deya's kitten, "If it makes her happy, then it's okay with me."

So Matthew put on some Cringer, which, for all you kids out there keeping track, is unabashed punk rock.

With the bottle of Scotch as a surrogate for happiness, we four sat around listening to the Beatles' Revolver (a concession to Angela). It didn't really suit the mood, though. So Matthew put on some Cringer, which, for all you kids out there keeping track, is unabashed punk rock. Angela was a little disgusted by our intention to just sit there in our living room and drink Scotch. She suggested getting a movie, but the process of deciding what movie to get and then getting it seemed overwhelming, so instead we just talked. That was good, though. There are lots of issues in need of discussion even if every angle has already been discussed.

Now that these musings are so well known by so many people (Matthew's family, especially), they can be counted upon to generate a certain amount of tension. Just about every day the issue comes up. Today I assured Matthew that I'd put nothing on the Web that he specifically didn't want there. In his present situation, while he can't help being cynical about the nature of humanity, he needs to know that there are friends who will not take advantage of him for personal ends.

I suppose you could call me a "Primitive Beat."

Matthew and Angela spent much time on the front porch while Deya built a little house out of cotton balls, duct tape and a box which once housed twelve bottles of Natural Ice. She even installed a fully-operational elevator. I guess she was making it for the kitten, though she makes lots of things like that all the time for no reason at all. Meanwhile, I was reading the intro to a Beat Reader, an anthology of writing by Jack Kerouac, William S. Burroughs, etc. Our house is full of fun little books like that. It's really odd that I've never studied the Beats, given the fact that my writing and overall mind set is so similar. But you know, they never taught about the Beats in my high school AP English class, and my literary interests and education since then have been pedestrian at best. I suppose you could call me a "Primitive Beat." Even better than the Beats, though, I'm well networked. Daily, hourly, I can go online and find fresh new inspiration, some of which builds on inspiration I've given others. It's hard to imagine a more efficient method of collaboration. The internet and degenerate literature are a marriage made in Valhalla.

(Marriages made in Heaven suck; there's no sex in Heaven.)

Deya and I played a couple of REM albums and discussed our mutual fondness for the band. I like their use of minor keys and occasional friskiness, but not the whiny quality that is occasionally evident in Michæl Stipe's voice. Deya said she kind of likes that whiny quality. From the front porch, Matthew Hart specifically requested "It's the End of the World As We Know It (and I Feel Fine)," so I went and tracked down my "best of REM" CD. Of course, first we had to hear that quintacential anti-love song "This One Goes Out to the One I Love."

(he was very distressed to find me using automatons)

W


hen I awoke from my pre-work nap, my head felt as though it weighed 50 pounds. As usual for that time, Monster Boy was the only person who was up and about.

My musings mailing list has become too big even for the list server software here at Comet. There's a one hundred subscriber limit on the version of Post.Office we run on the Windows NT servers. I could use Majordomo on Atlas (the UNIX box that brings you these musings), but Evan (the network engineer), who's forgotten far more UNIX than I'll ever know, says he can't get it to work. So I guess I'll go back to some kind of low tech mailing list system, the sort Alan of heinovision thinks is more appropriate to my style (he was very distressed to find me using automatons).

Earlier today I had a fleeting moment when I felt I had nothing to say. That moment has passed, but it's late and my shoulders are sore.

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