Weary wounds
 down the sides of the front of my torso
 raw from my continually
 cutting you out of my lungs:
I had made a bold play of it once;
 now I stare —
 take slow gapes of resignation.
The fishhooks I withdrew —
 cut each one in half with my knife —
 they keep coming;
 there are so many now.
I look up to the sky
 filtered through the surface of the water;
 who knows, maybe, of a sudden:


All I’ve left is me little torch.
The grand visions on cave walls
 descend into darkness.
Come. There is enough for two.
Let us make a meal of it.

School’s Out; Time For the Night Specialist.

I’m in high school. I’m much older than this. Why am I here?

I have a megaphone. The high school seems to be in the street. School is over. I speak into the megaphone because I can; still, I don’t have much to say; I say “time to go home; school is over.”

None of the students pay attention — I didn’t expect them to.

My therapist tells me of a specialist she’d like me to meet. He’s a tall, thin, serious man. I bike there. I go down the street without knowing the street number, then look at the street numbers, realize I passed the place, and double back.

It’s a typical 3-story professional building with a hint on psych institutional care. It’s evening now. I look at the paper for the hours he’s available: 3 A.M. to 10 A.M. Hmm, I’ll have to come back during those hours. The walk-in bit is a surprise to me.

The Water Knows

I’m in a swimming competition. I have to put on some fancy equipment in a certain procedure, one of the refs explains.

Brian and I both are in the competition.

I swim. I don’t do so bad.

On the return trip a swimmer latches unto me. I am pulling him a bit, then a ref blows a whistle on me and warns me no piggy backing. I’m nonplussed. He latched onto me; how could it be my fault?

“The water knows” he says.

It’s a fun game. I later think it might be fun to do the physical game over the internet with Jim.


By your armor, I’m taken, wondering:
your eyes gleaming, unmasked,
your body dancing, unencumbered
 and light.

{ your sword nicked my knee;
   the spilling of blood
   grants me brethren see
   — and thou still war?
   Oh, go wounded and stay wounded
   wherefore I, bad in war and in peace,
   may nurse you. }

Lackluster Diving

I stand on a sunlit hill in a park or a resort. I converse with a gentleman who has an air of aristocracy.

We discuss a young lady aristocrat. I have feelings for her; the gentleman informs me she is already betrothed. I am despondent.

Then there is a diving competition between me and her betrothed, who is young, strong, and confident.

He dives with success; I am still despondent. I dive un-energetically. The judges are outraged at my lack of form.

A Note on dad Dreams

I typically make a point not to post dreams with people I know; still, in some ways, all the people I know who appear in my dreams are metaphors for psychological and emotional components inside me, especially parents.

Up till now everybody has been convinced that the idea “my father,” “my mother,” etc., is nothing but a faithful reflection of the real parent, corresponding in every detail to the original, so that when someone says “my father” he means no more and no less than what his father is in reality. This is actually what he supposes he does mean, but a supposition of identity by no means brings that identity about. This is where the fallacy of the enkekalymmenos (‘the veiled one’) comes in. If one includes in the psychological equation X’s picture of his father, which he takes for the real father, the equation will not work out, because the unknown quantity he has introduced does not tally with reality. X has overlooked the fact that his idea of a person consists, in the first place, of the possibly very incomplete picture he has received of the real person and, in the second place, of the subjective modifications he has imposed upon this picture. X’s idea of his father is a complex quantity for which the real father is only in part responsible, an indefinitely large share falling to the son. So true is this that every time he criticizes or praises his father he is unconsciously hitting back at himself, thereby bringing about those psychic consequences that overtake people who habitually disparage or overpraise themselves. If, however, X carefully compares his reactions with reality, he stands a chance of noticing that he has miscalculated somewhere by not realizing long ago from his father’s behaviour that the picture he has of him is a false one. But as a rule X is convinced that he is right, and if anybody is wrong it must be the other fellow.

— Jung: Aion p. 18 ¶ 37.

Interrogating Light

I’m in my father’s basement, in is workroom. I haven’t even told him anything about my latest life ventures, including leaving work, I guess.

I’m stuttering to talk to him. I have trouble seeing him.  I collapse into a chair and he helps me sit down in it.

At some point in this our terse conversation, Dad pins me back against the wall with a cabinet so I am forced to look at him.

He shines the light directly in my face. He has amazing solid brown eyes; it’s like the first time I see his eyes; I’m excited at how beautiful they are. I try to tell him this and he doesn’t hear.

He interrupts me with curt criticism.

I confess to quiting work.

“I haven’t been working for 6 months,” I say, “except for a pity side-project. I work in therapy.”

He criticizes my calling it gossip.

Did I say gossip? I don’t remember well enough — perhaps I did; “I meant therapy.”

Maybe he’s going to find a job for me in his office — but, I’m not going to accept that.

He lights candles to increase the intensity of the light until he accidently lights a Chinese firecracker than ignites and burns down to a whistle; the whistle blows loud and steady into my awakening.