Friday, March 30, 2012

Dream reality - a thesis

     Dream reality
     When we consider our dreams in a waken state of consciousness they seem confused, often fantastic, frightening or silly and most often they seem filled with impossible convolutions of time and space. Dreams also frequently negate of the laws of physics and defy our intellectual and emotional consistency.
     Here's a brief thesis on why.
     As physical creatures we must translate our experience of reality to accommodate time and space, as Einstein describes in his specific and general theories of relativity. We "fit" into our scale in the universe through he contextual constructs of both time and space - external physical realities that are accounted for by our minds every second of every waking moment of our lives (for the most part.)
     However, time and space are corporeal constants, and are not noetic requirements. That is, our minds do not require time and space to function! Our minds only use the constructs - the formulas- of time and space, all day long, to make sense of things around us. When we sleep, we do not need time and space to think. And our intellectual and emotional fabric has been woven in our conscious life, and therefore makes sense only when filtered through time and space.
     Therefore, when in a dream, you find yourself jetting through time, flying, or sitting on the edge of the bed of an acquaintance with a penguin while waiting for the dance to start, you are simply recalling the confusing state (spatially and emotionally) of a thought process that is not bound by time and space. The mind is not obligated to associate the wakeful emotions and intellectual mechanisms with time/space incongruities.
    If this is the case, and the human mind can function without time/space constraints, it may only be a matter of learning to "see" beyond the habitual limits we set forth as methods to understand our physical aspect, and "re-fit" ourselves into a wider, more exotic reality.

Wednesday, March 28, 2012

Big top - part 5

     Slim and Angel didn't discuss much at all until they reached Tylor Texas. Then they briefly discussed  the worrisome pains Angel was experiencing in her back, her hips, and deep down inside.
     "... And every time I go to pee, there's a little blood," she said in a trembling voice.
     "What's it mean, Angel?" asked Slim. "Is it unusual?"
    "I don't know, Slim. We better get me to a doctor once we reach Louisiana."
    That was about it. The two were busy with their own thoughts, drawing worried pictures of reality in the clarity of the bright southern skies. It was hot. The vinyl in the car blistered and filled the thick air with burning urgency. 
     Angel tried to fix her thoughts on what she might find familiar in Louisiana, with a baby, looking for work as the Family Gus. She chewed on her lip, rubbed her belly and listens to Slim grind the gears of the old ford. She pictured herself up on the wire, perfectly balanced, at home with herself, somewhere high and far away.
     "The pain is worse," she told Slim.
     "We're nearly there," he said. "Should we stop somewhere here, get some help, or go on?"
        Angel winced. "Lets go on."

     Angel got out of the car at a rest stop just short of the Louisiana state line. Slim watched her long shadow stretch and feather under the strength of the setting sun. Slim traced that shadow as it slipped across the packed earth, felt it tremble, and for an instant recognized the subtle shift in its shape that betrayed the geometry of time,  the complexities of space. He watched her sandals snap at her narrow heels as they groped after that shifting shadow. Sorrow overwhelmed him, frightened him, diminished his anger long enough to allow him to recognize that he hadn't felt sad in a long time. A very, very long time. Slim wept alone in the car and later, after Angel had limped slowly from the shadows of the darkened rest stop with  one hand cradling the pain in her abdomen, they wept together before heading for the border, just the two of them.
     "I'm sorry," said Slim.
     "I'm sorry too,"said Angel.
     "We just gotta keep trying," he said.
     "We will, Slim. We will."

Thursday, March 1, 2012

Bigtop - part 4

Angel walked out of the crumbling toilet at Buckbone's Gas & Feed Station with her hair rough-hewn, close to her ears. The little stuff left was left dyed bubblegum pink. Below a vengeful, sloping brow Angel's steady eyes measured the landscape that surrounded her. Fury curled the corners of her razor-thin smile.
            Buckbone himself got a split-second view of the inside of that poor wreck of a room between the time the door flew open and when it slammed shut again.
            "Seems like," Buckbone sneered, "that lady owes me some money for setting off some kind of girlie-bomb in our public toilet."
             Four dusty men sitting on a plank of lumber beside him nodded quietly, squinting at the shock of pink bird strutting toward the broken down vehicle rattling restlessly in the unpaved lot.
            Slim leaned over and, with one finger, pushed the passenger door open for Angel. "I think you'll want to hop in quickly before these fellas get a look at what I just saw in that rest room."
            "By the looks of it," she sneered, eying the short parade heading for them, "they seen it."
            And that's how Slim and Angel set off, southward, from Haysville, Kansas: Falling angrily, broke, pink, pregnant and in flames, with the failures of their own pasts weighing on them and little more than the truth ready to cushion the plunge on the bottom side.

Tuesday, February 14, 2012

Bigtop - part 3

Leaving, grieving, grinding, lost...
     They'd barely noticed what was happening.
     Months passed and the circuit  went from warm to hot to cool and the whole show nearly dried up and died in a Carolina swamp and Angel and slim barely noticed. It wasn't until they passed through Spokane again that they came too, saw the mess the troupe was in and decided to make their own way. 
     "Oh say goodby, Thelma! Don't be that way!" Reesa the Serpent Lady ground her knuckles into her hip. Stomped her foot. 
     Thelma refused. 
     Angel winced as she watched Thelma's bulk pressing against the canvas from the inside, saw it jibbering as she heard the bearded woman quietly sobbing from within. 
     "We love you all, but it's time for us to make our own way, own show," said Angel.
    "...and our own family," said Slim with a smile as he lay a hand gently on Angel's tummy.
     A quiet flutter rolled through he troupe. Mixed  emotions, blushing surprise and the rattling of uncertainty drew an ankle-high cloud of red dust across the small midway. The lion tamer looked at his one good hand and then wept openly.

     Slim had the good sense to take calculated risks. Angel had the good sense to rely on her practical attention to purpose, and sought security in familiar ideas in unfamiliar situations. They laughed over the perfect center the balance of those  viewpoints put them.
    He'd say, squinting, "Live, baby alligators... what? Not such a good idea?"
     Or She'd burst out, "It just can't work like that! How'd you get it to work like that?!" 
    They tumbled forward in this manner, without the flash and noise of the circus to deflect the more subtle sounds of life that they had forgotten about - sounds from the outside, sounds from within. 
     They made their way south, toward the heat, agreeing that it might do he baby's soul some good. It was a long ride in a small car and they were short on resources and long on the strength that comes with new horizons. 
     In Missoula, they invented and discussed the fantastic success their child would have in school, each suddenly recalling their own efforts, original dreams, and the shadows of their own misfortunes.
     In Billings,  the left front tire popped. Angel got a look at the robust shape of Slim's temper when the mechanic they'd caught closing up shop at the edge of town thought he'd found something soft to squeeze in the orange glare of a sparkling Montana sunset.
     In Laramie,  Angel realized shed made a wrong turn in Cheyenne at that light after her breakfast dumped on the map. Slim smiled and said nothing.
     In Wichita they had their first real fight. Why not, Slim had been irritated since Laramie, and the not mentioning it felt like a sliver under his tongue. Besides, after Angel noted that seeking a shortcut from Denver to Oklahoma City in the dead of night was a sure-fire waste of time, Slim had two good slivers beneath his tongue.  Wichita was as good a place as any for their first real slugfest, and better than most considering the areas history of wild-west shoot-outs, saloon fights, and plain old back-stabbings that passed for thank you very much.

Thursday, February 2, 2012

Bigtop part 2

     "Thelma's unhappy."
     "She loves you, Slim."
     Angel and slim were married in June. They'd borrowed the camp pick-up outside Spokane, and found a preacher with papers. Few attended, none they knew. A stranger with half a beard and possibly fleas, gave Angel away. The town hall featured lime-green wainscoting that had been roughly trundled across a coffee-stained brown wall with the chuckling pattern of coffee cup stains mysteriously imprinted upon its surface. The motto on the far wall was painted by hand in a similar brown: "near nature, near perfect" all in lower case. This made Angel smile, but she didn't know why.
     It didn't take long after that.
     Thelma.
     A broken hearted bearded lady: Three-hundred and sixty five pounds of coarse-haired blubbering blubber. It doesn't sell.  Bad draw spreads from tent to tent. Drindle The Vampire Boy gets stuck in his coffin.  Soon the barker is too pointy, threatening. The mid-way chief is picking pockets, and the lion tamer has secretly sacrifices  his left hand to Jangles, the ferocious Bengal tiger, on a two a.m. binge over the loss of his secret love (Slim again).
      Meanwhile, angel flew high and far and caught the stars in her hair at midnight while Slim grew stronger and more daring by the day. His sixteen-sword act defied plausibility; all that sharp steel swirling, a vortex of razor-sharp defiance swallowing the laws of physics inches from Slim's keen grin - five times a night!
    "Newton's third law,"
    Slim was saying to Angel across the old picnic table behind the commissary, drunk on dry vermouth, sweet love and dusty-shelled peanuts.
    "Pertaining to motion; for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. And of course, what is all life and all of existence really, but a complex series of motions on this stage," he wriggled about which made. Angel snort loudly, "this time-space ballet! This..," he searched for the word, found it, smiled slyly, "Circus!"
   Angel laughed so hard she fell off the picnic table.

Wednesday, February 1, 2012

Bigtop part 1

     He juggled chainsaws, she walked the tightrope.
     She was impressed that he still had fingers after practicing in the dark. He watched longingly each time she gave up her weight above hushed air.
     Like every Gus - or Carnie, as many like to say, Slim and Angel were both fugitives of time. They'd joined the troupe, each using their own unique deceptions, both owing their lives to them, both satisfied with the breaks that circus life had offered.
     Slim and Angel honed their skills. They towed perfection in tight spirals by taunting singularities, courting attraction at a distance, seducing gravity and the chameleons of desire. They distilled fine shadows of themselves.
     A real Gus finds the dark in the bright-hot spotlight. That's how you sparkle. Thats how you put what needs to be seen in front of the effort. That's what effortless is. The darkness hides the work, the real magic. As the shadows get tighter the magic gets better. This was never spoken; bad mojo to let your magic loose. Every Gus knows it.
    Angel tentatively touched Slim's cheek with a slip of straw as they lay under the bigtop. "I love how you smile when you do the shave routine," she said shyly.
    Slim grinned. "It lifts the mustache on the sides, better target," he offered.  Angel snuggled into the secret.
    He'd stood in the shadows while she practiced. She'd see him down there, watching. Then she'd pat a leg or touch a shoulder, show him the target spot so he knew where she was pushing her weight, making a tumble look like flying, or a drop like a pause in time.
    The sharing was pride. That's what they'd each figured: Pride in each other.  Pride in overcoming their pasts, finding love, cultivating peace, moving forward, cheating the darkness. Oh dear! Pride that they didn't have to worry about bad mojo.
    Shivers.
    Actually, it wasn't pride. No.
    "I know what it means to be hurt," she said, drawing finger along a ragged scar along Slim's chin. "I know what it means to tumble and be laughed at."
     She did.
    Angel had buried her fear of crumbling into dust beneath a mastery of the very physics she couldn't implicitly understand. She couldn't trust herself to trust in her own weight, her own footsteps, one after the next, here to there, because it just didn't make sense. As a child, gripping uncertainty challenged Angel until she yielded, lost her physical being to clumsiness. A short young life with no safety nets, no harness, no bright lights. She tripped and fell and lost and lost and lost until there was little left to lose or worry about breaking. As the world around her shattered, so did she.
    It wasn't pride. It was the art of keeping fear at bay that she shared. Shared with Slim. But it was brute force and death defying tenacity that kept her aloft and that was what she didn't dare share, not even with herself.
    And Slim. A guy doesn't wake up one day and decide to juggle chainsaws. Thats easy. He needs some prodding. This too has nothing to do with pride.
     The battle flares and flashes, roils and spins; chains  and fire and all the wide eyed fear it takes to keep a Bigtop startled stuck with absolute silence behind the whir of the saws: That's what it might take a man who feels little to feel at all. Wield that and you might forget to ask just why it became difficult to feel nearly anything at all... except anger, fear, and loathing.
     Bertram Halberd was a kid who felt the earth growing and slowing between spoonfuls of cold cereal on warm Kentucky mornings. He felt the universe expanding, accelerating, rushing to cease while his teacher groaned on about Iowa, and corn, and math, and these folks, and that stuff and other things he'd never remember behind the joy he felt in sorrow, or the sorrow he felt in joy (the combined sum of both never amounting to anything near a wash as you might imagine). And so a fine specimen of boy wasted away before the enormity of his senses. In no time he was  barely there. Just as quickly they began calling him slim