jayhat

Archive for the ‘Dreams’ Category

The joy of Faith

In Dreams, novelish on November 10, 2010 at 8:12 pm

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a wad that she rolled into a ball, then between her fingers, into a thin rope, like an angel’s hair. She blocked one nostril with her thumb, lifted the rope to her other and snorted, it shot into her body like case through a pneumatic tube. She twitched, then her eyes glazed over, then closed, and her breath slowed to that of a dream. Her head bobbed, as if floating on calm waters, and her body took on a faint, heavenly glow.

She leaned back into the couch’s cushion, her head lolled backwards, to the side, and down, and she slumped over, a faint, boyish smile creased across the corners of her lips, and a tiny bead of drool coalesced and slowly dribbled down her chin.

She dreamed of pale clouds flying past azure skies, yellow hummingbirds gathering on the black shingles of red barns with white shutters. The green grass danced in the light breeze, a cool, clear river gurgled a sweet song of lethargy, tranquility.

She swam laps through time, and—before she awoke—she found pure, unadulterated ecstasy waiting by the door, keys in hand, ready to take her for a ride.

So I enter this room, and God’s there, just chillin

In Dreams, novelish, Post Script on October 21, 2010 at 7:55 pm

Here’s what He said:

“Go away.”

Me? I said.

“No,” He said, motioning his hand towards the rest. “Everyone. Everything.”

I went to leave.

“And you will,” He said, nodding. “Soon enough.”

You’re certain? I said.

He shrugged. “Soon enough,” He said. “Eventually everything goes away.”

So I started for the door.

He grunted and said something softly, too soft.

I turned. Huh? I said.

“Nothing,” He said. He looked in my direction, but His gaze was slightly distant, like He couldn’t think of the right way to put something.

Again I went for the door.

“You should know something,” He said.

I let him finish.

He sighed. “You’re one of the good ones,” He said. “If people ask, let them know how you really feel about things. Don’t hide anything, just tell the truth.” He paused. “Maybe when people finally stop bickering, they’ll realize what’s really important.”

What do you mean? I said.

“Nothing,” He said and shook His head.

What’s important? I said.

“I have no idea,” He said. “You tell me.”

Seven Days

In Dreams, Imagination, nature, What people are on December 11, 2009 at 9:07 pm

On the first day of July, a baby was born, beautiful blue eyes blinking before he’d even breached.  The only sound he ever made was a faint grunt, as if coming to a conclusion after ruling out a number of less likely possibilities.

On the second day of July, a toddler taught himself to walk by mimicking the sky’s clouds that galloped passed his nursery window.  His bounding gait taught others how to dance and proved to birds that it was possible to fly.

On the third day of July, a frumpish little boy walked along a black sand beach along the north fork of the Isle of Man, staring over the water at the water color, rainbow sunset.  The gentle breeze whispered sweetly a song of praise, a psalm, an anecdote, advice on how to grow up, how to be a father an uncle and a brother.  The frumpish little boy grinned and spit into the sea.

On the fourth day of July, an awkward teen fumbled through his clothes, looking for a lock or a clasp or a hinge or a knot.  Although he had never seen it with his own eyes, he knew it was there, which is why he stumbled, stammered, paused, or blushed.

On the fifth day of July, a young adult made his bed.  He folded the corners and tucked the sheets, he fluffed the pillows and replaced the comforter.  He stood back, looking upon that which had created and realized that, in reality, he had not actually made anything; rather, he had simply reorganized what had already been.

On the sixth day of July, a man sat on his couch, reflective of his life thus far.  He remembered the good times, yes, but he also considered all of the wasted hours and how fast it all seemed.  He wondered if there was something that he was missing or if this was really it.

On the seventh day of July, an octogenarian stubbed his toe, yelled a curse, and was struck down, dead by the god he swore he never believed in.

I attempt to prove the existence of reality

In Dreams, English, Imagination, Language, nature, What people are on October 8, 2009 at 5:03 pm

I think, therefore I am.

I am, therefore I do.

I do, therefore I act.

I act, therefore things happen.

Things happen, therefore things change.

Things change, therefore there exists something outside myself.

There exists something outside myself, therefore I am not alone.

What Humor Is

In Dreams, Humor, Imagination on August 25, 2009 at 11:09 am

Dreams and imagination are a bit like comedy.

A good joke is one where the punch line is unexpected. If the audience knows what’s coming—if the punch is anticipated—it’s not going to be funny. If the punch is wholly nonsensical—get a few laughs as it might for the absurdity—it’s still not a good joke, as the creative construct of the joke itself was not the reason for the laughs.

So really, a good joke is one that is told to an end that the audience did not see coming, but when they think about it later, they realize they could have.

* * * *

Oh, and one more thing about that:

Humor is firm, but once it breaks, it’s practically irreparable.

Which is to say,

When someone loses the ability to make you laugh, they aren’t likely to get it back.

* * * *

In summation:

Humor is a product of awareness.

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