LIaDVp. 19, Addict dreams, and heading toward the last leg of psychedelia

September 13, 2004

Nothing happened on September 11.

I had a dream last night that I ate a ground squirrel. Like picked up the whole thing and ate it. I was disgusted while chewing, but it tasted pretty good. Dana tells me these are what addiction specialists call "addict dreams." Your mind and body are so accustomed to whatever chemical response you’ve recently kicked, that in the dream state, it fabricates it to have that feeling again. It reminds me of phantom pains in limbs. Physically it’s gone, but the being’s mind and body still want it, or more accurately, still think it’s there. I also had a dream about eating a beef burrito. And a plate of chicken. When I quit smoking I regularly dreamed of smoking for at least a year afterward, and sporadically in years following. The most striking part about all of these dreams though, is the sense of guilt that follows either during the dream or during waking. Inner conflict and cognitive dissonance kick in despite the addiction’s lingering. Not that meat is really an addiction, but really, what other change is more radical than a change in diet? For a more extreme shift in norm, you’d have to change the pattern of your breathing. In waking hours, it’s been good though. The hardest part is availability of things that fit your diet. I had a tofu dog today. It tasted surprisingly like a hot dog. Too bad I really don’t like hot dogs.

I spent the day largely in isolation. It was raining all day and boats didn’t run. Roger wanted us to do some work on Wizard Island, but we mutinied. It was freezing and snowing in places, and visibility was not there. We nudged him to his senses and knocked off at about 10:30. The lodge manager told me to plan on reporting to work the morning after my last day on boats. I talked to her for a minute and then went to the Lodge's lounge to await the EDR’s lunch opening. I read about five pages and then fell asleep in a comfy chair for an hour. Felt great.

I read in my room for about an hour before the rain talked me into sleep, again, sitting in a chair. I awoke and stumbled over to the bed, where I slept for about an hour. When I came to, I was pretty disoriented, a combination of being alone for a while and not really knowing what time it was. I woke up a bit and went to the EDR for one of those tofu dogs, then drove almost immediately home for more reading, this time with the aid of bourbon-laced coffee to get my head right in this storm and fog.

I didn’t want to see anyone today. I think I’m going recluse at the thought of everyone going home soon, or just entering another phase of life here on the mountain. Distancing myself much like I did in the first month at the lake. Trying to stay anonymous. It’s a lot harder now. People come knock on my door. I can’t leave without seeing someone I know. This could be the trend of the last month here though. Withdrawing into myself. Sort of like the last leg of a psychedelic trip, where the giggling and jabbering ends, and you just kind of get quiet and thoughtful just as you start to come back to normal earth and go, "wow, huh."

I had a realization the other day that anything I’ve ever written that I’ve been proud of, or has caused a decent response, or has been well-received by people, was preceded by a great uneasiness before publication. Anything good I’ve ever done, I’ve sat holding before turning it in, thinking, "Oooh, I really don’t know about this one." It occured to me that anything worth publishing should create that feeling in its writer before it goes out. Fingers should be shaking over the keyboard. Waves of fear at how this will be received should wash over the author. Second thoughts of possibly watering it down, or smoothing it out should be had, but ultimately ignored. And after it’s dropped into whatever box or inbox or handed over to whatever editor, there should be a feeling of terror and a desire to grab it back and hide it. And when that feeling is ignored and the send key has long been pressed, there should be a great excitement at having turned in something powerful and fear-inspiring and maybe even good. Because even if it’s not good, it has elicited a visceral response, at the very least, in its creator. It could be great or it could be a disaster, but at least it made one person quake in it’s presence. Otherwise, aren’t we really just playing with ourselves?

Stan and I went into Ashland two nights ago. Had a good time but now I’m flat broke. Went to a co-op for lunch, shopped at a music store and the comic book store. Got some coffee. Had a few beers at this beatiful Ashland Creek Bar and Grill, right over Ashland creek trickling below. A bluegrass/folk band played at the top tier of a multilayered, wood deck over the water and below a canopy of trees. We sat at the bottom tier and talked nonsense and drank beers. Went to get sushi down the street and everything was great because they had just received their fish order. I tried for the first time raw octopus and snapper, along with salmon and yellowtail. It was all so great. And I didn’t puke it up on the ride back. When we got home with the help of a double Americano we woke up Dru and sat around my room, which we named, "Ta-te’s Boomerang Lounge," an amalgam of Dong Won’s mispronunciation of my name and the brand name of my tiny cd boombox I recently bought at Fred Meyer for $24.99. I was carrying it into my room and Stan said, "Hey it really does look like a boomerang." "Really?" "No, I was being sarcastic." We read Angry Youth Comics and Stan laughed his ass off despite his hippie political correctness. The Temptations played as we listened to a double disc collection Stan bought in Ashland. (As a sidenote, earlier Stan said to me, "I don’t know why everyone seems to think of me as a hippie." I laughed and laughed and said, "Stan there is almost no definition of the term ‘hippie,’ that you do not fall under, save maybe the fact that you weren’t around in the 1960s.") We stayed up until Dru finished my knit hat, an awesome wool rollup that’s grey, with a beige and green band. It’s so cool, and I’ve been bragging about it to everyone. It’s a little loose, but I either roll it up a bit, or pull it down over most of my head until I look like Badly Drawn Boy, or a really cool hobo.

Last night, Tim and Stefanie and I went to the Mexican food place on the Rogue River in Shady Cove. Had a great time. It was nice to spend some low key face to face time with friends who I will largely lose contact with soon. Stefanie was prickly and neurotic as usual, but less so, and I think she really enjoyed sitting on the deck over the river and talking about Wisconsin with Tim. I’ve come to settle on enjoying her company, despite the occasional annoyance or iciness during long work hours. I will say that I’m going to miss her, mostly since I know, like so many other people here, that I will very likely never hear from her again. The three of us talked about how it’s kind of sad how soon it will be all over. I haven’t even seen some of the Park Service people in several days, and they go home so soon.

I’ve decided that while interaction and getting outside and doing provides inspiration, only solitude and quiet and time alone with my own thoughts can provide writing; product. A stretch of time all alone is the only thing that does it.