...
And there's a connection somewhere I can't tell you about, even though I'm trying to tell you about it. I usually get right over here to my machine to take down what I remember from dreams because dreams stopped being anything like plain for me about twenty years ago... if they ever were. Turned out that a lot of my Zen work needed, and still does, to take place when I am asleep.
Maybe the worst part of being me is the circus of sleep disorders, and when I go too long without remembering even that I dreamed, let alone what, it gets me down in a way almost nobody I can talk to begins to comprehend. I honestly don't mind that you're pretty sure I'm loony. I'm not trying to give you that impression. I don't care if you have that impression. I'm not doing my thing every day to "express myself". Though a lot of the stuff that lands here is a way to get something down that can be found by me, by you, by any sentient being of any of the ten times, with some work or blind chance.
Noting insights. Mulling memories. Getting dreams down so I can learn from myself. Practicing making points on the moment and letting the ether decide if they help you navigate through space... if some almost random shot hits the bullseye.
Okay. So. I'm developing a little bookmarks folder of things that help me sleep. I gave up on the long lectures by droners whose topics are so stupid my brain won't appreciate anything but the droning, because too much of the time my brain wants to hear what there is around to hear... well... not. Not hear that, but something wafting through the house from my computer to drown that out and create an aural situation where getting to sleep might be an option. Sturgill talking to Rogan is in that folder.
The very instant he first came into my senses was right in the beginning of that podcast on the day it was recorded and that split second is ALWAYS where it all comes down. It called to me from half a century ago. It was not like the first time one comes somehow into the range of your senses. It was like a burst of memory.
Then when I went to his site to listen to his music, one of his hoots in one of his songs, nailed me with it again, and even harder. Okay. No mistake then.
Except, this memory might not even be from my life. It might be my dad's. I can't quite nail it, but can say it is extremely moving, snaps every bit of me to attention... like... maybe my autonomic nervous system might be turned from its grind if we're not careful kind of snapped to attention.
It's a girl thing. Probably.
I don't know if boys get it. Well, if it happens to them the same way. Like maybe their autonomic nervous systems don't turn from their grind to attend to something more urgent. Theirs maybe inflate or grow stronger to orchestrate that more urgent thing. I don't know. Just a thought.
So. It's sexual. But not like tits and ass. Not like fucking kind of sexual. It's muuuuuuch more intense and not even in the remotest sense dirty or anything else of the relative, walking around, meatspace gestalt. It does feel kind of akin to a crush, but it isn't. It's cellular... cellular memory... or... it might be the unbounded parsecs of spirit in those cells... like I say, I can't quite pin it down for you.
Anyway, a couple weeks ago, feeling really bloody sick and tired of the whole debacle of me getting in bed and not having the tiniest part of an idea how it's going to pan out, if it's going to end up giving me needed rest or making everything worse, I decided to invoke Sturgill to please ERASE this just this once, just show up in dreamland and force it out of consciousness this one time. First thing as I got in bed I did this. I just spoke in past myself to the cosmos. Sturgill. Please.
I fell asleep. At some point I was in a bed, a huge bed, of utter softness and perfectly pristine white bed linens, that were, it felt like, actual linen. I could not see the edges of this bed. I could not see anyone else in it with me, but I could feel him, and it was pure. No one in any of the ten directions. Pure. For really only as long as it took me to recognize this pristine truth, and then, ???, there was someone else in the bed. Sturgill's wife. I saw neither of them. All I saw was white bed linens with no boundaries. I was in a cosmic bed between Sturgill Simpson and his wife. For really only as long as it took me to realize this alarming truth.
Then I was out in the street, in their neighborhood, with demons and bad guys and I wanted to warn them, but a really scary devil barred the way back. For no reason, not even to save their lives, was I allowed back in that bed.
I woke up chastened, to put it mildly. And needing to parse those split seconds into a billion pieces.
I can get there. I do get there. And it CANNOT be for "me" even an iota.
always and any time....
