dreamweaver three

hmm...14 July 2025.
i dedicated June to not much at all -
it felt as if i had wroted a novel
instead of dream notes...i kept
wondering over the puzzle of the
last penned dream herein...it
was too vivid, maybe too much...
i only knew that i had to end
the notes there in order to
start over...it was an estimated
three hundred pages if double spaced -
well, i've put those away and here
goes...monday, daria called her
puppy her soulmate...i felt in
a daze...on the fifth of july,
i happend to see a picture of
two friends, children...i kept
wishing i hadnt seen it, but
even as cut off as i am from
most folks and i suppose even
some of my own emotions, that
scene really got to me...
i was in the middle of writing
some new songs and wrote four
verses...the fourth was left out
when it came to recording -
it took a couple of days to settle
into it...when i finally escaped
noisy distractions, the sudden phone
calls insisting on either hanging up or
pointless trivia, the strange hound
seemingly in search of boy-vagina,
and an insane argument about the beach...
(what else could it be except madness when
i have no inclination or desire to sit in the sun)
oh yes and the bizarre 'no input' mystery
which i suppose is all part of the process, like
pound might say...
indeed, when i finally escaped
nothing mattered but the work at hand...i called
it 'the fifth of july' and put it out for release
with these lyrics;

I KNEW LILA WAS DEAD
- HOPED ELOISE WOULD SURVIVE;
SHE LOVED HER PUPPY DOG,
SHE HADNT EVER BEEN WED.

A HOUSE DANCED
ON A RIVER'S SONG AS IT PLAYED
LONE STAR STATE OF TEXAS
YEAH SOMEHOW STAYED...

I COULDNT TELL HANNAH AND REBECCA APART
- THEY WERE TWINS LIKE
FLOWERS IN A FIELD'S GARDEN
- IT'D BEEN THAT WAY RIGHT FROM THE START

A HOUSE DANCED
UPON A RIVER
(A RIVER'S SONG AS IT PLAYED)
LONE STAR STATE OF TEXAS
WE SOMEHOW STAYED...

LITTLE BLAIR COULDNT UNDERSTAND
- SHE WEPT SHE CRIED;
LITTLE BROOKE COVERED HER
SAYING COME ON GIRL HOLD MY HAND

A HOUSE DANCED
UPON A RIVER'S SONG AS IT PLAYED
LONE STAR STATE OF TEXAS
WE SOMEHOW STAYED...

A HOUSE DANCED
UPON A RIVER
(A RIVER'S SONG AS IT PLAYED)
LONE STAR STATE OF TEXAS
WE SOMEHOW STAYED...

i'd put placed all four verses on vsco from
handwritten notes photographed along with the chords
which remained the same...save for an added note
musical note.
as i glance through recollections, wondering why julia
mecey and joey king enjoy love island, wondering if
charles bukowski actually dropped a man at the race track
as in the italic section of factum or even why sylvia
plath's ghost doesnt haunt the hell out of matt haig...
i remember that night, the fourth of july...
i dreamt something like a bridge or a dam where the water
was red, crimson, but in that nearly dried blood brown color
and i couldn't see where i was but i saw a man holding a shotgun
and he did not move or speak, the motionless image against the
waves were etched in my mind the following day...i thought it
was about a guitar that had been slow to arrive and that
possibly it had suffered in transit yet by the time i went to
sleep again it felt revealed...well, decyphered...neither spirit
nor worry could save these lives from the devastation waltz
winding its way in what they call flash flood alley...
i was certain it was william s burroughs, a man who knew
about loss in an intimate way...aside from the wife, his only
son had perished and even in the afterlife i suppose some
emotions keep, all you can do is stand there and bear witness
i learned also that gabrielle's mother and my own share
a birthdate as it were...
i don't want to write anymore about these things as in
typing i might not reflect how much i felt and much less
how it all still hurts and will continue to hurt so many...
so i re-order that guitar and continue to wait...
i have a few dreams to jot, but those will be done
at some other point in time when i can turn my minimalist
writing into an even more concise style so as to not end
up with a book-length manuscript that might only serve
self-references...


16 july 2025

i consider yesterday notable even if i don't
fully examine it here...
learning another side of the camp story...
what was her name, hayden...well she spoke
kinda like how i speak...
the second axe was shipped on the 11th
and arrived on the 15th
it felt as if my writing had manifested it...
reminds me of the telecaster except it
has a decided rock and roll tone
(no single coil pick ups)
i decorated it while listening to mustang sally
for a minute, everything else took a back seat
meaning it was thrilling...
i'm thinking now of a dream i had in may
i'd been with lotta in my old apartment
she kissed me and it was magical
we lay there talking about what the next meal
should be when a man with gun started shooting
at me and i ran into another room
there is a bookend dream to this scene which
i will jot later...
she's watching the summer i turned pretty
which i looked at but found revolting
i'm wearing a snake ring on my middle finger
instead of my stainless steel spoon since
some sort of rust invaded it...
anyway i awoke with a racing heart and
the realization of how much she means to me
hmm...when i said not much in june i meant movies too
although i did watch most of the secret life
of the american teenager
well, this was more than i intended to note...
let's leave it at that - for now -
here are two outtakes of the song i mentioned
i had the intent to adjust my release for one of
these but i couldn't figure out how to do that
and i am aware that this sort of takes the
expectation away from the single but i want
to share these as a way of saying it is
not about streams or whatever, it is what it is.




the fifth, second alternate- two skinny girls...

the fifth, alternate- two skinny girls...


17july2025

correction, the mustang only sounded like that through the boss amp...at the fender, it was much nicer...yes i was fender-reluctant, but since i don't much use pedals, the champ amp was only logical...as for the guitar, i kept hearing a line from blind willie mctell when i would go window shopping for axes until finally i didn't want to be haunted by it... it is a step up from the ancient mustang i had which hardly ever stayed in tune but it is not for big hands, even mine feel it to be a task going up the fret as if i had to abbreviate my fingers which is the exact opposite of the jackson wherein my hands sense and appropiate the space... at least i feel a sort of bulgari vibe with my new ring...still, all this goes against my attempt at brevity and i have yet to jot the dream note...hmm, notes.. connie francis died and her song had recently become a hit again...even a parody emerged, "you can touch my pussy..." which might have been the cause of her demise...but many several poets also passed away and i had the evil urge to make a list of all the writers that had perished after 'the tortured poets depart-ment' hmm...but what really worries me is the grammar when gender is made illogical- andrea is called 'they' instead of she - here is quote/example: "Their father, Mark, worked for a post office and their mother, Shirley, was a secretary at a technical college. They have one sister, Laura." this plural form makes language more of a virus than it needs to be, indeed and why? where was i...ah yeah, i find lately that i go to sleep only to awake an hour or so later simply to wander around in confusion...that was the case last night, but first the bookend thing; i had walked into a shop with julia and told her to get something to drink, there were only cans of coors in the fridge... we walked out and there and then several men harassed us, one of them with a stick that knocked the hat off my head...it had been a goodly time until then...weeks later i learned that she had lost her red baseball cap - cut to yesterady, i'm in the bath and the bath is overflowing, i am trying without luck to shut off the water as somehow there are more knobs than i care to count, i say the words julia help but as i do i find the right knob then we are on a bed where a cat climbs up, i remark that it is not skirt and i think of hedwig who it resembles but as a kitten - the cat speaks and i wonder if we have all gone crazy...i awake and can't get back to sleep until half a pack of cigarettes and coffee argue with melatonin...i kept seeing romy mars although i only 'met' her at some far away chanel thing... i like her especially since she positively proves my point that sofia was and is pretty...the only thing is it makes mayhem of my fantasy life... love her ego song - so catchy... she had a bad scene at some hotel, in my dream which i thought was about michael madsen, another poet, i was in the elevator trying to get to the twenty ninth floor - there was no 29 button, someone pressed all the buttons and i got out on seventeen determined to navigate the stairs - 1920s elegance surrounded me, someone with a glass case of coins, collectables, and aritfacts was set up like a cigarette girl might be and i stopped for a glance there and then noticing a man seemingly having a heart attack nearby, i kept walking after thinking about it all for a minute - as i contemplate it now it was like the waldorf astoria...a minute ago having a grand re-birth...i'd been there once upon a late night frenzy...but i don't remember any stairs...not even much walking as yellow cabs did the work...miss morin was at the chelsea hotel, i took a peek at how upscale 23rd street is now...i think it's where i bought that other mustang...i think it's still there unlike music row on 48th...anyway, yes poets are supposed to die like everyone else while a few songs and verses live on but is it time to advocate for protection of the scribes... well, i dunno, but if someone whats to protect me - please do but get Daria safe before that...


3 aug

not sure what to call this...an update? an explanation...well whatever it is, the thing is that last month i decided to make these notes wait until the song was released, which i expected to be a matter of days or a week... there are several many dreams on the backlog... but maybe this will help me make it all more concise...still, i don't want anyone thinking that i have been putting the dreamweaver page on the backburner...on the offchance that new visitors arrive or that i have upset followers, i am put-placing the earlier notes back in some sort of extra html box...meanwhile, i still expect the track to be released any minute now...i am reading charlotte bronte's villete, i had more of a party than i expected with charles bukowski's hollywood...nearly as lavish as pulp, now i am in the middle of a cheesy slasher ride called graduation day - this after viewing red sun and wondering who would find the sword left hanging there on the train wires...i think i have entered into the veritas guitar giveaway and i will be beside myself if i happen to win - hmm i was thinking about love letters from a portuguese nun as i wondered why it had such an impact on me...i couldn't figure it out, as i looked at it again everyone seemed to differ from my recollection but i saw why or partly why kia attracted me...there is a similarity between her and susan hemingway...it was then that robyn disappeared and i viewed ballerina which i felt was too much into developing the backstory and training only to be clumsy but it came through in the end with some help from keanu and a flamethrower...being maria was extremely hard to get through, as i think highly of LTIP yet this never gives you a way to care for ms schneider - the element of spoiled brat never leaves...despite the stories, she and brando remained friends although it is true that the same cannot be said for bertolucci - you see there is no way to win, obviously i can't dismiss a woman's suffering but i cannot badmouth bertolucci as the only director that ever mailed me directly as if i were on his level...well, some situations have no distinct resolution...let's see i also took a look at meghan 2.0 but the wonder of the first has worn off in this sequel - didn't they see the fabulous potential of the opening story with an ai model gone beserk... dude, that was the movie and then end it with the promise of meghan being re-built for a third film...well, it didnt leave a bad taste yet mostly that's the way i saw it...like they threw everything at the audience hoping something would stick...finally, cold sweat was all right but here too they purposely posed the little girl to give men upskirt panty shots...no reason at all unless there is something about bastille day they haven't told me... yeah, dream notes will return when the song is out.

9 august 2025 the fifth of july was released on the eighth of august, i was immersed in establishing a balance in terms of of music software that is to say uninstalling this and installing that...mostly this involved native instruments...it felt as if had been suddenly rewarded for my efforts which was an all nighter that went past noon given that the second laptop requested an update that was slow and resulted in me foolishly deleting the onedrive documents folder which turned out to be the actual and only document container...it wasnt in the live trash to restore and it seems to have took the restore points too...so there was the matter to checklist the missing things and get as many back as possible except i don't know what was there exactly or why it took up so much space since i only use that for music - reminds me to double check if anything else needs to be put placed therein again...in any case, i felt good and sensed it as a turning point although part of me wished to go back to typewriters and tape recorders...in my dream there was some sort of discussion, could some beds be countries...the other afternoon i awoke to a vision of a chinese letter or note which dissolved into dots as if translated morse code...i say it is a vision since it was there at the moment i awoke and vanished while i got up - daria returned from sicily and wore a revealing red dress, i was pretty surprised when she said she was switching schools as she counted her shoes...i freaked out over julia presenting her neighbor as a best friend while worried that it would in turn give my own next door upstairs or downstairs an entrance... ironically i have never felt so attracted to the other julia... well lets get irony out of the way - lotta said she broke up with someone that she had gone to mallorca and taken home... i hesitate to spell out my suspicion that is was her manager, but it is only logical to consider being that she specificied him as a companion during her first trip to france...i sensed it then but there may be more to the story than meets the eye and it is nobody's business, i only mention it in passing to show myself how foolish i can still be...but what will i do with these feelings and these memorized imprints within the mind's eye...germany suspends military aid to israel...alaska takes center stage...i realize that having a lot of guitars also brings the dilemma of which one to play...agency heads perish, stella then william, for a minute, as i glanced at writings and songs i thought to myself i've overdone it, i've taken on too much...yet it is an age of excess, is it not? i'm nearing chapter twenty of villette and i like it thus far - i started to view harvest yet i realized that i was too distracted and tired and hopefully can give it the attention it deserves today...i'm happy to return here for these erratic notes and i have a hell of ghost story for you next time...

18/08

i do not feel myself to be a stranger to ghosts...at least not in dreams...i have felt their visits like angels on parole from heaven's jail...here you go, take a few minutes for the living...ever since i started writing i thought of the words are we dead that live to tell, i thought also of fame is the sun that shines on the dead, well i thought of many things but these in relation to that...in any case, it's nothing i can prove, what proof is there within the unconsciousness...only the shadows within memory...in the case of my uncle, i would amend the statement to be from hell's confines or perhpas via purgatory's expiation, do a good deed and we'll let you go home, as it were... i don't think the church kept that middle ground it's weird that it comes to mind on the heels of the hand of dante, who ofcourse included it in his divine comedy - where was i well i was stopped thrice at returning here, first the subject matter - in this occasion it wasnt a member of the family, it was someone i employed...i saw him for the last time on the street, circa 108 or 109 broadway, he remarked about my countenance as if surprised, i didn't know what to say and said it was plastic surgery - in fact thinking of Elvis who i had heard say to get it early so it wouldnt have to be so drastic et cetera... listening to undescribably blue a dozen times yesterday after the anniversary of his death...he'd gotten a bit crude in a car as the documentary rolled, i think now, so somehow this all fits together as in the dream it was a car, the centerpiece was a car - unlike my dream last night of leah telling me we were friends and then awaking to think it was bentley whi i had suggested be considered to play sinead although she is neither an actor or singer yet you can't look at her and not see the resemblance once it's pointed out...in that dream i think he pointed at the car, i was with a girl, not sure who - he was with another, i put my girl in the back seat and got in the front seat - then he got into the driver's seat with his girl sort of upon him but they kept shifting and sexually so until he ejaculated on her face yet all the while looking at me in the end with some sort of cruel satisfaction i could not understand as i awoke...a precise memory of something he had told me led me to believe that it was a ghost, no imagination or product of mind, miller and aspirin, this was his recipe to last longer during intercourse...you load up on miller high life beer and get a couple of aspirin...subsequently i wondered if ghosts actually had sex in the afterlife, they never really frighten me and this was no different in that sense but it sure was intense and i sort of wish i knew what it meant... i thought about it briefly again while watching the very strange the night always comes...mazda madness...eddington shows us the madness created at the start of the pandemic - i recalled my argument that there was no logic to it, like prohibiting driving so there'd be no accidents... because even walking one might stumble and fall... ah yes, i was shocked to see walk hard the dewey cox story...but i will refrain from commentizing upon it - as i will remain silent on harvest, which is in a class of its own. now then, or secondly, i was stopped by the awful feeling of the delay fact...my spirits, high in expectation of a haul that should have been arriving, were brought down low as the package was sent out a week later than i thought...so all that won't be here until next week...look at my very own first world problem! and finally well thirdly, i was stopped by the insight in a passage within villete, i imagine very few people will comprehend but it contains a severe truth and that along with the fact that the novel might have peaked in the middle gave me pause; yes i know it is a long passage, but i must put-place it here so as to have it available... from chapter 24; "Those who live in retirement, whose lives have fallen amid the seclusion of schools or of other walled-in and guarded dwellings, are liable to be suddenly and for a long while dropped out of the memory of their friends, the denizens of a freer world. Unaccountably, perhaps, and close upon some space of unusually frequent intercourse⁠—some congeries of rather exciting little circumstances, whose natural sequel would rather seem to be the quickening than the suspension of communication⁠—there falls a stilly pause, a wordless silence, a long blank of oblivion. Unbroken always is this blank; alike entire and unexplained. The letter, the message once frequent, are cut off; the visit, formerly periodical, ceases to occur; the book, paper, or other token that indicated remembrance, comes no more. Always there are excellent reasons for these lapses, if the hermit but knew them. Though he is stagnant in his cell, his connections without are whirling in the very vortex of life. That void interval which passes for him so slowly that the very clocks seem at a stand, and the wingless hours plod by in the likeness of tired tramps prone to rest at milestones⁠—that same interval, perhaps, teems with events, and pants with hurry for his friends. The hermit⁠—if he be a sensible hermit⁠—will swallow his own thoughts, and lock up his own emotions during these weeks of inward winter. He will know that Destiny designed him to imitate, on occasion, the dormouse, and he will be conformable: make a tidy ball of himself, creep into a hole of life’s wall, and submit decently to the drift which blows in and soon blocks him up, preserving him in ice for the season. Let him say, “It is quite right: it ought to be so, since so it is.” And, perhaps, one day his snow-sepulchre will open, spring’s softness will return, the sun and south-wind will reach him; the budding of hedges, and carolling of birds, and singing of liberated streams, will call him to kindly resurrection. Perhaps this may be the case, perhaps not: the frost may get into his heart and never thaw more; when spring comes, a crow or a pie may pick out of the wall only his dormouse-bones. Well, even in that case, all will be right: it is to be supposed he knew from the first he was mortal, and must one day go the way of all flesh, “As well soon as syne.” Following that eventful evening at the theatre, came for me seven weeks as bare as seven sheets of blank paper: no word was written on one of them; not a visit, not a token. About the middle of that time I entertained fancies that something had happened to my friends at La Terrasse. The mid-blank is always a beclouded point for the solitary: his nerves ache with the strain of long expectancy; the doubts hitherto repelled gather now to a mass and⁠—strong in accumulation⁠—roll back upon him with a force which savours of vindictiveness. Night, too, becomes an unkindly time, and sleep and his nature cannot agree: strange starts and struggles harass his couch; the sinister band of bad dreams, with horror of calamity, and sick dread of entire desertion at their head, join the league against him. Poor wretch! He does his best to bear up, but he is a poor, pallid, wasting wretch, despite that best."