Recently in dreams Category

there's a storm brewing over hollywood hills, time to sail away. she's always naked in my dreams, and it's so natural none of us brings it up. she's doing what she's doing and i'm usually reading a book or watching something on tv. sometimes i touch her skin on my way to the kitchen to grab a beer or something; sometimes she asks me about something i was supposed to follow up for her, to which i mutter some vague answer without interrupting what i'm doing. sometimes she walks cross my eyesight, fully naked, and i don't even notice.

sometimes we make love. she's often quite, her lips placid, her eyes wide open looking away to one side. sometimes she comes first. when she does she closes her eyes, gasps and stretches her neck, clings tightly to my shoulders for a few seconds before relaxing her facial muscles; after which she thrusts me in between her thighs not to stop until i finish and we both lie down dead still, i hear her heart beat as she breathes in my ear. then she leaves for the bathroom, and i watch her wobble away from me, in silence.

sometimes she's on the phone. she grabs her knees into her chest and leans against the cushions on the couch. her voice is serious, i almost don't recognize her, she never uses that tone with me. sometimes i put my head on her lap while she's talking, sometimes she walks away, fully naked, and i don't even notice.

sometimes someone's over. sometimes it's a friend of mine, i talk to him. sometimes it's a friend of hers, she talks to her. we go to movies. we eat. we talk about things. then we say bye and we go home. sometimes i brush my teeth first, sometimes she gets online before coming to bed. sometimes i'm asleep when she does, sometimes i hug her from behind before going to sleep, before we settle away to our own sides. sometimes our toes touch. sometimes that's all that matters to me, that our toes always touch when we're going to bed. sometimes i don't even notice. sometimes it's weird, since we've just had a fight, but our toes still touch.

i always wake up first. i always look at her. sometimes she's naked, sometimes she's not. sometimes she's wearing her pink gown, with her breast hanging out. sometimes its the white one with the string, sometimes i pull it to bare her nipple. sometimes i don't.

sometimes she's not there. then i realize i am awake. that she'll never be there, ever. sometimes i smile. sometimes i don't. it doesn't matter, really.

there's a black crow flying high above the hills in front of me, way below the clouds. its getting dark outside, a storm is coming and i should leave now.

i always wonder, did we ever talk?

on the menu last night we served the infamous months old savory thins, two sliced roma tomatos soaked in balsamic, two spicy hot links wrapped in genuine intestine, ketchup and of course dijon and radish on the side for the main dish, followed by frozen chocolate mochi to tickle your taste buds. we're rinsing tonight's two course meal with 9 year old knob burboun on rocks, and trust me it's the perfect complement for the mochi. on the scale this morning we suffered on the painful realization that the pounds are back, all of them.

she said she's over the douchbag, i said she's not, or else she wouldn't refer to him like that, said she's not indifferent. i'm not indifferent, i'm not over her. sh and m said they never email their ex's, good for them, i think noone should, ever. what's gone is gone. rubbish. nothing's ever gone before i die, which by the way is rescheduled again. due to minor technicalities the suicidal plans are postponed for the time being. unmark your calendars.

on the menu this morning we're serving a momentary lapse of reason by dawn, paranoid self-destructive thoughts by sunrise and agony for breakfast, topped off by a nasty double shot of espresso. parents. los angeles. women. dreams. solitude. sister. passion. money. happiness. failure. void. whiskey. machines. coming soon to a theater near you in black and white superscope, my suicidal dreams are back.

ten thousand years from now there will be no borders anymore, no credit cards and most certainly no such thing as a leaking lid on my morning coffee cup. ten thousand years from now there will be women, and only women on my mind, and on every other member of the entire male species' for that matter.

ten thousand years from now i won't need to work anymore, there's good food and there's good instant coffee, finally. ten thousand years from now there's only one death row and that's voluntary. ten thousand years from now there's finally a pill for computer sciences, another one for liberal arts and a few others for law, medicine and even psychology. ten thousand years from now all of our problems are solved, especially sex, and women have real orgasms all the time, even during their periods. ten thousand years from now there's nothing for me to discuss, nothing to think about, except of course women.

ten thousand years from now there'll be only one quest left to pursue: to find the perfect woman, one that's neither too kind nor too bitchy. one with perfect feet and just imperfect body, say perfect waistline, perfect fingernails and some room for improvement in the chest area. one that's smart enough to fall for me and not too smart to stay. ten thousand years from now i'll finally find her, and she comes to me on a hot summer saturday afternoon.

ten thousand years from now i'll sit across the table from the perfect woman in this restaurant that she picked, because she's very well opinionated on where and what she eats. ten thousand years from now there's not much to talk about, education is worthless and skills are commodities, even playing tchaikovsky on a cello twice the size of the eiffel tower. ten thousand years from now the perfect woman across the table will ask me one question and one question only: so, what do you want from me?

ten thousand years from now there will be no lenses and no sunglasses, there will be sheer silence as i'll be staring right into the perfect naked eyes of the perfectly dressed woman across the table from me, and for the life of me i could not come up with an answer for her. ten thousand years from now the perfect woman will run out of patience, get up, pick up her perfectly red purse and walk away from me while i watch her perfect back linger in perfect harmony catwalking high heels into my past and joining the rest of them. i'll have nothing more to say, nothing more to do and nothing more to think about, except, of course, women.

aging is about changing perspectives, retro rather than pro, rational rather than passionate.

he keeps dreaming of what's out of reach, and settles for what's within. he only gets what he dislikes the least, not even close to what he wants the most. he wanted a latte when he joined the line. he wanted to know more when he moved away. he wanted to get rich when he went to school. he wanted a life when he met her first. she left and took his life away. he keeps spending more than he could make. all that he knows now is he knows nothing and he ordered a regular coffee when it was his turn because he didn't like the barista's makeup : she didn't look like she cared much for espresso shots, let alone the required passion for making a strong and smooth latte.

he sips on his coffee, it's bitter, it's good. he thinks of his date, she's pretty, she's good. he thinks of his day, it's boring and it's shitty, it's life. he stares at the wall with the post-it notes. he tears another one and writes : man lives in a world that's within his reach, where dreams are evil and coffee feels real. he reaches for his drawer to grab a new pin, he fails to find one and tosses it away.

drunk driving is therapeutic. it takes you places you wouldn't have gone. it helps you forget death lies between the lines. it lets you smile at the red blurry lights. it's the closest thing to a surreal sex scene in a sad slow drama, where there's much more rage than there's lust and desire in the eyes of the actor. drunk driving is just wrong, and wrong always feels good to commit.

there they were in my rear view mirror, they were all there. she had cut her hair, i'd never seen her with short hair before. glossy lipstick, bright pink cheeks and pitch black mascara, her eyes smiling, leaning on her side, she was drunk too.

she was wearing a green dress and gold shoes, she sat next to her.

she was singing along with the french song that was playing in the cd player. it was the one she'd bought from starbucks a while back.

she was reading a book with my photo on the cover. she glanced at me with her brown eyes, shook her head at me with a shy smile, and continued reading.

she rubbed my shoulders from behind. she said i'll be fine, but now i should leave.

she opened the door and took off without saying good bye. the car behind me picked her up, they kissed in the car.

i reached for the button on the cd player and raised the volume. i raised it even more. they were all gone now.

drunk driving is just plain wrong. it messes with your head, that's why some choose to crash into the car in front of them, or the one behind. they can't take the trip, and they choose to die.

i said i never remember. she said i'll remember if i wanted to. this week i've had three so far. she said i need to write it down or else i'll forget.

i entered s.'s house knowing she's the only one home. it doesn't look like s.'s but i know it well and go straight to the master bedroom. i leave my backpack on the armchair across from the bed and change into my shorts, as if i'm there to stay. she walks out of the shower with her towel around her, not really caring if i see her body. she's surprised to see me, doesn't look mad or angry though. sort of indifferent maybe. she's drying herself as the mexican maid walks in. i spring to my feet thinking it's her mom and i'm relieved to find out i'm wrong. she is there to tell her she's leaving with her kids. ( her three kids followed her into the room ) once she's gone i realize i need to leave ( not sure why ). once out of the bedroom she closes the door behind me, she's fully naked now. i knock on the door as i remember i left my stuff inside, she doesn't quite open the door, i let myself in, assuring her i'm just pickin up my backpack. i leave the room.

on my way down the stairs i hear people walkin up. it's s. and her two sons and a few others i don't recognize. there's an odd old guy talkin to a young girl next to him, two of them leading the crowd. they reach upstairs. someone from the crowd walks me out, noone's really payin that much attention to me. dance music starts inside as i'm walking out. i can still hear the music even though the door is shut behind me as i step on the street.it's a busy street in daytime. s.'s house has a big wood door with gold bearings on it. now the music is really loud. i step inside again. this time i'm in a big hall, dancing girls are performing in the middle and many are standing by the walls around watching them. i stand by the door. i notice her right behind me, she's wearing a plain black dress. our eyes meet but we don't talk. she's staring at me as i leave.

i can't recall when the last time was when i saw her so vividly in my dreams, but then i have no recollection of my dreams. i'll take this in with me tonight.