Dream a little dream...

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Talking to giants.  Who, you might ask?  Michael, Desert Cat, Vox, and others.  Readers, consumers really, and producers, of the very products about which the discussion was based.  From, who... Heinlein, give or take, on up to today.  The secret writers.  Some from before, for scale, with an ear to history, into literary homage.  It was a wonderful experience, if more as a child, literarily, somehow seated at the big people's table.

Oh, I had heard of their beloved masters of science fiction, prose, poetry, and horror.  I had, for one reason or another, rejected most.  There were a few jewels I wouldn't fully reject, flaws and all.  Hemingway, and a few others.  Still, the regaling of stories and tidbits about authors, bringing the dead quick if but for a brief moment while giving the living an elevated status.  The nature of storytelling the more vivid through obvious adoption amongst the devotees.

On it went until the spun bottle landed in my direction, for the third time... fourth, fifth?  No longer was a claim of ignorance, self-denial, or other attempts at evasion or subterfuge allowed.  Showed theirs, the price was to show mine.  Yes, I had seen this coming, like a cat stuck in a ripe river, heading to a fall.  For some things... the dignity of some events can never be granted, only seen or not by the beholders.

I explained my problem.  I was, literarily, for the most part, if happily, stuck in another time.  Poe, Twain... Clemens... Leghorne boy,I say boy, William Blake, Swinburne, but less, as with they, the common tripe fed the masses.  At least we held that in familiar.  Our tastes had required stepping out of the daily bread?  Perhaps in more ways than one.  If the Hellfire crüe had a literary component?  As we say... deny... so it was, or wasn't.

No, I said.  I refuted modern literary.  Couldn't, wouldn't, tolerate.  Still, far from innocent.  Merely, my whiter shade of pale came from, or went into, a different form of the arts, namely music.  In that I drowned, addressed, expressed, exalted, my sins.  I explored my rejection of masculine duty, Godly obedience, rage and other hungers.  I lost myself, threw myself away to or in the music, as if swimming into the sea with no intention of returning.

Somewhere, out there, I... came to my senses.  I once again fell in love with the simple notion of the naked man and woman.  I found, if not what I had thought had been my home, a new and better home... if one I cannot go to... not yet.  I saw God not in but beyond the distortion, though in time I realized He is there too.  He isn't a party to dissonance, He simply cannot be erased by it.

From Avenged Sevenfold, Wolfe to Epica, Monster Magnet to Mötörhead, to groups and people who have no names or have names which make no sense, I have crawled across the psychic and spiritual killing floor to a place divine.  It isn't for me yet, but it is waiting.  That... is the story of my stories.  What a dream...


I didn't see their reaction, but came away satisfied in having "shown mine", warts, scars, and all.  It seemed as if my take nourished, and was accepted in the spirit and truth offered.  It was all I could honestly share as it was all I honestly had.  Not just in the dream, but as I sit and write.  Man, though... remembering this, to see it written?  That... took some effort.  And, yes, that is the whole of the dream as well reproduced as written words could order it.

I hope you enjoy.  Enjoy?  Whatever that word is for you, I hope it... was worth the moments to read.  Good morning and day.