The Wee Democracy

the late show

i'm off tomorrow, so i figure, why not stay up late. late nights usually mean one of a couple things these days. i can stay up and watch movies, contorting my body in some freakish burlesque display of exposed hairy limbs and dissastisfied grunts. i can come to the office, turn on the computer, put a particular late night song on repeat and try to write, or i can leave all media aside, and think.

options one and two are the usual drugs of choice for that compulsion for me to adopt a batlike habit, but option three is always a nice break from monotony. i wish life could be more like that episode of punky brewster where she goes to bed griping about how henry never lets her have any fun, and she wishes she was the adult. "i wish i was the adult," she goes on chanting, falling asleep and talking all at the same time. the dream sequence starts and punky is an old lady and henry is in some scary-ass lollipop guild attire, skipping and eating oversized candy, giving off the vibe that he is naive fodder for all the trouble the universe can heap upon a child. if that were the case, i'd be having a LOT more fun when i dream. as it is, i spend a great deal running for my life.

i don't really have sex dreams. i mean, you'd think i would, but i don't. stastistics, really. i have to remember my dream, first of all. then, you have to consider that my dreams are pretty qually split down the middle between bad and not bad. then, cut in half again between not bad and good. and good can be simply that i'm hanging out with friends, or suddenly rich, or somehow head of a tribunal that is in charge of dealing with the rogue's gallery of miscreants from my past that somehow or another fucked me up/over and now must throw themselves, quite literally, upon my mercy as i, again, quite literally, hold their lives in my hands. so in the dream sphere, good does not necessarily mean sex. even romantic doesn't mean sex. i once had a dream in high school about my four-year crush where she opened her front door to greet me, i'm standing in the rain (why always in the rain?) and she brings me in, and takes off my shirt, lays me on the floor, and warms me up with her body heat, all without saying a word. see? that's nice and sweet, but there was no smoov' motion in it at all.

man, i got off track. the point i was trying to make was that these waking dreams, fantasies or whatever label you give them, aren't necessarily always or even often revolving around sex. no, most of the time, i'm just thinking about that aforementioned thing -- romance.

i sleep with my head on my arm, right or left, depending on which side i'm sleeping on in preparation for the weight of the head of my lover. snapshots of the future, cooking breakfast together, in the bright honest light of the morning sun; soft warm lights of the evening, candles, some amazing music in the background, or just in my head, the soundtrack to life that i will compile before too long (richard buckner, just now); when she asks about the scars on my hands; when i chuck out all the cynicism i've built up about romance and love and forego the self preservationist mindset singularity breeds; christmas mornings and birthday nights; sleeping together, and just sleeping; private jokes and love letters; being able to speak yawn with one another, and saying all that needs to be said with grunts and sighs, breaths and smiles....all that good stuff.

of course, sometimes i also fantasize about starting a band, but most of the songs i'd love to sing are just covers, but the world would love them, just the same.

richard buckner ...."ariel ramirez"