Antarctica IT project

I was worried. Someone had somehow managed to wrangle all of our equipment up there into a network that worked, wirelessly! And I was wondering where it was all set up: On a trailer, on top of the ice? Don't we need a ship of some kind... the ice is melting up there! 
Received a text from the person who did it, saying he'd be happy to provide details on how it was done. That's perfect.

(I woke up to look for the text... it felt that real)

--Dream communication with the love of my life, G. Dec 2019--

These cards came up during Thanksgiving.

 

I'm communicating with you here. And I will speak to you in our dreams.

We have always communicated this way, but I had not met you yet on earth. Now we have.
But instead of wondering where you are, I feel and love you here.
You, who are in such turmoil that you cannot communicate and love me, like you did for 8 months.

And when we have finally met -- after missing each other a millenia -- you cannot be with me.

After resisting for 3 more months, I am accepting the divine will.
I truly miss you.
I truly love you.

He

Many past worlds have we lived.
Revelation leaks through a moment between breaths
An empty moment
A blank context
Middle of night, focused on creation
of this world.

But recognition comes rushing in
with no clear trigger
but a naked, empty
breath

Seven years ago I met Jonathan
Seven hundred millennia ago we met
Before this planet had language
Speaking in images
and feelings

The beginning of earth
Beginning of human
A spark of creation
and twinkle of
an eye

Recorded in a feeling
of connection.

Stories for Stephen

#2

I got "punk" when I realized it sounded exactly like what was in my head. Even more when my mouth moved to speak what was in my mind, versus what I thought they wanted me to say. I didn't "get" it when Pali wanted me to stop dressing like a "prep." That it was "cool." I didn't want to be "cool," I wanted to be me. To be the truth I felt and saw. "Cool" just seemed contrived.

Then I remember Chris, my first "boyfriend" who I never even held hands with, explaining straight edge to me. How people didn't drink or smoke, and hated it like I did. And they were into truth- hardcore. Then he sent me a mix of bad brains, minor threat, black flag- bands with harsh names that, when I actually listened had the beat of my own heart - of love under indignance, anger that was justified and expressed its truth and reached out for community. Oh that beat.

I realized I was already "cool."

I've been through several cycles of this too. Each time has been like the beautiful burning sun growing brighter than I already thought it was.

Jonathan has a blog http://arttherapyfaces.com

Stories for Stephen

#1

I live in Potomac.

When triggered, the house alarm echoes through the entire neighborhood. The living room’s doors let in light from the yard, and were all hot.  Found the cold one – a ticket to endless night.

Rob parked his sexy sexy motorbike like a Fuck you.

Right by the driveway - Mom could see it after waking from one of her nightmares. In the darkness I whispered, beckoned and he squinted, tracked me. From the television to the cloaked guest room, we duck under the laser beam.  Yes, the basement was hot too. I’m not supposed touch this polish punk warmth cradling me in his blue eyes.

Then there was poetic Dan.

He was in steady pursuit of my thoughts. Cuddling with words and anticipation of an empty night, we filled up with local angled color. The DC punk industrial renaissance: Purple bangs and mohawks jump and stab the curtains at 9:30 Club, at Tracks. Yet home for him was poetry; smells, tastes of Brazil on glass tabletops in a DC townhome. The smell of the elderly. He was the much youngest of 3 sons.

He joined me in Manhattan; his mother bought a studio in midtown. At Columbia we found sex could be thundering chaotic joy and also ebb like poetry to sad and flat. I found him and another Barnard women caressing under stark fluorescent dorm lights. Shocked as an innocent, yet stoic - like Joan of Arc I informed him what I stood for – faith - and that we were done. And, may have hepatitis, thanks to Rob.

As he sobbed with fear and yet begged me to come back, I tested clean.

I don’t remember what happened to Dan. All I know is he dropped out and moved back to Brazil, a schizophrenic spirit-filled mutterer.

I don’t know where Rob is. He visited me at Columbia,

then stopped once I converted to Christianity.

Minana was always my private "dream" blog. Reading it again, I see streams of consciousness.

Workman-like descriptions of absurd, illusory dreams. Visual, rapid depictions of emotions triggered by friends, family & boyfriends; interpretations of events.

This is why I keep separate blogs. To maintain written clarity midst the firehose of life's sensations.