Dreamways

May Day. Gray, chilly, and wet outside. As can be seen from this soccer photo, it snowed in Denver yesterday. When we woke up this morning, it was snowing. Nothing of the whiteness has stuck. Poor ash trees, so eagerly and brashly budding out the past couple of weeks, have had their tender shoots frozen back. It’s such an unpredictably harsh life for flora in Colorado. The moisture of this spring has been good for plants, but it’s a gift wrapped in icicles.  read more »

A gray, rainy and snowy Saturday afternoon. F and I ran a number of errands and now are back at our fair loft, before going out for dinner and the the opera. We stopped in at Pasquini’s Bakery, today its final day of existence, and bought numerous loaves of bread to freeze, a cheese cake, a couple of meats, and 2 eclairs, our final purchase at this establishment that we have become so fond of.  read more »

Last night’s DVD, Anatomy of Hell, is staying with me, coloring my mood. It set up patterns that structured last night’s dreams, the contents of which I don’t recall. The duet perform by the desperate and disappointed woman, along with the distantly curious Gay Man, reverberated with memories from my own past. The enormous burden that the femme place upon the homme felt all too familiar: "Rescue me, witness me, validate me, listen to my story, one that implicates you as a Male!“ She strikes their bargain, but becomes phenomenally passive in their nights alone.  read more »

 An overcast Wednesday evening. A few random raindrops are falling. F is at LOLA. The snazzy, sweet sound of cumbia fill my ears. These sounds take me to Tequila Rosa’s, where I first became aware of this song and dance form. I see, in my mind’s eye, the fellow who was there dancing ever so elegnatly with his Ricky-Martin-esque partner, both attired in slacks, dressy shirts and fancy-style shoes. This fellow is not a kid, nor is he trying to be, with gray in his hair. I’ve noticed him before. He manifests a certain elegancia on the dance floor that I enjoy watching.  read more »

Sleep Dream.  I am in a house that could be somewhere in the Elati barrio. I am in the abode of a familiar mexicana. A simple home, but maintained. Some sort of gathering is occurring, a party. Rhonda is with me. We are the only non-mexicanos. We don’t seem to know anyone there. The partiers are not hostile, but no one tries to engage us in conversation. (Kind of like at Izzy & Kara’s family gatherings.) It’s a mix of gender and age. Rhonda and I go downstairs to the basement.  read more »

A gray, sodden Monday. It is now late aftenoon. I’ve returned from my piano lesson. F reports that Donald left his lesson at the piano with F feeling somewhat angry, the result of a conversation where the term catamite had come up. F had said that this word could be used to describe Donald in his relationship with Steve. An emotionally laden word, but the dictionary states that a catamite is simply a boy or youth in a sexual relationship with a man.  read more »

Sleep Dream.  I’m in the Springs. Somewhere in the vicinity of Stratton. I’m with someone, but I don’t recall who. We need to drive east. I turn onto Van Buren, but after a block, I realize that it’s been made a one-way street, going west. I turn right to get off and ponder what to do. I know that Paseo won’t work, something about its directionality. I’m in front of Stratton and the red brick apartments with their tall blue spruces. I don’t know what street will take me east. I talk to someone about getting directions, a woman, I believe.  read more »

Part of my Life Journey has been and continues to be, learning to be with the harsh reality of others‘ Dark Sides. To understand that, while I see their Basic Goodness, connect with it, it is not anyone’s full picture. I usually do see manifestations of Ignorance, but I tend not to believe in its reality, that it would ever come to bite me. I’m always surprised when the Dark that I’ve witnessed in others snaps me in the ass. Inevitably, I find it unbelieveable.
"Milda,“ it turns out, is not a Latvian-rooted name, it comes from the German 'mild,“ meaning mild.

I just read chapter one of Cultural Creatives by Paul H. Ray & Sherry R. Anderson, a book that Connie N. has talked about in our recent discussions about forming / offering to the world a Dream Group. Ruta talked enthusiastically about the book back in the days of group sup. I don’t recall whether she’d read it, or merely had heard about it. (Having read chapter 1, it strikes me that Ruta would very much want to see herself as belonging to this group, the CC’s, as the authors have shortened the moniker.  read more »

Tuesday night I rented and viewed another porn flick, recommended by Josh at Videotique. This one was called Stud Farm. It had no pretense whatsoever of a story line, other than vaguely taking place on a horse ranch. “Just the sex, ma’am, nothing but the sex.” The most interesting part for me occurred toward the end, when a short, paunchy, furry, bald fellow interacted with the main stud. He made some sort of emotional connection with his partner, he, out of all the studs, was the one who enjoyed his sexing, moving easily between active and passive roles.  read more »