The Flying Mustang

I seem to be remembering dreams more that don't involve death or watching people die through falling down an empty elevator shaft. Check out this dream I had last night. I'm turning it in for my next Creative Writing assignment.

I find myself lost in the foothills of some beautiful mountain in the western part of the country. The era is that of a romantic age when cowboys and natives both feuded and befriended each other. But I am a miner, a pan handler as I like to call it. And along the riverside, I struggle to carry my sack of things. The air had already grown warm with discomfort, and I was wearing nothing but a pair of jeans and some leather boots.

Without a sound, a young native atop a horse is before me. He wasn't there before but after a blink. He wore blacken hide in his tribe's design. I expected to find a headband on his person, but the expression on his face was that of a proud man who wouldn't stoop to such stereotypes. The horse he was on was a beautiful creature. Golden tan in coat, obviously from a pure bloodline that took generations to produce. The mane was as black as young man's hair. There was no saddle; just reins. He carried no baggage; it probably wasn't needed.

"Need help?" he asked in a soft but firm voice. I shook my head as I continued to struggle with the bag, which got heavier and immobilized upon the young native's appearance. He looked around at the sky with a coy smile. "You sure?" he asked again. "It's going to get cold soon."

And sure enough, as he had predicted, a cold wind rushed past my exposed body chilling me to the bone. I became immobilized much like the bag. Desperate for warmth, I tried to cover myself with what slack I was pulling the bag with only to find there was only enough to allow me to pull it along the ground. I would find no luck finding heat from my own possession.

From behind, the young native placed a hide jacket, blacken to match his own dress, on my person. The warmth was felt instantly. I stood and turned around to find the young man hadn't left his horse's back. With a nod that read for me to follow him, I walked towards him leaving my things behind. He reached out his hand, and I found myself behind him on the back of his beautiful horse. From this new vantage point, the creature was more beautiful than before; the golden tan capturing the light in ways that I never thought possible by a creature with such fine hair. Truly, this was a special creature.

And it was. No sooner had I secured my seat on the beat, I found myself riding at full sprint along the riverbank. And yet, at this speed, nothing moved. The jacket did not leave my body; the young native's long hair did not flap with the wind; the mane of the horse did no shift with every thrust of its body. The rush of the very air passing us was felt, and that was it. Looking ahead, I saw we were heading towards a large cliff face, the very wall of the river's beginning or end. But as we got closer, we started to lift.

The horse and both of us on it began to soar. The horse was still running at full sprint without any sign of fatigue. I looked to at the young native for some kind of explanation, but saw a pleasant smile of heavenly joy. His eyes drifted to me. There was no need to explain anything. Through his eyes, he told me to just take in what I saw. And what I saw was the most beautiful landscape this world could ever offer. Crags of rock formations forming natural bridges over white water rapids; golden mountain sides with forests so old their age matched their beauty from this distance; rich valleys the likes that no body could ever truly afford to purchase.

Sight after sight, I began to lose sense of where I was. I forgot about the young native. I forgot I was on a flying horse that had no wings and yet was able to run fast enough to fly. And as I did, the scenery started to change. The rapids were reduced to streams; the mountains lost their golden shine in the sun; the valleys became dark and uninviting.

And as quickly as the flight began, I found myself grounded. Stumbling into an empty concrete hallway and a tile flooring. I found myself in the modern era. I still had the same pair of jeans, but no longer was I wearing boots. Instead, I had a beat up pair of sneakers. In place of the hide jacket was an equally beat up blue-jean jacket covering a thin white shirt that was produced as an undershirt if not underwear. And on my back was a backpack full of things of which didn't concern me.

Picking myself off the floor, I walked towards the end of the hallway and was greeted by stares from the five customers in the gas station convenience store and the overweight clerk who look like he hasn't bathed in years. They were looking at me as if I had committed a murder in front of them.

As I left the gas station, a tow truck pulling in slightly damaged car into the garage. A mechanic came out whipping the oil off his hands with a rag as the truck came to a park.

"Another one?" the mechanic asked as the driver exited from the cab of the truck.

"Yeah," replied the driver as he pulled out a cigarette and lighter. "Same story, too."

"The flying Mustang?" The driver nodded as he lit his smoke and took a drag.

"Fifth one this month," he said exhaling a cloud of smoke that engulfed his head. All this I heard in passing as I walked down the gray and dark street that was lined with homes resembling shacks from a mining town about ready to go bankrupt. My own destination was home.

Upon my arrival, I opened a small closet that housed several non-descript piece of black clothing and a small gray baby bunny that found that area more homely than any other part of the house. For the rest of the day, I filmed the bunny on my old Hi-8 Camera fascinated by the fact that everything familiar to this little creature is still being explored as if it was brand new.

Sex as a Mall Commodity

Had another dream about sex but not getting any. Only this one was just plain odd.

I was in a mall. A nice mall at that. Nicer than the Green Hills Mall I worked close to over the summer, but not as bloated with money as the Cool Springs Galleria mall.

There's this store there that looks like your average beauty shop with a front desk and a partition between the front and the back for privacy. The entire shop is themed in an Asian motif, mainly the Feudal Era of Japan. The women working the front desk, however, are wearing Chinese Dragon dresses. You know, the ones that are so tight on a woman, they make her look like she has big hips, no waist, and a mono-breast? The ones that stop at the knees and then have a slit going up either side of the dress up to the top of the thigh. Yeah, those.

I approach the store, and one of the women asks what I would like. Actually, she flat out asks in a joyful manner what kind of woman I would like for "this evening." I tell her that I'm not interested in any women but something different. She immediately gets what I'm talking about, and in her broken English says there are none available. She asks for my contact information and hands me a card that looks like an job application.

Confused, I look over the piece of paper while overhearing Far East banter about me. I know they are about me, because the women there find it odd that I have not gone to the back yet. For some strange reason, the only English they say is the word "dragon." In my subconscious conscious logic, I take that as their way of saying gay sex. Being "interested in dragons" means that he's gay in their little gossip circle.

I return the paper, unfilled, and simply say that I'll be back later to check up on them to see if they get any "dragons." The woman smiles like a Korean shop owner, nods her head, and then awkwardly says the stereotypical "Thank you, come back soon" outro.

I find this dream odd mostly because of the fact that while it does count as a sex dream, there is no visual sex going on, unlike my last dream. It is like sex has become distant to me. Something I can't have let alone afford if I could have it. Hence the job application in the dream.

What I also find odd is the setting. The place is obviously a whore house that has been combined in my mind from two different eras. But even a whore house themed like a Feudal Era whore house would never be as open about being such a place, especially in the mall. And a nice mall at that!

As far as the ethnic confusion goes? I know what that means. It symbolizes the fact that I don't even know my own background thanks to being assimilated into the American culture. I'm not really Asian as much as I am American in cultural aspects. Then again, most Americans are not as American as the Native Americans.

Cockteasing Dreams

I had another dream that involved sex, only this time I wasn't the participant in it. The images are like that of a bad porno. Two really hot blonds, perfectly tan, are already nude and then proceed, mostly out of frustration, to fuck the hell out of each other like monkeys. Literally. Screaming and moaning and all that good stuff abound.

I don't understand dreams like these, but I really do wonder why the hell they are the second most common dream I have next to all the death and dying dreams. The logical side of me hopes that all those dreams are just my brain processing how much porn samples I watched over the last year or so. The more illogical side of me believes it is my brain saying that I need to be sexually active now or I'll never be much of anything (whatever that "anything" is).

Dreams like these demand a cold shower when you wake up.

Mindless Internet Test Results

Your Birthdate: March 31

You're a pretty traditional person. If it's lasted, it's probably good. You seek stability - both in your career and your romantic relationship. In return, you're very loyal and predictable. Which is usually a good thing. Without a partner, you feel lost. Being with someone is very important to you. Your strength: Your dependability Your weakness: You hate being alone Your power color: Midnight blue Your power symbol: Shell Your power month: April

What Does Your Birth Date Mean?

I wonder how accurate that is. Knowing these things, they are just vague enough to be specific.

Set Change Failure

This past week, I talked to several people about how I pretty much am so distant from all my work and classes it wasn't even funny. One person said that it wasn't so much depression as I thought but rather that I may be bored with everything. I definitely don't show signs of depression in their experience. A change of scene would be healthy for me, or so they told me.

This weekend, the family and I went to Virginia to visit my sister in a belated birthday bash. What this translated into was me being nothing but dead weight on the trip. Why did I go along? My sister requested it. Being her belated birthday bash, I had to go along or face certain sibling doom at the hands of the little ninja monkey that is my sister.

The change of scenery didn't really do much of anything for me. I came home yesterday and slept as soon as I unpacked. I woke up feeling no different about my current plight. In fact, I felt a little bit worse as I had a small hope that the trip would spark something back in me. Something that would make me my old creative self again and enjoy going to Watkins. Something that wouldn't cause a distraction or distancing from my classes.

Apparently, if I was going to get it this past weekend, I would have had to ditched the family.

I Got Nothing

Checking through my e-mails this morning, I found myself back in this familiar spot that provokes me into blogging. It's that strange location in the forest of confusion where you just want to yell out of stress, frustration, or for whatever reasons those may be.

It's pretty much that same spot I found myself several times when I realize I have no right to complain. It normally results in the death of the blog, which seems to not want to die unless it is by natural selection in the priority department.

The old school yard saying of "words will never hurt me" does not seem to apply to me. Words do hurt in one sense or another. They also confuse the living day lights out of me if used in a manner that just sends me questioning and deconstructing what was said.

I find myself wanting to go to the beach, sit on the roof of the car, and just stare into the horizon as the waves break. Nothing more, nothing less. It's probably why I always go out to the walk way behind the school that over looks the lake. It is as peaceful as it sounds.

I need peace. I got nothing.

Lone Wolf Artist

I had a mentally sedating day today. As such, several of my senses were either heighten or turned off entirely. For example, my sense of balance shut off on me temporarily at one point. Interesting feeling when one second you are standing straight up and the next thing you know, the room is moving to the left suddenly.

One thing I really wish did turn off was my emotion. Over the course of the evening, I slowly became a bit crazy, babbling sometimes while other times talking without knowing if anyone was listening. My sense of observation was not focused on the task at hand, but rather at the social setting.

Once again, I found myself depressing myself internally.

The social scene of the artist is that which involves several things. The first of which is beer or some kind of alcohol. The second involves being well connected with people, be it other artists or just drinking buddies. The third is actually putting yourself out there, which can be only done with the help of the above and maybe enhanced by the item above that. This is all a one-sided observation, naturally.

In any event, I don't seem to fit any of the actual social requirements--whatever those may be--to be an artist. It's strange. I never expected being an artist would require such a social network or any kind of social skills short of trying to sell yourself in the ways that most commercial business types try to sell the next great product. Once again, my foolish naive nature comes forward.

The Fine Arts is a business. One that requires little actual business knowledge but the same kind of social interaction between like-minded people. You are not so much selling a visual work more so than you are getting people to notice it and remember it if at all possible. The better you are at this, the more successful you become as an artist. The more successful you are as an artist, the more likely you will have some kind of social impact on the people that see your work. This can be helped with media attention, which is why I believe the more offensive the art work the better. People tend to remember offenses more often than the good and pretty things.

I don't think it's possible to survive in the art world without being somewhat connected. Things like MySpace help, especially with the "underground" or local art scene, but the most important thing about being an artist is not just making the art work but making face time as well. I, much to everyone's disappointment, still can't do that. The homebody part of my persona has become more of a hermit and a recluse. And what kind of artist doesn't attend their own gallery opening? Actors can get away with not attending the premiere of their film (or if you are like Al Gore, you'll make face and then just sneak out after 10 minutes into the film). Musicians can't be everywhere when their singles are aired for the first time. So, in that sense, exhibiting artists are required to make face as the location of their work is centralized. After all, how many galleries in a single area (not building, but area) would open up showing the same artist at the same time but with different pieces?

The doubt is mounting again. I feel like I don't belong again, only this time I've justified it on more than just the "I'm not a good artist" part.

A Little Update

The gaming binges that were taking over my life have tapered off (or back) into taking naps at all hours of the day. I'm also noticing a strong disconnect from pretty much everything. It's affecting my work. For example, I forgot to bring home my clay tools for my homework assignment of carving out a muscle torso for Figure Study 2.

The blunt honesty is also starting to come out in casual conversation. The stock and polite answer of "I'm good" to "How are you?" has been replaced with "I've been better" or even "Terrible." What does this mean? The polite mask has been coming off in a vain attempt of trying to connect with someone on an uncomfortable emotional level just to feel like I have some kind of justification for making it through the day.

Other than that, nothing really to write about. I'm just glad the gaming binges are tapering off now. Sixteen hours straight of nothing but Roller Coaster Tycoon 3 were starting to get bad, as images of the game started infiltrating my dreams.

Wanted: A VACATION FROM LIFE

It's getting worse.

Labor Day weekend, when I should have been doing my drawing assignment and reading up on my Latin American art history, all I ever did was play Roller Coaster Tycoon on yet another gaming binge. Four days of nearly 16 hours of nothing but trying to figure out how to theme a virtual park so pre-programmed people can enjoy themselves.

I'm obviously stressed about something and need the time off from life. I can't take a semester off either. I dropped the idea by my folks--they are paying for the bulk of my tuition, after all--but they took my need for a semester away from school as a want to just play games all day long. They didn't see it as a need for a vacation or some of kind time off so I can get back into not being so high strung all the time.

Just another reminder to everyone and myself that I need more than just time off. I need a change of environment.

Trapped by Addiction

It looks like my old habits are back in full force thanks to the trampling of my will power by stress and social detachment.

I found myself yesterday from about 05:00 to 21:00 straight in front of the computer trying to figure out the fireworks customization feature on RollerCoaster Tycoon 3 (which I bought the day before when I was out getting supplies for my classes). That's about 16 hours straight of nothing by me looking at a bunch of pixels.

Unfortunately, I didn't realize this until dinner when the system frustrated me to the ends where I was taken out of the game. But by then, the damage was done. Obsessed with trying to figure it out, I ended up not eating or even accomplishing any of my homework assignments! What little work I did before yesterday needs to be proof read and printed, but that's all I did.

I know something is wrong. I haven't had this long of a gaming binge in over a year. I thought I was about to quit this, but much like every other person's vice, it's a hell of a lot harder than I thought.

Something is bothering me. I don't just play a newly bought game for 16 hours straight if nothing is bothering me. I at least make an effort to eat if nothing is bothering me.