The Folder LOVE Has No Messages

That's what YAHOO MAIL said when I finished deleting the contents of that folder. I went one by one, reading (skimming) old electronic love notes, and then deleting them. Cleaning house? What, am I going to war here? Am I joining a monastery?

It occurred to me tonight, as I tried to talk up a camping trip idea, that everything in the world is just a rearrangement of the particles that form everything else. It's all the same stuff, like building blocks, only shaped into something new. Like this trip: I begin to see what I've always known (and managed to forget) about everyone else I try to become involved with. I always seem to end up in the same place with people. It feels as if nothing ever changes. Like two boxers who keep having rematches and keep fighting to a draw. But this goes against the supposed (the alleged) chaos of the universe.

Or maybe it's myself who never changes. Could it be?

Sometimes I sense there's an order to life, but I can't grasp it, for being too much in my body, and too involved in the material world. People's reactions to an invitation to go camping suddenly seem familair, like repeats of thikngs we've attempted before. Perhaps I have to do something different.

I have this desire to drop everyone in my life. I wish I could change what I represented to others, but i guess others will always see you for who you are, better than you see yourself.

The night before last, I awoke having a terrible lucid nightmare. A cobwebby, dusty hunk of fluff had fallen from the ceiling (or from somewhere up above the ceiling - like dreamland) and landed on my face (as I lay in bed) and it teemed with tiny, aggressive little flies. It was so nasty. I sprung from my bed and rolled right out the door of my room, naked, into the hallway - slamming the door behind me and wiping my face as if it was covered in flies. Breathing heavily, i reached for the knob, and opened the door a crack, as if to inspect what heinous, supernatural fly-infested attic-fluff had landed on me, but of course there was nothing there. Nice.

The same night my dad dreamed, as he recounted to me later, that i'd had an altercation with a black guy, in some crowded public place, and I went after him with a socket wrench. Pop said the dream had an underlying feeling of doom. Needless to say i played it real cool the next day, smiling at everyone, and joyfully waving pedestrians by me in the crosswalk. Funny symbolism a socket wrench. I wonder if that's in THE SECRET LANGUAGE OF DREAMS. Something that ratchets things down, and only goes in one direction. Sounds like my life.

I don't know who reads any of this, so i gotta keep it on the up and up. Maybe I need some other repository of my thoughts than BLOGGER.