WET DREAMS. A cliff, a sunrise and a being. She couldn't remember when she started having the dream, only that its memory was always with her. It was a comfortable part of her composition, like a birthmark. She hadn't asked for it, but was at ease with its consistency. The dream was repetitive, but vivid in image. She is standing at the edge of a cliff at sunrise talking to God. She is not quite sure how she knows that it is God; she doesn't remember asking, it is just assumed. He was not like she had heard him described on talk shows (a "warm, white light"). He was just God, a simple being with a purpose. She doesn't remember His face--maybe He doesn't have one, she is not certain. But, she does remember His words, "I am going to make you a woman." "NO! I won't be any good at that; let me be water...please!" Suddenly, she is alone on the cliff and, despite the rising of the sun in the distance, she is cold. In frustration, she jumps from the cliff. It is at this point that she awakens from her sleep to a life of devoid of satisfaction.

MIME LOVE. When I first saw her, she was performing in the Grand Avenue subway station. She felt at a wall that wasn't there and my heart leapt. I wanted to penetrate that wall. She was a quiet angel in black and white. At first, I thought that she was just pale, but, then I realized...A MIME. Who'd have thought? She didn't talk much, not at all really, but I loved her. We walked against imaginary winds and picked at non-existent flowers, together, hand in hand.

When the date for the wedding rolled around, I was psyched. There we were, in front of the church. The minister turned to her and said, "Do you take this man to be your wedded husband?" She made some theatrical movements, but did not utter a sound. BITCH!

DREAM STATES.
I saw you walking in the rain last Tuesday from the car window.
You didn't have an umbrella, but you didn't rush;
You sauntered aimlessly (in my mind, I hummed to the splashes of your rhythms).
Your hair and the passion of the winter breeze teamed to obstruct your vision,
but you brushed it from your eyes with a gentle coolness.

I tapped on the car window...

From across the street, you turned. Slowly.
You smiled the famous smile and stretched your hand to a wave.

Fade to black.

The sun appears from behind a cloud and I realize that it is morning.
It was only a dream.
But, I know that I will return to sleep because I will always find you there.
In my dreams.

I miss you in my waking.

BURN THE FAT AWAY. The Pizza was angry with me. It threw itself from the foil pan that I had lovingly created and made its escape. GO LIMP! The pepperoni, mushroom and extra cheese split from the security of its crusty foundation and embedded itself in the crevice just north of the broiler. It was like dirty animal sex without apology. In my shock and awe (some wars must be fought on the home front), I attempted to scrape the oozing innards from its cozy resting place. I was greeted with a scream. At first, I thought it was the scream of a woman; then, I realized that the gutteral sound was my own. My knuckle foolishly made merry with the scorching bitterness of the oven rack--leaving me with a visual reminder of the inflationary cost of unwelcome flirtations. I retreat in defeat to the dining room. I consume the spoils of battle--four pie crusts divorced of flavor. My body resigns to hunger as the oven hisses happily forward...with more built-in seasonings then one could ever have imagined. Viva Italia!

I am myself, alone. I can hear myself breathing to the rhythms of a heart that refuses to stop. When my head has surrendered, when it refuses to invest in more dreams, my heart beats quietly through the doubt and the harsh voice of logic. I can no longer make sense of it. I will no longer try. I will wade through the tears of uncertainty and wage battle with the fear of the unknown. I am the champion, the warrior and the adversary in a war of my own creation. When the smoke clears and my vision has returned, I will realize that I am standing alone, victorious over my self. It is only then that I will be able to surrender to the truth of my discomfort and walk hand-in-hand with another. Alone...together, at last.

small PARTS, small ACTORS. I live quietly in resentment. This is NOT the contract that I signed. I was not made to blend. I don't know how to blend. I don't want to blend. What does the actor do when he misses his cue? Does he rewrite the script and dishonor the playwright by creating his own entrance? Can his own honor be held in higher regard than the integrity of the play? What if his inner dialogue has more insight than the limitations of his role? Does the temptation to take center stage in opposition to direction alter his intentions? Why is my blocking obstructing my growth? Is a performance without an audience still a play? Tonight, I will take a bow. Perhaps tomorrow, I will get my answer.

BOOGEY BAGELS. It is Vienna, sometime this side of the twentieth century (not the one in Austria, but the one in my mind; they eat pizza there). I walk in rhythm to the memory of yesterday's rain. My face is not mine, but another's. I am wearing a brushed tweed jacket, pleated gabardine slacks and polished brown wing-tipped shoes. The oversized sweater against my chest reflects the color my eyes should have been. The morning fog rolls in unyielding opposition to my every step. Step, hop, step, hop, step; step on a crack, break your mother's back. My pace is interrupted at the assault of a bakehouse aroma. Old Lady Reinholdt was seen picking her nose last Thursday, through a bakery blind. I had sacrificed my breakfast bread for the love of three potato chips: sour cream and onion, barbecue and nacho cheese--all unsalted and individual. My passing brings me face to face with a stranger. She is a woman, the likes of which I never dared dream. Hormonal excitation produces blackheads. I recalled reading it in a back issue of Highlights magazine at my brother's dentist office. The woman sighed at my body's obstruction of her path as she left the bakery. She took a bite of her breakfast and slipped into my past. I allowed her passage, but quickly considered the alternative. Step, step, pivot-step, run...all raisins are not born of grapes. Somewhere, a woman grows sour at the taste of a raisin bagel.

CONVICTION OF THE ENLIGHTENED. I am awakened at the very disgust of what I had hoped was a dream. The alluring elements of alcohol are not nearly as intriguing as those following it. Hangover Incarnate, God of the Cocktail set. I once saw Jesus sipping a dry martini. He only ordered it for the olive, or so He said, but I trusted in another motive. He asked me for a ride home, at which I felt the need for a positive reply. Does the Trinity share a three bedroom condo at Laguna Lake? I drove Him to His destination; he blessed me and asked me "why?" "Why, what?" I replied, increasing the cinematic qualities of the moment. In the blink of an eye, He had vanished from the bucket seat of my Pinto Runabout. Jesus Lives. He is shorter than I thought, but really quite stunning. I immediately donated my seat covers to the local musuem as evidence. In appreciation, Mr. Silas Fauxpas, the artifact curator, had me committed. Herein, begins my story.

SOMEONE'S IN THE KITCHEN WITH DINAH. I caught myself in the fridge again, conversing with the cheese. It speaks with a gentle kindness while the leftover Chinese food looks on with resentment. There is nothing more angry than a day old, ignored Asian Chicken. It is definitely more sour than sweet. I could swear that I heard the apples gasp when I selected an orange to accompany the cheese on the snack plate. "No accounting for taste," someone said. I think it was the mustard. "French's." Figures. I am feeling judged in my own kitchen. I never have this problem with the freezer. Too cold; it simply cannot be bothered. The ice cream always seems to warm to my presence. I retire, full, to the quiet comforts of my living room. I wonder now as I may wonder until the day of my death: does the refrigerator light really go out when you close the door? I may never know. Somewhere in the distance, a single dill laughs at my uncertainty. Who knew that the answers to life's questions were contained in the life of a lonely pickle?

LITTLE BOY FOUND. Today I saw a lonely red headed boy sitting on a stoop. There was a look of longing cleverly hidden behind the innocent façade of the child. He is smart—this one. He knows more than those around him do and he knows it. The child mind does not permit him to process the information in a way that he can communicate his differences to those around him who have not felt his pain or experienced his insight. He knows that even a hint of realization could bring them pain. So, he carries it around; an extra load, which is seemingly heavy on his little frame. Occasionally, he reads a book or sees a film where the writer is able to capture his truth but quickly the book ends or the credits roll, leaving him again alone. He puts is head down away from the sun, away from the light. He wishes for a day without information. “Let me just ‘be’ my Lord. Let me just ‘be.’” He will grin. He will laugh. He will cry when he is alone. He knows that he must bare it for his real work has not yet begun. He raises his head, reties his shoes and goes home…again.

REALITY REJECTED BY THE NETWORKS. I heard myself think in the silence and was uncomfortable with the dialogue. I know that I am living small and I will not pretend to know why. I could conclude that fear is underfoot, but that is so trite that I reject the possibility. To accept that which is attributed to the masses would trivialize my very existence. I must be more than that (but, if I am, would this not be a greater reason for me to be living a life of amazing probability?). Instead, I remain comfortably (or not) circling in the apparent confines of possiblity. At some level, I seduce myself by believing that the one who holds the winning card without playing his hand wins in the last round. What round are we in? Did my moment pass when I was nappping in the afternoon? It saddens me to know that my reality will never be televised (and even more so, that if it was, no one would watch).

HERE WE GO...I am so happy that you dropped by. Take your shoes off; pour yourself a drink and prepare for lift-off. I am never short on opinions and guarantee that if you didn't consider yourself opinionated before, I will exorcise the critic within. I am a provocateur by profession. What can I say? It is indeed a gift (though many would argue that it is a curse). You be the judge (realizing, of course, that if I have succeeded in getting you to examine your thoughts that my work here is done!).

BETTER LEFT UNSAID. There is something innately sacred about the blank page that makes me wince. I step away. Is that fear paying an unwelcome visit? Is it my intuition signaling that there is nothing to say? Perhaps it is better left for the reader to decide.

You are the jury. My heart skips a beat. Did I just invite judgment into my house? Again, I step away.

I once told a writer friend of mine that a writer is only worthy of reading if he is able to stand naked in front of the room and risk complete humiliation and rejection. He speaks because he must. There is a truth that he must share—not out of a need to enlighten, validate or receive ANYTHING, but because it is his truth.

I stand naked before you and feel the chill of your gaze. I am scared. I want your love and adoration but know that it only has true meaning if you can embrace ALL that I am: my perception, my imperfections, my love, my hatred, my hunger, my thirst, my inner beauty and the shame of my very being.

The voice inside me again tells me to stop. Put down the pen. Once it is written, you life will be forever altered. I will not step away. I stand here in the face of God and the universe and refuse the gifts of silence. Wisdom whispers and I turn away, knowing that the worthy of my very life on paper hangs in a delicate balance.

It is in your hands now. You decide. When you look in the mirror of another, what do you see? Are you engaged in a hypnotic fascination with humanity or sickened by the sour taste of the truth?

Wisdom whispers again—this time with a force so powerful that I am forced to look upon its face. This time it is too late. My intention has already been made manifest.

My bed is made, but my sleep may forever remain uncomfortable. In the quiet of the night, I hear the voice of wisdom again and recognize the agony of its cry.

Don’t you know, my friend, that some things are better left unsaid?