GAMES:

WEDNESDAY MORNING:

The dream was set again within the game. This time I was so much One with the game that I forgot not only that I was dreaming but all so that I was Living; the game became so real as I had not seen it ever before, most probably. I still feel myself to be in it. Perhaps it is in part because Mother watched Maria and me play yesterday in Actuality.

The design of the dream was very maternal. There was a Hotel at which I have stayed many a night. Quite often this would be the Hotel wherein some zombified version of Tom Waits or some other Shadow Figure would chase me, from which I would all ways find some means of escape. What this complex represents I know not, except that it was practically situated within the game. It was as though the game’s console were situated in the bedroom, and the bedroom in turn was situated in the game.

For an amateur designer without any successes under his belt it is depressing beyond Reason to try to recall the specific details of the game. Even more unnerving is the task of discerning the value of the Dream: was it to design a game along such lines? Or was it merely allegorical?

I went to sleep thinking of Love, expecting good dreams and warm replies as I had grown accustomed to. I awoke this morning to the sound of Industrial Machinery and my dog’s barking. Somehow I could not put the thought of toilets from my mind even before I knew that the one in the children’s restroom upstairs was ostensibly clogged.

Thoughts of my romantic past seemed to colour the dream. I found to my wonder and delight that I had all ways truly loved Alexandra and that Alanna had all ways truly loved me.

Yet why did these women bring nothing but misery into my Life?

I have dispensed with the usual explanations and persist down this more mysterious path. For instance, I cannot be homosexual, because I did enjoy the sensual aspects of my relationship with Ally, and I all ways CRAVED Alanna. That dimension was all ways, however, superficial, which is why I never leveled with K. when he considered my loss to have been a fair one. Besides: I never got the chance to make love to either of them! And that was through no fault of my own; I was quite willing.

It is possible that these Mind Games are games constructed around me, fueled by my own imagination. Success in an illusory game is certainly not one without some degree of sadness, unless the game can be applied to Life. Does my dream seem to suggest that this game of Internet Tag that I am engaged in will produce no results, and that I must instead march boldly into Life? Have I not done that all ready? Is it not noble to simply wait, now?

Maybe I deserve better. Maybe it is time not either to produce nor to consume, but to CASH IN. But where is my reward? I know what she looks like. But I see her nowhere.

An other part of the dream was set again in the Theatre. The Dream effectively covered all of my games: Musician, Performer, and Level Designer. Yet it was not merely aesthetical, hence trying to employ these media produces no joy. I have not forgotten that these all amount to Shrunken Whale Heads when they shrivel before the sheer force of Love.

What complex remains unexplored in consciousness? How am I to find the maiden? Do I ever win? Should I keep playing? Is my extremity God’s opportunity? Or must I take action along a certain course? It seems impossible to ascertain. And that my mind, intricate as it may be, should be so indirect and puzzling is only a source of solace in the notion that it grants me bragging rights. Perhaps I must simply accept my own idiosyncrasy. Then I can win.

I remember now. A great deal of the last few chapters of the dream were Out in Space. The expression was used by Lance Wasem. He was the only person to describe me in that way, with both admiration and remorse. I think that he might have been a Libra. He certainly had that combination of vulgarity and commonplace charm.

Lance was one of many people that I knew in depression, and he was one of my earliest friends in College. I suppose I owe a bit to him. Whether or not he was a true source of guidance, the fact remains that I sought from him to an outrageous extent.

The more that I Love the more Helpless I become, so that only a Hateful person could deplore my Helplessness by mistaking it for weakness of character, while all the while his own Heart crumbles under the weight of his barbaric ego, consumed in lazy, pseudo-intellectual notions and fanatical convictions of the Fallen Nature of Man.

Why did I sever ties with Tony? Because he discerned moral obligation from survival needs. And I tire of listening to any one who preaches when he would not die for his own cause. Why should I compromise my own Life for a Lifeless Cause?

Dm.A.A.