Home > Uncategorized > Entry 12/18/2008 05:44:07 AM – Mentat 465

Entry 12/18/2008 05:44:07 AM – Mentat 465

12/18/2008
     God almighty, last night’s dream was like a really, really bad episode of Star Trek: Voyager complete with some of the actors from the episode.  Well, at least some of the main characters: Harry Kim, Tom Paris, that bitch Janeway, and I think the Holographic Doctor.  The piece of wood (Chakotay) didn’t make it into the dream, or else I would’ve woken myself out of the dream in order to find myself an axe or a chainsaw and cut him out of that dream.  I can’t even begin to tell anyone just how bloody cheesy this dream was. 
     I think I was either the pilot (in place or Paris) or someone prominent, maybe the security officer (in place of Tuvok) and was on another planet that looked vaguely like parts of Fairmount Street in my neighborhood.  I was there escorting a couple of women that were diplomats or maybe they were civilians in the wrong place at the wrong time.  I seem to recall after dropping them off at a house that was up the street from the intersection that I routinely cross on the way to the bus stop, and being called back to the ship. 
     At the ship I was involved in some sort of negotiation.  I find out that the aliens and the alien world that we were at were a race of cats that evolved into a race that looked more humanoid.  They had moved this far side of the galaxy because they were forced to being nomadic and that they were also being hunted by some aggressive sect of their own race.  During the negotiation, the sect that was had forced them to be nomadic showed up during the negotiations, which the leader stopped the negotiations that were going on in order to launch an attack against their aggressors. 
     War broke out immediately in the atmosphere of the planet, where I watched model ships and the city built with LEGOs began firing at each other causing them to fall apart in chunks and blocks. 
     The last thing that I remember was some sort of pontification from that bitch Janeway giving about peace vs. war. 

     And if anyone wonders why I say that about Janeway, just point your browser of choice to Usenet (http://groups.google.com) for that exact phrase.  You’ll learn soon enough from the multitude of posts that can be found there, why she earned that title.  Particularly from Cronan Thompson.  Oh or my own…  I railed against her as Captain for years.  Not so much for the fact that she was a woman, but rather that she was written so piss-poor. 

     Here I sit, with a bit too much wine in me, watching a random movie I pulled from the nearby collection and finding myself moderately reminiscent while watching Trick.  It’s like a hopscotch of memories that I have.  In 1999 when this movie first came out…  Summer…  Going to the Tara Cinema at the corner of Cheshire Bridge and Lavista.  I went there to see the movie in the summer after Dan and I broke up.  I don’t remember going to the movie with anyone…  Martin was some years gone, most of the people that I would’ve gone to the movies with passed on, or moved out of the city.  I remember that it was sunset by the time I got out, and that it was really hot and humid standing there outside for a short time before going across the street to grab the bus back to the house, and chuckling to myself about the near end scene where Catherine has her nuclear meltdown in the all-night diner. 
     Then I go farther back.  To my days when I was Gabriel’s age, and hitting the clubs here in Providence, in Boston, and a couple of times New York City.  The eighties…  And me, forever the outsider to the world around me, trying to make sense of it all and wonder where my place was in it.  Between the scene, and the illusion of community, and why it was that I felt so outcast no matter what I did or how I tried.  As I sit here, I think about those days coming out of the No Name, which was my frequent in Providence, or Metro or that place there at the edge of Chinatown in Boston who’s name I routinely forgot (and can’t recall now at all), or Hell in New York City…  And escaping the heat and humidity inside the dance club, to the not-always-cooler-air outside. 
     Of pondering the mysteries of the universe, and watching everyone else coupling up, tricking out, getting drunk or high, and simply not being able to relate to quite a bit of it, because since I was a teen I saw my life with a man whom I could say I would marry, of the house, and the picket fences, and perhaps a cat (I could never settle with a small dog, and at the same time didn’t want to commit to a big dog and the mess and smell that can routinely come with one).
     The loneliness sometimes bitter, sometimes bittersweet, sometimes too terrible go bear all because I couldn’t re-create the wheel like so many man could by using sex as a handshake, or to establish a relationship as so many of my bar friends and acquaintances seemed to be doing time and time again with often disastrous and heartbreaking results. 

     It’s a strange world of memories that I walk in.  Of snippets of memories, and images like postcards that remind me of the path I’ve walked, of the anger that I sometimes felt for being so obstinate about being different, of the mark of difference I knew I had but refused to want to see.  The comfort, the cold comfort, and the lack of comfort in them.  Of people turned saints, and people turned villains… 
     Of places, and feelings…  Of smells and tastes collected through the walk of life and the years that I’ve been upon this planet. 

     So the question that I have for the moment is; have I collected enough of them to write it all down?  And who would want to hear about them? 

     Until the next time.

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