more real than real / less than real

7:26 am friday 09 12 2025 had some very disturbing dreams last night, nearing nightmare level if it wasn't for a cinematic quality or dimension about them. more on the dark phantasmagoric side, they were gory and very body horror. yet all experienced and acknowledged within the dream as being viewed as a film or video. strange, yep. but most dreams are. and thankfully this dream was of a rare scary kind and I had the benefit of being , well. a kind of audience to it. like, in a real way. if there could be such a thing.

as I write this, I'm thinking, all dreams are novel.

and now I'm thinking all raw living experience is novel. no matter how mundane or familiar.

and now I'm thinking Life is novel.

which means its new.

to think, we have all these experiences daily, nightly and so much so, even when we sleep our novel lives, our novel selves must have, uh

exprience

there's a beauty in that simple n plain.

perhaps that is the beauty underneath our lives or life?

well, there is horror too that comes down to raw experience and as much as we try or I try here to aestheticize and or philosophize here, like right now

perhaps due to a fine coping, self preservation thang, well

hm

whether as an audience or participant, both amount to raw experience and the need to have it. the nourishment it provides

from birth and just a hunch here

through death.

7:46 am funny thing. I was going to quickly, no edit, no filter, much like liveblogging, at least how I liveblog . .

write a lil something to counterbalance or transform last night horror dreams into, well

something else

The Sun at 8:01

There's so much real that is unreal and it really doesn't get more unreal than this.

Somehow, someway an ol electric chair made its way out into the public realm. Vintage yet new to most eyes, there it stood. On four legs, upright back showering itself in the morning sun. A clear mystery. With straps wood metal and archaic design and aims that met a final destiny in material geometrical invention with the texture of history. Vaporised as that history may be.

Wooden and known only to the sun.

Soft to the touch, the chair was at this point quite sensual and easy to lift. Soft even. Hey, all these gizmo levers cables clamps n whatnots lay at the straight feetst of the chair. Among wild weeds and flowers also praying towards the sun. living to the sun. Each n everything warm to the touch. I found myself thinking

Everything is flesh on this earth.

And so this bright historical thing is too. Easily lifted up, carried up off the sidewalk, and with a bit of embarrassment (on my part) off we go! Vintage defunct electric chair in hand. Tucked under my armpit. Half slung over my shoulder. All warm and moving under the sun.

Flash to setting the electric chair in the middle of our backyard in the semi rural now more tamed countryside.

Flash to be deconstructing the electric chair by hand and a basic hammer and flathead screwdriver.

Note that I'm doing this all by instinct and a bit of guts on my part as, well, an artist, hey. This is what I do.

I note the sun is warm on my arms, my shoulders, my brow. My hair is heating up. My jeans being dark and of course cotton

INSIGHT: Cotton jeans are to me the finest invention of Man. Cotton button-up shirts too.

uh, being dark and cotton are already hot to the touch. So I'm doing this more in haste. Thrill and danger (of sorts) in my ad hoc backyard outdoor studio. All under the sun.

Quickly this chair is a mess. A pile. A crumble. Something other than what it was.

I easily assume I am something other that what I was.

And so we are.

Hey, I have a few odd nails.

Hey, I can hammer a few odd nails.

Hey, no one ever taught me how to hammer a few odd nails. Unless

Well, let's just reflect on Mr. Ferris who was an afterschool teacher of mine and other kids with working parents or parent in my case, in my case a working single parent mom both of us growing up in LA, who being probably (Mr Ferris being) that aspiring go to college change the world 60s teen now 70s man, aspirational. Hopeful. Action-oriented for The Cause. Hippie Now Generational, well, good guy, uh, good male! Deciding he would teach these kids, moi included, how to wield a hammer, work a saw, handle some wood and hammer in some odd nails to make a treehouse in the frontyard of the afterschool site and program powered by idealistic Now Generation College grads powered by the 70s and yes under the sun.

So we did.

So maybe I had a lil teaching of such things. Of hammer and odd nail things. Kinda.

So I did.

I helped craft and hammer in a treehouse at an afterschool program in Mar Vista in LA.

I'm remembering the touch and warmth of the shingle I hammered in and probably hammered in only a few.

Now I'm contructing a magic table in backyard as a man. An older man, mind you. With the heart of The Child.

Bang bang no sawing just odd nails and some chutzpah and the forgiveness and raw beauty of folk art. Backyard art. No art.

Everything Art.

Yep there it is. Not electric chair. Not No art. Yes art. Nope art. No electricity. All yard and too hot jeans, now hot to the touch. Yep there it is.

A magic table.

I dare not put a marble on it cuz it'll roll off.

NOT INSIGHT: Dude. It'll roll off onto and into the grass, making it hard to find, then be stepped on by the soft middle of my foot sole and make me hurt though pit me in a wistful mood thinking of big kids buildin somethin outta nuthin, and lil kids buldin somethin outta nuthin. And even whole scores teams generations of big n lil kids buldin somethin outta nuthin. Under the sun. Under the kind heart n eye of aspirational hip not hip hippie not hippe new wave of Now Generation Now Action People. Or not.

Perhaps just all wistful people hammering into life magic things.

Along with the sun.