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poet, technologist, cynic, father of five, child of chaos, punker, prankster, patriot, punster, leftist, latino, japanophile, audiophile, beer drinker, quiche eater, dog walker, soft talker, deep thinker, shallow sleeper, introvert, covert operative in a parallel universe.

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* m a y s t a r *

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    extra special bitter
    hops are bitter. life is bitter. coincidence?

    Thursday, April 10, 2014

    dream sequence - part 28

    I didn't dream about trains last night, although I did manage to get lost in an old office building - also a recurring image. This isn't about that dream, however.

    Minutes later I was in a field overlooking the ocean. There was a steep cliff at the edge of the field, with rocks meeting the waves below. Several strangers were with me. Suddenly there was a commotion directly above me. In an otherwise deep blue sky, explosions of earth took place against a background of blue ocean. Within seconds, the earth was formed into a lush green island, which, with the surrounding ocean, was suspended a seemingly safe distance above our heads. Knowing that all of this was impossible, I wondered if I was imagining it, but the others all around me saw the same thing.


    Wednesday, April 09, 2014

    dream sequence - part 27

    another day, another dream about trains. once again this took place in a nightmarishly-misconfigured South Station, where I was waiting in a crowd of people for word that my train was boarding. When the track was announced, the entrance to the boarding platform was blocked, causing a confused throng of commuters to walk the length of an adjacent platform in an attempt to gain entrance from the other end of the train. Having never approached the trains from this direction (not even possible in real life), I was disoriented, but I followed other people who looked like they knew where they were going.

    When the next stop was something other than Back Bay, I knew that I had boarded the wrong train. Before I could find a conductor to ask where I was going, the train continued to the next stop. Walking the length of the train, there wasn't a conductor to be found. Truth be told, I was the train's only passenger.


    Friday, April 04, 2014

    dream sequence - part 26

    I haven't commuted via train to Boston for over five years, but I'm suddenly having a lot of dreams about them, most of which involve me chasing after a train that is leaving without me. Ironically, this rarely happened to me in 10 years of commuting, as I pride myself on being prompt and always try to leave myself plenty of time. In my dream world, I'm far less in control than I'd like to be.

    In last night's dream, I had luggage with me, so my ability to move through a rush hour throng was inhibited. I was trying to remove some tag from my luggage when I saw the train pulling away from the station. I shouted and chased, screaming like a fool. Instead of accelerating away from me, the train kept a steady, glacial pace, just out of reach. I ran as far as South Station, which looked nothing like I had remembered. Winded and disoriented, I stopped running.


    Monday, March 31, 2014

    dream sequence - part 25

    I used to spend much more time in airports than I do now, but for some reason I've been dreaming about them - mostly about getting lost in them, or otherwise getting lost on my way to them.

    This morning I hitched a ride - presumably to Logan Airport - with a travel acquaintance who was dropping off his rental car. It turns off that the rental agency was off-site - presumably providing a shuttle service to the airport. This was yet another wrong assumption, as it turned out. "We're a routing station, not a full-service rental office" explained one of the workers there. 

    It seems the women were more interested in talking about an upcoming wedding than assisting me with my dilemma. I had a car parked at the airport but I was several miles away at a rental car office with no shuttle service. My travel companion was long gone, having retrieved his car from the "routing station". I asked to call for a taxi, and then was told that I could get a ride if I could wait until closing at 10 p.m. Naturally that was unacceptable.

    One of the workers turned flirtatious. "I can give you a ride right now if that's what you need".

    I woke up instead.


    Sunday, March 16, 2014

    I can radicalize

    I can radicalize
    any time I want to,
    skinny fists raised
    in some gesture
    I can't articulate,
    my open electron shell
    brittle and transparent,
    doomed to the isolation
    of a universal solvent.


    Thursday, February 27, 2014

    dream sequence - part 24

    It being a dream,
    there was no context,
    no back story,
    it just was.
    I was living in a spacious loft in Brighton Beach,
    one I shared with many strangers who, like me,
    slept on the floor
    and shared solitary meals
    at a communal picnic table.
    When I located the owner of the space,
    I offered him money for my lodging,
    informing him that I had been there for two weeks.
    "Two weeks? Most of the people here only stay for a day or two".
    And having evidently overstayed my welcome,
    I promptly woke up.


    Friday, October 04, 2013

    Reflections on Hispanic Heritage Month - Part One

    I've mentioned more than once before that my relationship with my Latino heritage is, shall we say, "complicated". Technically I qualify: with 3 grandparents born in Puerto Rico, and a third in the Phillipines. Culturally, I'm suburban milktoast white, a resoundingly successful experiment in assimilation on the part of my parents. They escaped Brooklyn when I was only a few months old and embraced the sterility of middle class life with vigor. By the time I was growing up, I had no idea that there had been a dramatic transition only a generation before me. And while I came of age having zero sense of ethnic identity, only later in my adulthood did I begin to suspect that something got lost along the way.

    Mind you, I recognize that the aforementioned "loss" is by design. My grandparents, immigrants in Depression Era Brooklyn, knew that their accents and foreign-sounding names were impediments to success. They gave their children English first names, made sure they kept up with schoolwork, and - in short - let them become American. One generation later, the circuit is complete. I didn't know that my surname was Spanish until I was in Junior High School.

    (It's my intention to continue this thread, since even in my 50s I find my identity to be a work in progress. Stay tuned.)


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