07-12-2020 09:38 pdt

All subheaders have been reinstalled. The truck section may disappear again as that project no longer has a future. The current progress will be on display and lit for enjoyment. That is all. Wheels, tires, and the tube-body are wrapped for protection and will remain as such for the duration. All other segments have been locked away.

Meghan and the Mansion

 read ( words)

"Buckle up.

Right out of the fucking gate, another dream. A big house that I understood belonged to my aunt and uncle. It was built in the early seventies as his real estate and other businesses were taking off. They purchased the land and then built their dream home. Years later, they built each of their children a home below the main house and on the same land. The entire hill was a massive apricot orchard and was really beautiful. Some of my childhood and later years were spent there at family gatherings. Pool parties, barbecues, holidays. We were there from time to time. The main house was enormous. A mansion. One that I knew well.

Three women, two with which I had been familiar. The other one? I was immediately angling to be alone with her. The search did not commence until after having a short conversation with all of them. I had been explaining the house, its history. I have no idea why.

The mansion appeared to be a combination of three homes in memory. One is mentioned above. The second is an adaptation of something dreamt months ago, and the third is one of my drawings (that I still have not gone after). Two floors, open in the center for the most part, with all other rooms branching from there. The upper level is everything except the master areas. The entire lower level is just that, the master. All of the walls were paneled like a high-class attorney's office from television. Tall windows reaching floor to near-ceiling, and those ceilings were at least twelve feet. The lower level was more compact, with standard heights. Looking from one end to the other after entering on the upper (main) level, one could see all the way through to the opposite end with its exposed, spiral stair leading below. In fact, there was one on each end. The shape of each section was that of an oval, the center being wider, although there were many differing angles and parts jutting here and there which led to a complex, haphazard appearance. My favorite. Not just a box. I do prefer a ranch-type home -- sprawling single level -- but the beauty of that home was unbelievably aligned to my taste. Decor, warmth, lots of wood everywhere. Large rooms with several hallways, albeit short. Normally when I am seeking a woman in a dream there is one long hallway that meanders all over the place, and rife with steps, both upward and back down. Levels, but not separate floors, if that makes any sense.

The woman who pulled my attention looked just like the actor in the fucking commercial yesterday. Darker hair, but the face... You know where I go with that. She resembled the actor but something was different... She may have been a combination of more than one woman. The girl in the parking lot, the one in the ad, and more. I seem to remember becoming enamored with her appearance immediately, along with a strong desire to be in her arms. Sound familiar? Maybe there was a bit of Natalie in there, too. I cannot know for sure at this point. Too many hours have elapsed since awakening. Whoever she was, the need was overwhelming and I had been vying to get the others away from us in order to give her a tour of the lower floor. I could see the stairs, all carved wood and beautifully carpeted. Inside me was turmoil, as if there was something or someone bent upon causing me discomfort. Pause.

Back from the morning drive. I have not gone there since Monday and today is Friday. Two days ago I had to drive into the city, but that has already been described. This morning was very smooth, no girl there in the parking lot, and returning north was even smoother. Here I sit with coffee and exploration until such time as I will get into the routine. By this evening I am hoping to feel accomplished. I also wish to avoid any booze until arriving home later. Sometimes I pour a 'dishwashing' cocktail for comfort. Those are nice. These days I am consuming too much on a given day and that means money. Pulling back is wise. The cats are in a pile and I have lots of time now. Quiet. Wonderful. After today, I will not be leaving the house until Monday.

I actually missed seeing her face this morning. This is not the end of the world, but realizing that she did not work today caused a smidgen of discomfort. I missed her. That is bad. I cannot become uncomfortable over a woman I do not know, and will never. The expression I saw the other day in her profile pushed a shitload of buttons inside me. God forbid she enters my heart. Sometimes I can't fucking help it. I am so weak regarding the subject of seeing that softness. Along those problematic lines, I shot images of the woman in the ad last night and considered including them here, but Bethany will have to suffice. Her face is indescribably beautiful. She carries every single fucking feature that I find attractive. Look at her. Good God in heaven, for the millionth time. Even the hair, for Christ's sake. The girl in the parking lot is different, though... As I said thrice, softness in her eyes. I am such a fucking pushover for that appearance. All fucked up. Yep, I missed her. I can see her face right now in my head. This is going to cause all manner of difficulty and as of yet I don't give a fuck. She is too beautiful.

Today will be the usual. If I find the motivation, I will go beyond my typical chores and work on the bathroom. Right now I have a head full of impossibility. Not good. The mansion. The girl down south. Everything. And don't worry... Jaime will be here soon.

I could not seem to get rid of the two. I kept looking at the woman in question and yearning to be alone. She smiled, I gushed through my eyes. Walking around was very strange as I felt I knew the home very well due to being there on and off for many years, but things began to change. The house was growing and expanding with each turn of my head. I did not care, either. I just wanted to be with her and talk. Arms, eyes, memories of the kitten, Natalie, and the comfort the Raven exuded through her windows. I just needed all of that so badly that desperation began to take over. I grabbed her hand and spouted some bullshit about directing her to the bathroom downstairs. The other two stood still, so I asked them to find a comfortable seat and just wait. Off toward the rear (I think) stairs with her warm, slender fingers in mine. Stepping down, she wrapped one arm into mine and my heart exploded. Close, we were so close to being alone at last. I turned at the base of the stairway... Huge, glassy eyes right there, so close they were out of focus. Dark, mysterious, and she smiled. At last... No one else there. Her arm tightened. My heart filled with butterflies. So beautiful. Right there next to me. One glance up? No one following. I turned toward the rest of the floor. She whispered. I could not hear. Muffled. Nervous. Another glimpse of her eyes and there was a tear. Immediately I fell down so hard that I thought I would die. Overly emotional. Desperate beyond words. One more look to her face and she was someone different. I panicked. Sweating.

Awake. Fuck me. Gone, like always. Was she truly a combination of several different people? I am quite capable of merging those with features over which I obsess and then translating the image into a machine. I mean, the preoccupation is there already and one step further in a dream would not be surprising. But who? Perhaps no one in particular. I honestly have no idea and fully intend to cease my attempts to identify the woman if nothing is forthcoming. That may not be the point anyway. The idea of a mansion goes back many years, as I have written and described recently. The Midwest period was a time when I felt completely trapped in life. No direction, very little ambition, and a very mundane daily routine. There seemed no future in any of it for a long while. The drawings and yacht visions were born of my need to escape the surroundings and situation within which I had so easily placed myself. The key word is escape. I sat day after day watching television and trying to picture myself elsewhere... Exotic places with atmosphere under my complete control. A yacht is sometimes considered to be a floating mansion. I did not create illustrations of yachts, only homes. All of them were enormous and sprawling, just like the dreams. There has to be a correlation between the idea of escaping to one of those locations. A mansion in the dream must be the escape. The woman? I'm not sure yet.

Look at Bethany capturing images of herself. She does that quite often as the clothing is her own design and business. But her face is the key. Look at her. I cannot believe that much beauty is all over one face. Stunning and disturbing at the same time. Jesus. The faces are usurping the radii. Oh, but she has that, too. See the last image? Lines mapping the operation of my brain. But her face is the world. Pause.


The daily tasks are complete. I did not have a cocktail. The drive south is two hours away and I look forward to a peaceful evening and dinner. I cannot sit here much longer. Something has to be done or I will be overly lazy upon returning. Pause.

Morning again. Saturday. I keep thinking of the Midwest and there may be a realization in there. Remember when I mentioned Gemma and the robotic role she played? Well, that went all over the fucking place because of my Asian thing years ago, the dark hair and eye thing, and then the machine thing. Lots of 'things', which I say only because inside me those things generally come and go. Like the Asian women. There are still plenty of gorgeous examples out there, I just do not see them as I did in the late zeros. Oh shit, this woman on television fell and she can't get up. Fucking stupid commercial for a very important product. They could have done a better job, but I guess like 'kars for kids', we will never forget the theme, or the product. But please, too many years of that crap. So, this thought smacked me like Gemma. Another possible beginning to me being the person I am at this very moment.

Escape was the key, and to a place where I could find comfort, peace, solitude. No one understood me then, so I isolated myself and dreamed. The mansions. Boats. No one else... No dream woman. But that does bring up a thought. School. I was in school at night during part of my time there. Having left high school just short of finishing, I felt the need to continue. And I wished to attend college. The diploma helps. Well, shortly after moving to the Midwest, a notice came in the mail informing me that I could attend night school there in town and earn the diploma. On top of that, graduation was with the day-school students. Cap, gown, the works. So, I went. Eighteen months later, I was handed the diploma. My average in high school was less than two, but ten years later it rose to just short of four. I guess I just wasn't feeling it the first time around.

That doesn't matter, anyway. The point is one of the other students. Having been almost a decade out of school I was the oldest in every class. In fact, I was a few years older than two of my teachers. Heh. During biology (which I really embraced), the instructor told us of an upcoming project involving the dissection of a frog. Well, one person did not want to participate. Michelle (what is it with that name, anyway?) sat directly in front of me and raised her hand to protest the assignment. Holy Jesus fuck in a wine bottle, Meghan is going to be on the television shortly. I forgot that Hallmark puts on Christmas movies in July. The instructor would not easily let her out of the project, so being the goof I was and having a weighty crush on Michelle, I stood up and stated that I would also back out in support of her belief that it was wrong. By that point in the school year, I was considered the most ambitious student in most of the classes (likely because I was there by choice and actually wished to learn instead of simply going through the motions for a grade), and revered by the teachers due to my involvement. He was surprised at my protest, although upon seeing Michelle turn and smile, I knew I could follow through without a problem or the incident affecting my grade. I wanted to help her, honestly. And here comes the key... After the discussion and subsequent minor fallout, Michelle turned back toward the front of the room and removed her coat. Oh God help me Meghan is so unique. I might have loved her since this movie first premiered. Five years. Ugh. Anyway, Michelle wore a tank top tucked into her jeans and was my height. From sitting behind her, I watched her elbows rest on the desk and then she leaned forward to listen. The taper from her tiny waist up to her shoulders, combined with the exaggerated nature of her long arms had me thinking of her in very different terms, and very suddenly. I stared and lost myself in the shape of her torso. Later when she stood to leave, I again looked with different eyes, and then watched her walk along the hallway and out the door. Different, as if I had not seen her before that evening. For whatever reason, her lengthened features struck me upside the head and I yearned for two days to pass so I could see her again. Eighteen months of gluing my eyes not to her chest, rear, or any of that shit. Legs, arms, shoulders, and the slender nose I can almost still see. Tons of blonde hair, too. Not my thing, although my partner then was very blonde. I want to jump into the television and wrap myself around Meghan while spilling everything to her big, dark, gorgeous eyes. Oy gawd damn fuck me in a film canister, maybe I really did (do) love her character. I digress, and it will happen again soon. She is too much right now. Sweetest, kindest smile ever.

I remember obsessing over seeing Michelle each week, and I think I gushed with my eyes like a puppy more than once. Not sure. She was very nice to me, ten years younger, and eventually faded after school ended. That was that. Upon graduation, we embraced and congratulated each other, and I never saw her again after that day. Four months later I was out of the house and renting a room in town, and shortly thereafter gone from that place for good. Oh, Meghan... Jump through the screen and hold me, please. Little hearts floating again. Ugh. I am a crazy person. God damn she is so beautiful.

Michelle was in the mid-nineties. That is a pile of years back, and more than a decade before the girl at the fucking car wash. I remembered Michelle just this morning right out of nowhere. Thinking of the yachts and that first summer in which I yearned to be elsewhere could have brought her back into my head. I am not certain, but it's reasonable. The bottom line is that the more I recall these events, the more I think there was not one, giant catalyst or cause. That idea forces me to think that I am not so strange after all. Or maybe I am rationalizing when I should be locked up. I don't know. Michelle was something else. As much as I felt for her during those months, she is nothing when compared to a few others. You know... My revolving door of crushes that spins here quite often these days. Meghan? Five years, on and off, for example. Ninety-nine percent of them fade away quickly. Even the walnuts. Still cute, and still a map of my brain, but faded quite a bit now. Her importance went from appearance to dreams and ended up sending me into a violent tailspin. That is going away. Oh God, this woman's fucking smile could stop even my train. Sorry. I can't help it. Where was I? Ah... Yes. I had serious hots for Michelle and one of the teachers (Sherry) but they went away soon after arriving home and seeing a veritable slew of tall, gorgeous women that partially define California's appeal to other states. They went away. Years went by and I was reminded here and there, but nothing really came of it. Others, too. I know not why. Between Michelle and moving to the coast, there were the Asians, and then Maggie, and then someone else, and then whatever. Too much, but hopefully you get the point. Those that fade may not be pushing anymore. They may have simply been key forces which pushed buttons I otherwise did not recognize. Again, I just don't know.

All the little incidents added up. Hmm... Maybe. Also? Maybe it doesn't matter anymore. I am still pretty fucked up over the whole thing. Hearts again. I think I did love this woman for a time. Right now I don't know because there is too much going through my head in attempting to understand. And now that leads elsewhere. Oy, so tiring, this crap. Compelled.

What if I don't need to know? What if there is no clear answer or cause? Oh my, there she is again. I cannot change the channel, so don't ask. God help me. Meghan is five years older, married, too, I think, and none of that matters. I am the type of idiot to record/buy/steal this movie and live in a little dream cocoon with her beauty for the remainder of my life. God damn her big smile anyway. Not enough words. Never enough. This distraction has to cease if I am to get anywhere today, but I have to add an image...


Images aside, you should see the fucking video. Thanks, Hallmark.

Do I need to know? Does it matter? Or am I driving myself into the ground worrying about meaning?

I can still see Michelle's face, too, but I do not feel anything. A good example of this is Meghan. Yes, her again. When I spied the movie on the guide, the channel was changed immediately so I could see her captured in time. And then her smile graced the big screen and the little hearts started floating. That is radically different than Michelle. Remember Sara? She is nowhere near the same as a couple of months back. Still gorgeous, but nothing else. The yearning, desire to jump her shit, everything... Gone. She was a flash in the pan, I suppose, like many others. Those who remain are more important to me. Some seem to be part of the reason I turned out this way, while others are simply beautiful and I appreciate them.



Today is Saturday. I will get some things done, most notably the daily routine, and likely sit here a while because my head is beginning to implode a little. The issues are always there no matter my mood. Even Meghan (and the movie is over) cannot lift me from the problem-hole. Visions are screwing with my brain again. I have already gone around the fucking block with issue two but it will not go away. I guess sitting here trying to work through the beginning of such a situation has not helped one bit. I feel the same. Ten and eleven showed me just how weak-minded and sensitive I can be at times, and now those two facets are reflecting my mood again. Perhaps I am no longer fit for society. Too many things which others do not seem to bat an eye toward have the power to take me down. Right off my feet. Seeing Meghan and remembering Michelle's beautifully tapered back and slender arms lit a fuse, I believe. Michelle has been removed by the passage of time and one hell of a distance, while Meghan is somewhere up there in Canada and knows nothing of me. That is good because I am out of balance like never before. Think of this: I am sitting here alone with the cats and coffee, no one around and only the television in the background, yet issue two is forcing me inward. Why? There is no one here. No woman. Nothing. Just me. Why is this expanding in my brain right now? Was it something I saw? I don't think so. No answers, like always. Maybe no answers, ever. Shit. I feel weak, frightened, and in need of erasure. How in the fuck did I ever make it out there in society?

Mansions. I have to get them back from my nephew. And I need to get away from this for a while. Stop.

Afternoon. My daily things have been finished for quite some time. More crap is now in the new office and I kicked off setting up the EDC bag. So far, not bad. More materials will be coming in the mail during the next week which will support it. I like having stuff in order right now. The idea of building that kit has been on my mind for a few months and it's nice to get everything together. More knives, too. I don't need them, but alas when I feel down I find enjoyment in the collection. All are useful, some are keepsakes. For the last couple of hours I have been fairly idle other than organizing food for the next few days. Tomorrow should prove relaxing after supporting items are checked off the list. Now this. And booze, thank the stars.

I am becoming concerned with how much some of the faces are hitting me. The one I see from time to time in the south is troubling, yet there is no worry over her. Unattainable, and unnecessary. I feel at this point that if I were in a position to move toward one of the faces, the result would be disastrous for me. Issue two would carry me right out the fucking door right quick. I know it just as sure as the sun will rise in the morning. There is simply no way around that problem and I am regressing because of it. Media will be narrowed even more than it has in the last week out of fear. I have to keep myself safe from harm. And I need the fucking drawings back like I need oxygen. I have to see them again and advance my dreams. Maybe I will include Meghan's character from the movie this morning. I don't know. Or perhaps I will make her Jaime. Or the other way around. Or both. Fuck it, I don't know what I'm saying anymore. I have to get the homes back and expand myself in that direction before my fucking head explodes. The mansion of my dreams is on the horizon. Need.

I cannot be harmed in the mansion. There will be a pair of arms awaiting me upon any impending difficulty. Believe it. A la Natalie.

Tomorrow I fully intend to return to the new office and go through a box of crap that was to be donated. I'm tired of things sitting there cluttering up my new comfortable space. Everything has to go, one way or another. There will be no more waiting for trucks to come up the street. I need the room for me. Some of the tools and other devices in the EDC bag came from my tool box. There are three empty drawers after relocating the table and transferring some things into the two drawers it holds. Office supplies, drawing materials and the like. My toolbox is available for more tools now. Some of the knives will likely find a home there. That way I can look at them sometimes and smile. Hopefully. Sunday is also garbage day so I will have to work in that direction as well.

I wish speaking of daily activities and my routine were capable of removing the storm in my head. Pause.

Morning again. Sunday, garbage, chores, drinking, this... I might lose it.

The mansion is in my head. I can see it sometimes, as long as the difficulties can remain at bay for a while. Long hallways. Meandering corridors. Paneling and wainscot. Wood everywhere, around the doors, along the base, and all windows. Subdued lighting and none of that recessed shit everyone seems to want. Chandeliers, sconces, pendants here and there. And then the occasional spot coming from an unknown location and illuminating a painting on the wall. I remember walking into a home for the first time and absolutely gushing about the interior. I have always felt that a lot of natural wood in a home feels warm. Some like it, some would rather see modern appointments. My preferences may be dated due to the places I frequented as a child and the warm memories there. I don't know, but honestly I cannot say enough about the look of door and window casings in wood and the colors which accentuate the same. Many years ago, we traveled to the Midwest for a visit and her school reunion. I think we were there for roughly a week or so. The reunion was at the only hotel in the area that stood more than three floors. Heh. Small town. Anyway, we rented a car in Detroit and rolled north in search of her aunt's house. Upon arriving, we cruised in and were set up in a nice guest bedroom. The home was a ranch with four bedrooms and three baths. There was a sizeable kitchen, breakfast nook plus separate dining, and then a large living room with a smaller family room (or T.V. room, as they called it). I loved it immediately. A mix of lived-in and old-fashioned just pushed my senses over the limit. The entire time we visited was really nice, in part because of the comfort in that home. And her family, bless them. Welcomed with open arms.

The point is the home. It was something to see way back before I knew about things. Now? The memories of parts are clear while others are foggy due to the passage of so many years (close to thirty). I do recall the basic layout and fully intend to sketch it today. I can work details later. For now, there is a memory in that house from three years later which stirred me this morning in a dream. Not the house. A woman. Her cousin. Don't say it. And there is Caroline Goodall with Robin Williams, rest his beautiful soul.

The second summer just after I began working at the market, her aunt had a birthday party at that same house described above. A pool party. Yep, swimsuits. I am going so far as to mention her first name, too. I do not see any harm after two-and-a-half decades. My partner's cousin, Trisha. I had met her in California before we moved east, and I saw her for a party when we visited Michigan before moving there. Very sweet, younger than me by several years, and about as intelligent and well-educated as one person can be. I was enamored with her due to my desire to attend school and advance myself. She was a prime example of working hard to do well in a career. As I understand it, she went far beyond those first four years. Anyway, while we lived there I saw her only once in a while. The family was spread out all over the place and generally gathered for the holidays. That summer party was the aforementioned birthday and I cannot remember the person we were celebrating. Well, Trisha and her brother Todd appeared and made nice, after which the cooking began and many went out to the pool. The weather was humid. Ugh. Their house had central air which was a dream of mine during the two years living in that climate. As cold as Winter could be, the summer humidity really knocked me on my ass more than once. As I peered out the sliding door to see kids splashing, a tap on my shoulder forced a turn, and Trisha was there waiting to get through the door and swim... In her little bikini. My head exploded for two reasons. One is likely obvious, and the other was fear of gawking at a woman who was a family member of my partner. The situation I am describing is the very first time that type of battle took place inside me over the need to look at her. In milliseconds my head computed that her smiling, exposed self wished to go through the door I was blocking and I slid to the side with a tiny 'oh, sorry'. Trisha smiled and brushed my shoulder along with... 'it's ok. Put your suit on and join the fun!'. Through the door she trotted as I saw more than enough to cause a lifetime of distress. I turned and went out the front door to breathe freely for a moment before losing my mind. She never dressed in anything tight or revealing and I could not have imagined her in a tiny swimsuit. Nothing like that entered into my head prior to the pool party because I had been caught up in the idea of my education. She was very accomplished. When I looked at her I saw a person I wished to be, and seeing that she went so far helped me to feel that I could do the same. And then a fucking bikini...

I am going to do my best to refrain from gushing about her form. After all this shit for years I do not believe it's necessary anymore. Trust me, and trust the feeling.


When I say battle, I mean bad. As the party progressed, I glimpsed her a bit here and there yet did my best to avoid staring. I just could not believe what my eyes had taken in. Heading back home after that day was rife with visions of that woman. There was no removing her from my head for the remainder of my time living there. Even Michelle could not pull Trisha's appearance out of me.

I brought up the house because to this day I relate it to the woman. Not a mansion. Just a house. But one that had been ingrained into me along with the sight of Trisha. She was attached to that home just as I have always attached a woman to one of my own designs. Throughout all these years -- even going all the way back to the early eighties and those bicycle rides up to Parkmeadow Drive to see that big home that I wished to live within -- every single dream of a mansion or other home has been related in such a manner. There is always a woman, especially while I sleep. I know not why. The house above, where the pool party took place, is not a mansion by any means, however a home can be whatever the owner makes of it. To some, I am certain it is a mansion. To me? A dream. A big one. Sitting here this morning I can still see her standing before me with a smile as she waited to swim with the others. My partner's cousin and someone she loved. Family. Oy, even back then I was a piece of work.

Mansion. Now I am driven even more to get the drawings back so I can see them again. More than nine years have passed since they were in my possession. Wow. What was I thinking? Ahh... You know.

The images of Bethany and her indescribable face remind me of Trisha. Bethany is much taller, however. But her face... I believe the idea that the faces are becoming a problem has already been splayed here. I did not see the one in the parking lot on Friday. Her car was there but the timing did not work. Yesterday I did not leave the house, and most likely I will not today, either. The weekdays when I drive are the only possibilities. And I believe trying to learn of why she is causing so much trouble is a waste of time. I will just keep asking over and over. Unnecessary. The fact is that faces cause feelings within, when a simple form -- no matter how stirring to my deviant sense of beauty -- causes turmoil. When a woman is carrying both? The face takes over, and quickly. When I say 'feelings', I mean it. The one down there in the parking lot moves me so much that I cannot get any more across. Her expression. Look at Bethany there, in the two images she shot of her own face. I believe the idea was the sweater, and in most of the self-images I have seen, her face is obscured because the point is the clothing. There are few in which her face is visible. Look at her. Something about the shape of her lips and those eyebrows. I don't know how to put it into words and such a thing may be impossible. But you can see the darkness, her mass of hair framing such an expression, and the tone of her skin. The feeling inside when I see her face is one of warmth. Yes, the last image represents my obsession with those lines, but for Chrissakes cut me a break. There is a connection with Trisha, too, so don't flog me for the swimsuit image. Bethany's face is the thing, and I have said that too many times already. Face. The one down south. The image of Jaime. And Jamie. I may have to stop this shit because I am losing the ability to create these entries without being completely fucked over by the faces. Damn it. If there was a point somewhere, I lost it. Remember when I said Molly was so cute that I could not understand? Well, the woman in those two self-images is so far beyond Molly that I almost laughed at my own comments. I have to stop going all over the fucking place describing levels of cuteness. It is beginning to sound juvenile and just plain stupid. What the fuck was I on about?

Ah... Relating the mansions and the women. Yep.

While drawing the five main designs back in the nineties, I did not picture myself with a specific person. The main idea was dreaming of being out of the din and in a place where I had control over the atmosphere and environment. One might think that I placed myself in those dreams with Trisha since she moved me so, but the truth is my nutty period over her did not last very long. One side of me eventually won over and I resisted staring at anything aside from her face when we spoke. Soon enough, though, I was back here with my devices and the dreams went in another direction. At no time did I place her with myself in one of the big homes. That was not something I considered at the time. Now? Completely different. The dreams have compounded themselves to the point of driving me into this space you are reading. There are many differing women here and there when I dream, and each for a different reason. You have already been made aware that the search for identity keeps going day after day. That may not be the point, though. I might not need to know who I am seeking all the time. The idea may be the home and not knowing. Not an actual person, but an idea. Make sense?

She may also be the machine. That would seem to correlate with never seeing a face. The machine is an unreachable dream, so never finding the elusive woman in the house might be pointing to that. I am pretty smart, but don't know every fucking thing. I can be just as thick as anyone else trying to figure themselves out. If I am truly searching for a gorgeous machine while I sleep, the remainder of my life is going to be very disappointing to say the least. That is not even a little funny. If it is an idea of something I need, that is fine. Jesus Harold Christ on a fucking rubber crutch... How did I get to this point? Damn.

Fuck it. I'll just keep going. If readers get bored, they can take a flying leap. I don't give a shit anymore. This space is mine, and if I need to explore until my fingers fall off so be it. I admitted that this helps me at least some, so if that's not good enough? You know. Fuck off.

Seeing Trisha way back when was something unimaginable. Oh believe me when I say that I am a normal (mostly) person and when there is an attractive woman I usually notice, but the extent of that is what dictates a longer term reaction. Trisha is still in there, as are many others, however she was so long ago that I am wondering what else may have taken place in between. I do not remember seeking anything. My partner at the time was fucking gorgeous... A dream in and of herself, and one I had yearned for throughout years. A chance meeting at the prodding of one of my friends after walking by her store one night and that was that. I saw her and had no intention of embarrassing myself after having done it so many times. I was disheartened by that point in my life and had no confidence remaining. He told me to go talk with her or he was going to leave me without a ride home. Heh. So I did. And six years later we were still together and she was just as much of a dream. So, why did I become so enamored with Trisha? Because of the years? Because she was not my partner? Someone different? Oy, that is not a good subject, especially for me. You know, it points to never finding anything satisfying and constantly vying for someone else. Yikes... Let us pass that right on by, please.

The fact is I think Trisha was unexpected. I saw things on her that I had not noticed before. Close, but not quite there. Her suit was a three-quarter (meaningless these days, but stunning on the right woman) and so much was on display -- along with her super-cute facial expression when she ran into me -- that I did not comprehend the lines until many years later. As I sit on this sofa, I swear to Christ in heaven that I did not need to jump her. No. Just... No, and fuck you if you assumed I did. The lines, idiots. Lines. Radii. I will admit that her eyes were mesmerizing, but I did not desire her physically. In fact, the whole fucking thing went by very quickly. And there was the house I adored. A connection? Warmth in two ways? I have to think about this some more, damn it. Too much. I think I am beginning to figure some of this out but it's going to take time. Lots of time. Add up all of the names I have mentioned here in the last three or four entries and you may realize that juggling is not my forte. All those faces now. Years and even mere months ago they were rarely mentioned.

Now add to that dreams of mansions in which the faces are the only aspects I can't see. Hmm. I don't get it.


Maybe I have not been seeking something. Maybe I am supposed to be learning from these dreams and visions. Perhaps Trisha's swimsuit was a test of sorts. Or her legs? No answers.

I haven't gone into today very much because I just don't care. You know already. Jesus Christ, Rachel Ward in eighty-one. DAMN.

Anyway, if I keep digressing I will never get anywhere. The mansion of my dreams, indeed. A woman without a face? A machine without a face? What the fuck is that? Or am I avoiding the faces because the emotion involved must be removed? Throughout all these years I have felt no emotion whatsoever when seeing a form out on the street or in media. Nothing. The occasional physical desire popped into me but has never lasted very long. The faces I have gazed upon more recently are causing emotion, often very deep emotion. A good example is Jolene. Without going into great detail, I feel desire for her like no one else. The shape of her torso and those long legs drive me up the wall every time. I cannot help it. Visions enter my head and I go around the world very quickly with need. It is overwhelming and nothing can be done about any of it so I do my best to let it all go. And then when she speaks and I see her soft eyes, my heart swells with emotion. I immediately wish to bury my face into her neck and gush my entire life to her. That is radically different than needing to paint her with my tongue (sorry). Her face is key. I did not feel this way even three months ago while beginning to wrap myself in this cocoon. The change is something I am trying to understand. The breasts in the parking lot drove me into the ground, and then I spied her eyes and lost my shit. Now the body is not really involved when I see her there. Seconds -- possibly less -- were all that had been required for me to feel for her. This is just bad in so many ways that I am at perhaps the biggest loss in years. I keep typing and typing, thinking over and over, studying myself from many standpoints, and have gotten myself nowhere. At least, I don't think I have. Could be wrong.

Circles. I'm stuck.

I went into quite the long story in describing Trisha. That incident seems relevant and important to what I am attempting to accomplish here lately. Or, it might just be the memory of a beautiful woman and that fucking swimsuit. Heh. Beyond cute, like Molly. But she was a person. I say that a lot because I have to. I am a person, too. Rachel is up there on the screen looking like five-foot-nine-inch dessert... Eighties hair and all. Back then I wanted to bounce her off me for days. Now I see a person. An actor doing her job, and doing it well. Yes, she is beautiful to this day, but still a person above all things. Am I trying to justify the desire I feel for some? What about my heart aching over the faces? I think one answer is no longer elusive, and that is upon rediscovering the images of Jaime, faces began to move me like never before. At least, that seems to be the case. If so, this whole mess of words for months has been worthless and I do not wish to believe it. There is value in what I am doing here, and much more than gushing over radii. Artwork. Form and wonder. Fuck it, I don't know anymore. Maybe the fiction should rule the roost. I may be doing nothing more than hurting myself and becoming worn out over such analysis. Burt just smacked Rachel around in the story and I don't know why. Haven't been following, but it looks bad regardless. I realize this is a movie.

Stuck. Meghan won't leave my head, either, and it's my fault. Her character, really. Her fucking smile and enormous eyes. Mass of hair. Darkness. Damn it all. I watched the movie yesterday knowing full well that I was going to fall down. Eyes. Her character. I need to be in her arms. The face in the parking lot. Jolene's huge eyes. Bethany and her never-ending expressions of wondrous beauty. Jaime and half her face, if not less. Jamie and those fucking giant eyes. Again... Her character. In all of them I see gentle and loving, kindness, soft thoughts and consideration. And then that fucking word which applies far too much to all those eyes... Understanding.

Maybe that is the one thing I seek in the dreams that can never be found. I run and run and follow along like the lovesick puppy I am, and then wake to a world in which that word no longer exists in the manner I need. All this time... Not the forms, not my tongue, not the breasts. Just the understanding. Fuck this. I am going to get the fucking drawings and assemble my machine from all those eyes. Whether or not I find her in a dream may not matter. There is no control there whatsoever. The only thing I can control is the dream of that woman and my machine in the mansion. Not a dream while asleep... The one in my head right now. All of them, combined. This is unhealthy and ill-advised and I don't give a fuck. Soon I fear I will have nothing else.

Well, chores. Routine. Show. There you go. How does that sound?

She is out there."