2

(Saturday)
　
I’d rather be Him than orgasm.
I’d rather just make love forever.
It’s like, I don’t want to make love, I want her to trust me, to see me so much as Him, for her to know me as so Big, that she will let me f-ck the hell out of her, roughly, like I really want to, and she’ll still orgasm.
I don’t seem interested in easy sex, sex in which I simply come and then go about my business, I’m interested in being Him.
I will be Him, and someone will come along and fall in love with me all on their own.
And I won’t believe them, and will find it torturous even, because I’m Big, and have known the pain of it, have known what I did to Trevor.
But finally I will succumb, and I will commit the crime, the same crime I committed on Trevor -- reaching out, touching him, kissing his neck, penetrating him, causing him to orgasm -- because I will trust that this person does want me, does want me to do this, and even if they die like Trevor did there will still be no regret in them, same as Trevor is still with me, and didn’t die all the way to the Who Knows place.
This is who I am. Brave, Sad, Masculinity. It is the truth of me; my member only responds to this truth and nothing else.
And how do you sustain yourself? You do whatever you want, when you want, maturely.
The voice in my head isn’t mine. It asks too much allowance from the listener. When I silence it silence it all the way, in a permanent way, I feel the physical-ness I enjoyed when high on marijuana.
It’s Difficult, maybe impossible, but I’m Brave, so I’ve decided to accomplish it. It requires me to express myself in other ways. Right now I’m concentrating on the song Breathe Me by Sia.
Oliver says to Christian in the soap opera: It is your life, so you never have anyone to defend yourself to, not even me.

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(Sunday)
　
Slept all day. I would get up to pee, or to turn off the alarm’s warning beeps, or even to eat something, but then seamlessly went back to bed.
I awoke for good at about four-thirty in the afternoon. I came downstairs and cried on the rug for a few minutes.
The dream had lasted all day, and followed the time table of the present day.
As usual, I am more alive in my dreams than in waking life. This dream was disturbingly vivid. So vivid I consistently mistook it for waking life and would get confused when I would awake to go pee, or step downstairs to turn off the alarm’s warning beeps.
I worry about my psyche in this moment. The confusion as to what was waking life and what wasn’t was so strong I was frightened of losing myself.
To not be numb in my sleep and numb in waking life is a bad mix. I am too old to not be this strong, I tell myself, Therefore, keep going.
The dream was riddled with frighteningly vivid memory. There were all these moving photographs on the walls, which were really more memories.
There were relatives, the older ones hung out as I moved into this House from the one in God’s Country. R__ seemed nice, and harmless, unloading the truck of my many file boxes.
R___, H___, A___, the old relatives, many I don’t know in waking life, Grandpa, Grandma -- R___’s side -- They’re all moving me into this house from the Johnston House.
Everyone seems nice and genuinely glad to be there. After the relatives leave, House comes by to get the rest of his stuff.
His girlfriend Wh___, was unrealistically mature and capable in the dream, packing House’s stuff up, setting the pace of his move, etc.
House keeps trying to act like he doesn’t want to talk it out, but obviously he does; I’m unusually charming for such a would-be-awkward situation.
It takes him a long time and when he’s done he has a huge lime green truck stacked high full of stuff -- an entire house’s worth of stuff.
Finally, he turns into Joseph Gordon Levitt and I feel a strong pull toward him, and wishes he wouldn’t go, wishes he wouldn’t break the connection between us.
As I pack mementos properly and unpack according to how the house should be set up, the dream keeps switching to me in the Johnston House.
I wake and sneeze regularly -- me sneezing has always been a precursor to my sexuality hitting me or showing up suddenly.
There were these two abandoned buildings on the other corner from the Johnston House; they stood at a somewhat important intersection for the rural country. Since early childhood I’ve had dreams centered around the buildings.
In one dream it’s a church we go to, with flaming flower pots on each side of the entrance steps.
In this dream it is an arts studio where ceramics are made where little analog clocks are inset into them. A___ is around a lot (she used to go to a ceramics class at a woman’s house when she was a small kid) but inside the building it’s only me and House (from the series) and an unfortunately unattractive woman who was his wife.
There is another storyline about my taking care of an enlarged industrial version of the Johnston House, where Mom is my boss, but keeps locking doors and refusing to open them -- making my job near impossible -- then she blames me for the problems in the House’s upkeep.
At one point me and another little boy are trying to figure out the plumbing or something. The pipes are enormous and I finally get to the part where a typewriter is in the way. I pull the typewriter out (the same typewriter I have in the closet in waking life) and somehow this saves the day.
At the end of the dream there was Oliver and Christian in the blue mustang in the Johnston House’s yard. It was very sexual, very vivid, as I kissed Oliver’s chest and nipples and abs and neck, the skin vividly familiar, muscular, his expression sensual and orgasmic.
He is in the passenger seat and I am against the dash, but suddenly we are switched and I am sitting in the seat and he is gently sucking my shoot. I turn to Christian who doesn’t want to join in.
I argue to him that our relationship started when I was one, see, I said, as if what me and Oliver were doing was proof.
Christian keeps denying it, with a worried look on his face. Suddenly it’s clear that I’m a little kid. Later it would turn out the memory Oliver and Christian were alluding to was of the second Jonathon. I cannot express the sheer, almost painfully pleasurable sexuality of this part of the dream.
The dream seemed to imply forgiveness. Enough forgiveness to see the memories clearly, despite their horrific-ness.
In the dream I was doing this effortlessly. In the wake world, the effort lingered, and I cried on the floor on the china rug. At the time I cried I was utterly surprised. I felt haunted by the dream, but in an inexplicable way.
I regularly have dreams involving surprise extra rooms in the Johnston House. In this dream the extra rooms showed up in the House I’m in now.
The boxes I was moving into the House or trying to figure out how to unpack were full of mementos from my childhood, toys, papers, all accurately from Real life, which represented memories. In Waking life those items don’t exist anymore.
(after I am good and awake, and have get up from the rug)
I step outside, simply because I want to, onto the front porch where the birds are, birds that never seem to mind me, even though they’re wild. But the outside was in the dream, too, and the inside of both Houses, the rural country, too, so no matter when I go, I’m always haunted by the dream -- always haunted by the truth -- the memories, the dreams, no escape, no going back.
I suppose I must be strong enough for this, regardless, since these effects seem so permanent. I wonder about the supposed limits of the psyche, of what Trevor told me, I know I shall be much more vividly haunted for now on in waking life.
I’m aware of feeling a lot of fear, like my heart is squirming or clenching inside my chest.
I feel very on-my-own. I suppose a soul reckoning with itself would. But mine’s name is Brave. So I stay cool, despite the physical symptoms to the contrary. In that way, I’m eternally okay, and trust.
Right now I suspect the rejection of the voice in my head last night, as the catalyst for the vivid dream. The silence that followed and the strong feeling of physical-ness I enjoyed since the rejection felt powerful at the time.
I notice that my neck is straight even though I’m not high or anything and haven’t been in a while. When it straightens, my chest and abs go back to their true form -- plus my manner: I instantly become sexualized, masculine -- my self -- Him.
I listen to what I want in-the-moment and use it as a guide. All I know to do is write it down. But it doesn’t necessarily have an immediate effect and can be torturous in the doing.
By listening to the want I then set the proper pace, how much haunting, how much writing, how much of a break in between. The want is my soul’s language. He knows what it’s doing.

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