Stay wilder than the wind...

I don't dream at night.

My sleep has no images or constructed storylines intruding upon it.

I used to dream all the time. Every night guaranteed, I would wake from multiple dreams. Some good, some bad, some terrifying. My favorites always consisted of me as some lithe, four-legged animal running through cities at night, over fences, up walls, or being pursued by some faceless masculine entity, but more stimulating and exciting than causing of fear. The nightmares, I was always trapped, unable to move, unable to run, interrupted in mid-flight and grounded while a family member, usually my sister, was drowned or murdered by another faceless entity.

But I stopped dreaming in the last few years.

I close my eyes, I slide into unconsciousness, and then I open them to sunlight.

I don't know what happened.

I remember cartoons and random movies where the villian of the piece would attempt to steal children for their pleasant dreams because the villian was completely lacking in the ability to dream. Somehow, the dreams would enable them to rest for once, to be guiltless and free during their sleeping hours.

In City of Lost Children, the villian kidnaps children off of the streets in the hopes of stealing their dreams so he can somehow stop his body from aging.

I never quite followed the logic in that, but I loved the floating brain character.

It's becoming more noticable now, possibly because of the couchsurfing I engage in during the week. I get woken up at odd hours fairly often and there are no images interrupted in my brain, no matter of the time of night or morning.

... ... ... ...

I think I fought off my cold through flooding my system with water and exercise. It's there, but barely.

I went to see Lucha va Voom at The Mayan last night with some friends. Mexican wrestling and strippers. What else could a girl need? The variety of body-types the dancers had was pretty noticable. One very buxom and jiggly hispanic girl, one standard girl with average curves, a tall blonde that, even while wearing stilettos had no ass to speak of, a very petite latina, a girl with the total dancer's muscled body, and then, of course, a lithe male at the end who was absolutely fanastic.

We cheered, we booed, we shouted and made cat-calls.

Afterwards, I steered us down a few blocks to the Hotel Figueroa. I found this place while I was wandering around the Staples Center last summer. The little restaurant just inside the front door serves wonderful burgers, and the bar is killer. Well, not the alcohol. I have no idea about their stock. But the atmosphere, the music, sitting under the buildings with the searchlights going off to the west, clouds filling the sky and each table lit up with a single candle in various colored glass jars... it's perfect.

It's in those moments where I'm sitting in the cold air, thinking:

Let me be alone forever, if just so no one will disturb this perfect scene.

I can't imagine being with anyone that brings me the peace that such places bring me, those inner vibrations, the resonance that you experience when you step into a room and you know that part of you and part of it align on such a base frequency, you can't help but feel as though you found something that you had been missing.

When I met Wolfboy, almost eight years ago know, when I saw him, I knew. I knew that we could be meant for each other, that the wild vibrations screaming down my spine translated the potential, the intensity, we could have. Those vibrations never left us, even when years were spent apart or in the company of other lovers, when we reconnected, we both knew something more was there.

But I decided that I did not want the life he offered... and then someone else's fate took him out of my hands. I continue to miss him, in the way that I do, where most memories fade, glances exchanged become lost, and the world that was constructed around the two of you is resigned to a high shelf, far out of reach.

My friends and I sat around one of the tables by the pool, drinking, until C started nodding off. We walked back to my car, stopping for street meat on the way. The aromas of carmelized onions and peppers got to our companions and they could not say no to the mysterious potentially meat-based product.

The streets were empty and oddly clean. I never expect anything remotely near downtown to be clean. Traffic was minimal. It was apocalyptic... just without the requisite zombies. We spotted a bright red two-story tall electric sign declaring "JESUS SAVES" on our walk, something I had never noticed before. It gave the end of the evening this desolate feeling that I, as usual, enjoyed.

It leaves me wanting to be alone. I want to be up at 4AM, wandering the empty parts of LA. I want to see the city as few do. I want to be undisturbed, unmolested, and soak up the atmosphere that comes from being on an empty street that is only a few hours from being flooded with people.

I want to step outside of it. I want to be part of the gray. That time of the evening, time of the morning, when it is neither daylight or dark, the misty dusk. And when it is about to rain, but the clouds can't quite push it over the edge, so the world becomes monochrome, but dry.

These are my favorite moments, when something is caught between two opposites.

Possibly because I am, as always, caught between two opposites... but I can never resolve myself to just being that way, like the dusk. My need to define myself and my continuous failure to do so stabs at me, leaves me open to interpretation, open to other standards, to other ideas and influences.

It's good to be part of two worlds. It allows you to interact, allows viewpoints, allows friendships with people that you would not normally meet, to experience things that would normally pass by.

But then you never fit in.

Anywhere.

You always have one foot out the door, not because you're planning on leaving, but because you never fully came in.

I've been clubbing, been part of a particular scene for almost eight years now. I have many, many friends in the scene. I can dance. I can dress the part. I can do the make-up and the hair. I know the bands, I know the DJs, the venues, the promoters, the history. I've never quite belonged, and it has been commented on a few times over the years. Not in a negative way, but just as an observation by friends.

Neither masculine or feminine in personality, either, but this odd middle ground.

I suppose that I should be thankful that my body is decidedly female, or I might have developed an androgyny complex.

... ... ... ...

This weekend is the new club. I've poked a few people about going, but I'm not really driving it home like I should be. GV8 is coming with me, of course. I'm just looking forward to an evening of dancing to triphop. Portishead's Biscuit is, to me, pure sex. That song is how I love.

Also going to be spinning by the warehouse/loft for some pre-construction pictures. It's going to be cool to see how it all comes together. I'm sure I'll be posting the progress here.

Anyhow, places to go, people to see and all that. It's Friday, I've got demands on my time, a weekend to organize, and a man whose bones I must jump.