Monday, June 18, 2012


Vincent van Gogh painted The Starry Night while in an asylum — which makes perfect sense. It's clearly the work of a madman, someone swimming in a profound break from reality.

In other words: someone right up my alley.

In many ways the time since May 5 seems covered with a thin coat of translucent purple paint — a high-octane, fume-laden coloring that has me slightly off-balance on most good days. And the bad days? Like the worse jags of paint huffing.

It's appropriate for the hero's journey, though I don't feel like a supernatural being — more like a quaking kid on an acid trip, surrounded by uncertainty and weird, swirly skies of violet haze. My dreams, always vivid, have become downright realistic since the stroke — a function of a newly wired brain, perhaps? Whatever the cause, they leave me exhilarated and exhausted. A month ago I was attached to a quad cane and dreaming about walking without that damned monstrosity. Last night — after a weekend of walking 10 miles without the quad — I dreamed about being forced to use it again, and moving slower than a thick river of molasses. I couldn't keep up but I didn't give up, just kept pushing my legs to go faster. I woke up shouting the name of the friend who was with me in the dream. My cat responded by yowling. I think he remembers.

I did not glean any hints about the Holy Grail in that dream. But I liked the dream. It gave me guts.

This has been an alright day. Not good, not great, but definitely a notch above meh. I think I'll go for a walk tonight with the talismans. I have a lot on my mind, things I need to resolve before tackling the challenge of trying to win the boon. The biggest challenge of my life. The most important thing I'll ever do. I have exactly one chance at success. Just one. Resolved: I will not fail. I can't.

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