Raining Frogs: A Dream Journal

The nefarious and the vigilante, please note that I despise you all equally. You are carved on my skin, you put me behind bars, every bite taken off of me perfectly unhinged, deprived in richness and rich in deprivation. Take me to an alternate reality where everything’s proudly different and clumsily the same. Distort my notion of kinship, crumble it to pieces only to give my flesh hope for a new meaning.

A misty sound of many pats and a grand squish is in order. It feels like a carnival for the child previously looking out of an airplane window with an imagination that’s taken unjustly for granted. The headlines scream “Raining Frogs!”

• Are we falling or are we flying?
• As long as we’re up in the air, we are flying.
• It really feels like we are falling.
• That’s because we are also falling.

There is a man working on a field as I pass by. He is down on his knees, beating the dirt with an ax, surrounded with chard. How does one eat chard? His belly is slightly on his way. He is wearing jeans, a flannel shirt, and a wicker hat that complement the grey facial hair and the red cheeks. I greet him as I pass by. He looks up, straightens his back, crunches his neck, pulls the ax out of the dirt. The ax rotates and whispers tales. My ears are vigilant.