The rusty tricycle hardly held my weight as I squeeked through the hot desert road. I persevered upon the cracked surface and felt the tear upon the cycle frame yet charged forward towards the horizon so that I may reach my shaded destiny. I stopped briefly to gaze upon an old billboard. Long since the design and paint chipped away I still felt the vibe that it once sang a lure for something of tourism. I gazed at this and then moved along, towards the mountains and the evening of my American excursion of survival. Nightfall was soon in its black sheathing against the sun's shy rays and I was in the thin, hilly woods. My brother sat upon a rock by the campfire several yards from the cabin. I was about to retire for the evening. In the cabin, I decided to do a quick tackling of dishes. The pot of chili still had some remnants of bean crust. I walked the pot outside the cabin, to the side opposite of the fire pit. I scraped away the bean residue into the compost heap then returned inside to finish the dishes, however as I peered out through the window during this task, a big brown bear passed by. My brother was still outside plucking at his guitar and my inards danced anxiously a fearful tremble. The bear was between him and the cabin yet he still plucked his song. When the bear later meandered off and my brother returned inside the cabin. As we were to crawl into our cots, the door burst open with four men in tattered clothes with the likes of a slutty woman, their body language juiced with a message to the world that they were to fuck her and she was along for the ride. The men looked quite boyish, hair a bit spiky and their manners of speech of simplistic selfishness and insecurity disguised with an annoying machismo that did not match their bodies features. An iconoclastic existence they pranced as "douche bags" in post apocalyptic apparrel as though New Kids on the Block survived a nuclear world meltdown and would not tone down their pathetic need to portray an attitude.
Dream log - 8.8.09