Colin 1969

Thursday 6/4/26

I had a dream last night that went on for what felt like a while and resumed each time I went back to sleep after waking up. I flew to Paris twice in the middle of the night to spend time with someone I loved. She lived with her family. I wanted to see the Eiffel Tower but we never seemed to get around to it. I'd look for it on the way back to the airport. The buildings of the city were packed closely together. You couldn't see down any of the streets. Fields of vision were limited. It was hard to get your bearings. The Eiffel Tower felt like some white whale I couldn't confirm was real. I also wanted to see how well I did going up all of its stairs to the top.

For some reason, the Admiral and the Captain were part of the group that went with me to the airport on my final trip back home. The person in charge of flights was a man at a desk in a dimly lit room. One of those desks typical of a newspaper man--but in isolation--in a 1940s film. He presented me with various offers like when people are offered various perks if they give up their flight to wait for a later one.

Among those offers was watching this film that had yet to be released and writing 1300 words on it which would result in a refund of what was a $430 ticket. I tried to play it cool for some reason, asking him if he knew how long 1300 words was, because he said it so casually. The truth is, you'd be expected to do those 1300 words for free now, after having fought for the opportunity to get to do them and overcome the various roadblocks of discrimination, envy, and hate.

The feeling of love I had for this woman was intense within the dream. It was with great sorrow that I was going away. Already I couldn't wait to return. She felt the same way. I met her friends. On one of the visits I was in a bookstore. I avoid bookstores now. I never go in them. Because I know how everything works. I know why there's a stack of that bad book by that bad person on that front table display. There's nothing to see, nothing to read. Anything worth reading, you find elsewhere.

I opened a magazine to see that it had a piece by me in it. I hadn't written for this magazine in a while, and it was something of a surprise that I had returned to its pages. But they got the name wrong. Instead of "Colin Fleming" it said "Colin 1969" at the top. Like some random cut and paste error that no one picked up on, but it also felt deliberate. Of course the work was mine. It could only have been by me.

I didn't say anything to this woman about that discovery. I just wanted to be with her. She was of indeterminate age, but young. Assured in herself. I liked her parents. They liked me. It's strange. That was the most I've felt for a person in many years. You wake up, and it's not a real person. But you still miss them.

Then I am back in my life and I am alone and without hope, with the thought of death always in the forefront of my mind. I am never not thinking about death now even as I think about other things. It's like all roads, in all ways, lead to it for me and its shadow is over everything such that it is the color of everything.

Nonetheless, let's try and do better today. No effort and fight yesterday. Try to do better and maybe some day things can be different and it will seem that thoughts of life are unavoidable and with good reason.