wall_of_blather raze a dream: blue is a cafe wall. it starts on the left, with the first things ever said on blather. it winds toward the present as it moves to the right. words from the front counter to the door, from the ceiling to the floor. it would take hours to even begin to absorb everything that's here, but skimming the wall turns up some startling discoveries. david_bowie was once a semi-regular blather contributor. he didn't use his real name, but the other 'skites worked out who he was. trent reznor blathed at least once. there were a number of short-lived 'skites who went on to become published authors. on one part of the wall, a gothic synth pop artist is represented not with words, but with an entire shelf of his own, complete with a hi-fi system and a burning candle. a visual manifestation of his massive ego, or an indication of his stature as an artist? i don't know. no one else gets a shelf. most of the square segments that make up the wall collage aren't blue. they're more of a marbled black, with white words. there are no dates. no names. no titles. i can sense who the words belong to even if i can't process most of what i'm reading, because i'm looking at a part of my own life, though much of it is new to me. a few other 'skites are standing around, looking at different parts of the wall. it isn't a blather reunion, really. everyone keeps to themselves or their own little enclaves. they aren't here to interact. they're only interested in admiring their own words. i want to take in the totality of blather. i feel isolated. adrift. a ghost haunting something i thought i was a part of. it doesn't help that the three women standing to the left, at the very beginning of blather, are bragging to themselves about how they've been here longer than anyone else. i want to talk to them, want to celebrate this incredible thing we've made together, but i know they'll only laugh at me and my insignificant twenty years. i scan the wall for any evidence of my own contributions to blue. there's nothing. i'll have to find the red wall if i want to find myself. the only person who acknowledges me is birdmad. he isn't himself, but i know it's him. his right eye is nothing but sclera. a marble of white milk. i can feel the pupil that isn't there anymore fighting to find me. he looks like he's already seen the end of everything and his heart has been hammered into pulp, and all he has left is a sort of weary resignation. he doesn't have much of a handshake. but when i tell him how nice it is to have a meaningful conversation with someone who's intelligent and articulate, he weeps. 210715 ... epitome of incomprehensibility This is surreal and thought-provoking and touching all at once. The idea of David Bowie writing on blather made me smile. 210715 ... raze it kind of blew my mind in the dream. i thought, "bowie as a blatherskite? what? how?" but there was irrefutable proof of his presence. and once the reality of it sunk in, i couldn't argue with the logic behind famous people hanging out at blather so they could dance around in the sea of words and enjoy a bit of anonymity. blather-related dreams always fascinate me. one of the most interesting ones i've had was a_fresh_start, which i had no memory of until this dream made me want to revisit it. i wonder if it means anything that both dreams, separated by more than six years, feature a character with a pupil-less, marble-like eye? 210715 what's it to you? who go blather from