(This) Sort of FoolSpeak By Sean Ripple www.flickr.com/photos/flatlife I remember when a dream was less than a dream. It was called reality in that time. The dream's floating logic was effectively contained. It was made impotent by the division of labor; clinched in the teeth of the slaves devoted to maintaining the systemic order established by the enemy of the dream. The very difficult to refute rhetoric made known by reality was that (this) sort of fool speak (this) kind of gibberish (this) sort of being — the being of the dream — was an unattainable state. Outside of being unattainable, it was thought to be a state of little importance or consequence. Because this was the prevailing view, no one cared to dream. That is, no one found value in committing to the act of dreaming. Whether awake or asleep. Now, you have the benefit of seeing a great danger in this way, but at the time, no such consideration had been made. Had it not been for the few from Connecticut — their story we all know well — the crushing spirit of reality would still draw our lines and dig our graves. Every so often, I'm ashamed to admit, I find myself tempted by the constructs that reality offers. It's hard to resist rigidity, safety, homogeny and agreed-upon procedure. Contained within reality is a hope for perfection. This is to be admired, but at the hands of man, perfection almost always becomes a fortress or weapon, and the dream that is this life becomes the forsaken or murdered.