From a creative writing pattern he was asked to create today in school. He is ten and holds my heart always…

Truth is

Respecting people and

Understanding

Students.

Truth is

Worthiness

Or

Responding.

Truth is

Humans like

You.

Four a.m. Someone, something throws water on my face trying to wrestle me back into consciousness. It stings but I do not fully awaken, only enough to be aware of what is playing out. My body lies still, paralyzed in either fear or anticipation of what is to come. I watch in horror as my babies slip through my fingers into a rushing river, the love of my life disappears inside a savage tornado, a gun is pointed to my head and the trigger pulled over and over and over sending shock waves through each molecule in my being. The only thing I can register as reality is the sweat these scenes generate, soaking my bed sheets until I shiver under the weight of its dampness.

What is a dream? Why do we have them? I’ve heard they are our subconscious seeking ways to sort out our underlying fears and frustrations. The players in the dream simply represent part of ourselves that we are unable to come to terms with during waking hours. Reliving past hurts or joys under rapid eye movements. I have a cursory awareness of what Freud and Jung thought regarding them but after reading a few paragraphs, my head starts to spin. Some cultures believe dreams represent symbols to tell the future or our struggles in an altered plane of existence. Recent theorists now lean more toward their meaninglessness than anything else – random visions created by random stimuli before dozing off.

Mostly, they frustrate the fuck out of me.

The room is shadowed in late evening sun. There is a piano and smell of lilacs. We are dancing. Holding one another in a tender embrace that is of pure light. He sings a song gently in my ear, words I know I will recognize upon awakening when they are played on the radio. We laugh and touch as two old souls who chose to walk an ethereal plane while others merely close their doors. It is not sexual, it is a deep knowing closeness that we share. The light gets brighter. It always does. And the music turns into an electronic beeping ripping us away with barely the time to whisper goodbye until we can find each other again.

I want some of my dreams to have significance and true meaning for my awakened soul. Others, I want to forget and give into their nothingness. Can I have it both ways? Of course, I can do anything I want. The battle lies somewhere in between as my inner hall monitor waves her red flag, screaming “You have to chose! You have to chose!”

The history of me has been riddled with nightmares – true, baffling, body-thrashing, involuntary shrieking and a forceful cleaving into rapid consciousness. Images of dead relatives rising from their coffins as I try to bash their skulls back down with a sledgehammer. Desperate chases as someone has taken my child from me and I cannot rescue them before they are lost over a bridge into a flood. The worst are the dreams where I am dreaming of being in bed asleep only to be awakened in the dream by one of these horrors. Distinguishing the line between dream and reality becomes much too difficult for my brain to determine until it is too late and I am writhing in mental anguish, praying for the end to come quickly or the sun to wake me.

There are great dreams, too, where I fly through the skies and know I was meant to. I dream of reading my inauguration poem for the nation on a beautiful, crisp day in Washington DC. Riding whales and horses, holding very old hands with my husband and traveling to distant lands I might not ever get to see when I am awake. I have dreams with my familiar on journeys fantastical or snuggling comfort where the gentle purring echoes long passed awakening. Or the miracle life growing inside of an empty space where my uterus used to be.

The long studied, over analyzed and clearly undefinable classic human conflicts – accepting the desired good with the perceived bad, embracing the dark while living in the light, giving to receive, receiving to give, taking a risk in order to be safe, coke versus pepsi, if it’s okay to go, then it’s okay to stay, less filling or great taste, honoring the flag through civil disobedience, opposites attracting, “to be or not to be” and an entire universe fitting within the nucleus of a single atom.

All of these are in us as humanity – in me as part of that larger family.

Is this what I dream of?

Or am I dreaming right now?

I am driving down a dirt road and see him walking in a crowd of people. He is sobbing and lost. I pull over to talk to him and he tells me a story I cannot bear to hear. Or repeat. I fly into a rage and try to determine if I am awake or asleep. He turns into cake as I rip him apart yelling no, no, no. I lash out at the world trying to make sense of it all. My body rolls over and I see the clock. Four a.m.

I got an email recently about sailing without blame.

I imagine the sailing crew working together, hoisting the mainsail, securing the jib to the leading edge, tacking efficiently to follow the course of the wind and all smiling as the warm moist sea glistens on their working bodies. Everyone is fit and tan from the energetic sun and the boat glides smoothly over a calm sea.

I’m going to need some lessons. Or a new manual to follow. I have no idea what I just said.

What I end up doing is nothing like my imaginations. It resembles more of a cobbled together soap box, filled with leaded glass and gun powder on a metal frame that generates sparks while I drag it along the asphalt looking for an ocean to launch it in. I have long since kicked out any crew willing to assist me out of fear of losing them first to a better boat. I desperately thought I had abandoned this slip a long time ago and cannot figure out how to unlock it from my hitch.

Then, I seem to stall out…like now…

Why is it that the voices inside my head get to pick and choose what actually escapes through my mouth and I don’t?

Yes, I know technically they are my voices and I am a grown woman with the ability to speak which I often do to the dismay of some folks who have to listen to me ramble on about how the barking dog complaint we received recently is on the edge of satanic irony given the fact that I had been overhearing rumblings of an updated animal control barking nuisance ordinance for weeks just outside my cube in order to tighten the regulations against noisy dogs. I often wondered if my young coonhound would rise to that level. Apparently someone thinks so.

Clearly, I can talk all day long about the woes of having to drive a car that not only do I no longer love, is completely unreliable given the fact that it is a $1123-crap-shoot as to whether it will start every time I turn the ignition and that I actually feel shame about being seen and heard (don’t get me started on the squealing brakes) behind the wheel.

I can also extol the virtues of any given beautimous, smoochy leather handbag produced by any number of cool designers I currently covet – Isabella Fiore, B Makowski, classic Francesco Biasia and Michael Kors – until I am nearly shaking with desire to go out and buy one with money that I do not have and would have to take off my kitchen table by stealing away from the grocery budget.

However, when something comes up that I perceive will create conflict, possible discomfort (for me, more so than others – let me be honest about that) or an extra effort on my part to remain positive about whatever I have chosen to speak and hold my so-called “ground” – my vocal cords become paralyzed in such an anti-miraculous way.

Does this make me shallow? Too terrified of my own inner terrors? Worthy of getting to speak at all?

My writer’s block broke and I’ve been writing a bit. Not blogish, but vers-ish – poems, sudden fiction and maybe other stuff.

Feels good.

Shared some.

And, oh, yea – want to do more.

My soul slid through the narrow breach like molten lava whilst my trunk got stuck on its junk. I pulled and pried until my soul hardened, sealing the crevice only to break up into jagged rubble once cooled. Only my heart remained warm. It grew and grew until it took flight and left the trunk covered in ashes to rot on the ground.

My soul soars higher without a weighty pen. As a proclaimed artist, so many times I focus on what the pen is doing that I forget what the pen can see.

Look here…

The table is enormous and yet extremely crowded with a boisterous, extended family of lives. There is a woman desperately looking for a place to fit. To sit down. No one moves to let her in. Nor should they. They all belong equally. She sees a space on the corner with a wobbly chair and broken plate. Enough space, enough. She sits, she fills her plate. Her body straightens, her smile broadens, her shoulders even out.

Just trying to sit down…

I am up in the middle of the night scribbling dream induced words on the back of an old prescription paper. I believe myself to be desperate to find my place to sit down, hungry for my chance to eat at a table filled with food that won’t harm me. I fight with words on a page, slam the delete key too many times, contort simple phrases into jumbled consonants and question every inspiration, doubt each opportunity, long for any free moment.

Images of strength are vivid in my sleep, they fade closer to awakening.

I fight to stay there, awaken I always do.

Saw it on my blog-friend’s page, and you can get the original here. I need to get out from under my rock, and write something. Anything. Here is a start…

———————————————————————————-

1)  You are facing an epic journey. You may choose one companion, one tool and one vehicle from any book or film to accompany you. Or just one of the three. It’s up to you. What do you choose?

I would bring my familiar with me. My familiar is my late-cat, Monroe Jerome. We would not need tools nor a vehicle – we’d get by just fine.

2)  You can escape to the insides of any book. Where do you go, and why?

When looking to escape and not find a cure for my aching soul, I run away into a world of intrigue and covert action – spy novels. I love Robert Ludlum, Ken Follett, Frederick Forsyth and David Baldacci.

3)  You can bring one literary character into your current life. Who do you choose, and why?

Miss Jane Pittman because until this very moment in searching for information on non-fiction books, I thought she was a real woman. Her strength and wisdom through an entire people’s struggle is not only mind-boggling but much needed for my own simple stretch of life. I read the book as a kid and took the title literally until this day.

4)  Sacred Voices: Essential Women’s Wisdom Through the Ages by Mary Ford Grabowski is my go-to book. I could read that book fifty-seven times in a row without a break for food or a pee and not be remotely bored. In fact I’ve already done that but it wasn’t fifty-seven times. It was sixty-four.

5)  Of all the literary or film characters that made an impression on you as a kid, who was the most enviable?

As a kid, I don’t remember the feeling of envy. Maybe I have manipulated memories now that I am a “grown-up” and truly do battle with envy, but as a kid? The closest I can come, I think, is Rizzo from Grease. So wanted to be that tough chick with a voice that could belt out my worst things…

6)  Of all the literary or film characters that made an impression on you as a kid, who was the most frightening?

Poltergeist. Absolutely, the Poltergeist in Poltergeist. And those damn red pig eyes and flies from Amityville (book, not movie – never could see the movie). And I still have trouble at the beach thanks to a certain shark (both versions.)

7)  Every time I read _________________, I see something in it that I haven’t seen before.

This one was hard for me – I honestly don’t reread many books. Sacred Voices is a book I’ll randomly flip open to find a passage that may be exactly what I need to read and a few others.

8)  It is imperative that _________________ be made into a movie. Now. I am already picketing Hollywood for this—but if they cast _________________ as _________________, I will not be happy. I will, however, be appeased if they cast _________________.

Another one that is hard – I cannot come up with a book that should be made into a movie.

9)  _________________ is a book that should never be made (or should have never been made) into a film.

Last hard one – shouldn’t squelch anyone’s artistic voice as far as literature and film goes.

10)  After all these years, the _body bag of her friend in school_ scene in the movie _Nightmare on Elm Street_ still manages to give me the queebs.

11)  After all these years, the _final scene in The Color Purple_ still manages to give me a thrill. To see Celie “meet” her children after all that happens, I cannot help but be filled with hope and joy and purple.

12)  If I could corner the author _Alice Walker_, here’s what I’d say to her one minute or less about her books : somehow, someway, I relate to so much of what you write about. The spiritual journey is somehow familiar and I don’t want to know why, but I do want you to know that it reaches across so many misunderstood lines to me.

13)  The coolest non-fiction book I’ve ever read is The Impossible Will Take a Little While: A Citizen’s Guide to Hope in a Time of Fear by Paul Rogat Loeb. Every time I flip through it, it makes me want to save the world with my mighty pen and voice. I can, you know, and so can you.

Damned if I know yet…

All of my paths are diverging leaving a singular segue into whatever is next for me.

Or are they converging into a hypersensitive era of more learning to be all right alone?

No one is leaving. Nothing is changing in my situation.

Lives are moving forward. Everyone is growing up. Schedules are about to get complicated.

What was it that Bob Dylan sang about times a’changing?

Counter argument for me to cling to:

“In all the universe nothing remains permanent and unchanged but the spirit.” ~ ANTON CHEKHOV, The Seagull

Not much else for me to say, really.

Except for the entire back-story behind this post.

Peace…

In an effort to clear out the clutter of my blog files, here are some blogs I thought I would write with some new added commentary…not quite like a rerun show to fill the void of actual new creativity, but close…peace…

Public Defender minus one…
July 31, 2009

That’s me. Always has been…

A friend recently told me that I would defend anyone, anything – that I was that “good.” I wanted to write about that since I certainly don’t feel very “good” these days, but couldn’t find the thread to keep it going. I am the great public defender without a law degree. I do want to make sure and find something redeemable in most folks. I try and since I cannot seem to keep my mouth shut, I usually let everyone know my feelings and/or thoughts on the matter. I cannot even sit in a sanctioned relationship venting session without first giving a disclaimer about all of the “good” things about it…I need to give myself a break and stop taking on the world’s issues. However, in my own defense …

Some Random Thoughts About Friendship
April 2, 2009

I am blessed. I always have just the right amount of friends – enough to fill my heart with joy, belly with laughter or kleenex box when the tears flow – but not too many that I forget any names or start looking for characteristics to cull.

And, as it should be, the number never, ever goes down. The faces may change or the time together may shift, but true friendships never die.

Not that you asked for my not-so-scientific research, here are my random thoughts about friendship that prove they are everlasting and indeed …

Not sure why I couldn’t keep this thread going and am vague on why it got started. I have some shifting relationships with women friends and growing phases with the main male friend I am married to. I have recently become acquainted with many new friends and become friends with some that I had previously only viewed as acquaintances. I have become keenly aware that I want to be better friends with my siblings and yet I let time, distance and daily routines prevent that. I have let slide the friendship I have with myself and am looking to revitalize it. I cannot be loved by anyone else unless I love myself first and I have slid into an extremely judgment place against myself and where I “should” be, what I “should” look like or what I “should” be doing.
Mostly, I wanted to say that I trust in the friendships I have – whatever state they are in. I believe in the power of honesty to strengthen them, even if I have not practiced my beliefs to the best of my abilities. I cannot imagine my life without the friends I have. I cannot imagine my life without making many more friends as I travel whatever path is in store for me.

Best version of myself
March 23, 2009

Sometimes I hear messages in the oddest of places.

I did end up writing about this in a way – it was the quote from CSI: NY. It was a voice from the dreaded TV that made an impact on me when I was down.
I have recently begun a new exercise program and am training for a half marathon. Have no freaking clue why I am doing it other than my friends are and I want to be in shape and live until I’m over a hundred. In reading and learning about it, there are many schools of thought on reaching personal bests. I am not an “est” person – never have been. I am not the fastest runner in the world and even though I may be close, I’m pretty sure I am not the slowest either. I have never been the prettiest girl in the room, never been the ugliest, certainly have never been the thinnest nor the fattest. As I bemoaned the other day, I am no where near the best singer and even though I love to act, know that there are many who are better. Unfortunately, I couldn’t be pegged to be known as the happiest woman around but I don’t really think I am the saddest either.
Seriously, I could go on for pages about the “ests” I am not but I always thought I was honest.
Turns out, I am not that either. At least, not like I want to be – like I had thought I was striving to be. Don’t get me wrong – I don’t keep the money when over paid in change at the cash register. I let folks know when they forgot to charge me for something. I tell my kids the truth as much as I can when they ask questions given their age and appropriateness of response. I tell anyone who asks that yes, I am forty-one and weigh about 138ish on a 5′5″ frame. My hair is not naturally curly and I would love to buy some boobs if I had the disposable income.
These things are easy to be honest about.
It’s the rest of the murkiness that lies beneath the seemingly calm or clear surface that is not.
So, I have taken to lying. Mostly, I say I am fine when I am not. Even in situations where I have the safety to be honest.
I compose my inner workings here for you to read and secretly waffle between hoping I will be found out or I will remain in cloaked anonymity.
Is this my personal best? Do I want more from myself and my life?
Yes.
Am I willing to take the risks to get there?
Have no freaking clue.
Now that is being honest…

Now I know out loud what I feared the worst inside.

Not earth-shattering news. Not life changing.

Certainly not assumed as much after all these years.

Not even really a big deal.

Really.

Except to me.

When we want so very much, in the deep recesses of our soul, to pour it out and fill it up by whatever means necessary  – it can be achingly painful when some of us are not capable of whatever means we choose.

I have moved in someone else’s world and spoken someone else’s words in the deafening silence brought forth by two simple curtains parting to ignite the eternal human back to the shaman’s fire.

I hope to do that again someday.

With my own words, too.

I believe I can on occasion somehow split those demon-fire joyful dimensions happening inside me down to an understandable linguistic form and quite possibly create something beyond my own understanding.

I hope to do it again, only simpler.

And again, only more complex.

And again, only different.

Until I have nothing left of this body.

Until many bodies beyond.

I am a human by day.

I am a writer by soul.

I am a performer by desire.

No, I don’t think I can dance.

Although, that would be simply wonderful.

But I oh-so-very-much wished I could sing.

I am not telling you this to get pity. And, I have the proof, although I have been unable to convert the video to a format uploadabe, so no trying to placate me with that ole familiar “oh, sure you can!” smile on your face.

I am telling you this because that’s what I do.

Telling is what I am.

No need to mention it again, actually.

I will survive.

And very loudly whilst alone in my car, I might add…

there lurks a shadow in the distance
a thick black shape huddled behind a wall
solid brick mortared of earth and steel
unmoving impenetrable and built for war
a battle waged by antithetically heroic deeds
selfishly seeking shelter from flaming shrapnel
stealthily laying mines around the foundation
once thought to be weak prior to reinforcements
proven to be formidable beneath fault lines
separating miles beneath the false crust
to the red hot molten core
where there lurks a shadow

I have that not-so-out-of-body experience and see myself being grown-up and responsible, holding down a great job I love doing; talking openly and honestly with my spouse and children freely trusting in our mutual love and path with each other; and taking care of myself through healthy exercise, sleep and consistent creative efforts. I look at that woman and think, who the hell is she? When did I become her? Where did that terrified girl afraid to speak up, speak out and speak from within go? How did she turn into this other woman I barely recognize? I intuitively love and admire her which swells more of the same deep within my ribcage to create a celestial cycle of cultivation.

No sooner has my out-of-body self returned to its home, do I look back in anger as I see myself again in the lonely position of feeling abandoned, isolated and unsure of all the gifts the woman of the first part surely cherishes and sustains. I question my every move, sabotage my relationships, health and capabilities. I stop writing. I stop talking authentically. I stop sleeping soundly. I stare at that woman and think, who the fuck is this now?! Where the hell did the other one go? What in the bastardly blazes happened to chase off the supposedly cool and collected one leaving this puny bitch in her place? I immediately loathe and despise her destroying any chance of reasonably apparent reconciliation with my other true self.

That’s the pain wherein the wandering wonder woman that I am often finds myself. I am both truly the confident, self-loving soul of the created universe AND the whimpering, self-abhorrent object of the limited ego.

It can be difficult to embrace such a super-sized, double-wide trailer of a woman sometimes.

Unfortunately, them some times is now.