Sunday, June 24, 2012

Am I that which I am in Dreams?

For as long as I have living memory, I have had dreams.

Day-dreams; blissfully poetic and fantastical, yet sometimes completely ordinary. These are passing fancies of fantasies that swirl and shift and gleam.

Night-dreams that are always vivid, intricately detailed with plots, scenes, settings, motifs and intense feelings and emotions. These are the dreams that inspire me, that leave me with a distinct feeling all day long, sometimes all week long.

Night-terrors/Nightmares that are absolutely terrifyingly real and serious. These are the gory, fear-ridden, beyond waking up and feeling "okay," experiences, and these are the reason I didn't want to fall asleep as a child, and occasionally, as an adult.

I almost always remember my dreams.

Apparently, this isn't the case for a lot of people.

Everyone has had the experience of waking up with a fleeting feeling of their dream; the wispy threads that float before their eyes beckoning to them to listen, recall and remember.

Most of the time... in fact, I would venture to say 99% of the time, I can always vividly recall my dreams.

I remember dreams I had when I was an imaginative and energetic child; an awkward and delicate pre-teen; an angsty and joyful teenager; an excited and intense 20-something.... these are the years I'm finishing up.

Soon enough I'll be dreaming my way into my 30's, and I have a feeling that it's going to be the same and different; I'll be having dreams I've never begun to imagine before.

Though I'm a full-fledged adult (and I beg to differ by the way that most folks, despite the fact that they've survived 18 years, are by no means at all ready or fit to claim the title) I often wonder what happened to the earlier me?

My sense of self has often shifted with my dreams.

I also have warning dreams -- some would call them premonitions, but really, I just think of them as the 'deja' before the 'vu'. In these instances, my waking life intersects with my dreams; what I've seen, heard, felt and witnessed before.... all very true visceral and intellectual reactions--- all entirely familiar.

Sometimes my grandmother talks to me in my dreams. Sometimes I dream of danger, and I awake with an urgent feeling to check in on a friend and loved one. Most of the time this happens, I don't necessarily tell them about my dream, I simply send them love and well wishes.

Whatever the reason for my dreams, I am eternally grateful and thankful that I have them.

I do not know who I would be, or how I would have developed without the stirrings of my subconscious.

Dreams have helped me survive through my past formative years and into my present ones.

I have no doubt whatsoever that they'll be an immensely important role in my future formatives.

No matter what anyone says, dreams that a person remembers serve a purpose.  They are often a mark of time, emotion, transition, transformance or simply part of a process.

Never let anyone dash them, criticize them, squash, squelch or suffocate them.

In fact, I think that most dreams who have been ill-treated come back louder later. ;-)

Remember, "We are such stuff that dreams are made on," -- Prospero. "The Tempest," IV.I. L156-7.

Saturday, June 2, 2012


My vocal chords are not vibrating,

No worthy sound escapes their shaking,

For in the mountains I did find,

That which I wish I'd left behind,

For coughing, wheezing, gunked up hacking,

In-between my cough-drop snacking,

Is all I have to post of now,

It's simply not enough somehow,

Today I'm writing, clacking keys,

My laptop warming both my knees,

I caught up clients, e-mails too,

Phone-calls, messages old and new,

I'm editing my novel's pages,

Hoping to complete in stages,

That which I have not attempted,

A draft that once my voice has mended,

I shall read aloud to hear,

Every part to change and clear,

All the words that issue forth,

Weighted with a worsted worth,

Woven tightly, as a cloth?

Or loose and holey as a moth-

-eaten fabric; needs repair,

Who will read and enter there?

Can I do it? Will I see?

A writer I'm supposed to be?

Is this project fancy-mine,

Something worth the loving time,

Will it be a well-read book?

With the effort that it took?

I won't know until I'm done.

I must finish all this fun.

I have pages, newly written,

They can sting as though I'd bitten,

Into a lime with salted skin,

Dancing through the light within,

My progress slows, will it lift?

Back to quick, and fast and thrift?

Is the story too far-fetched?

Time and space are aptly stretched.

Readers, if you're in the ether,

Shall I post another chapter?

A novel for adults this is,

But also for some teenaged kids,

I don't know what happens next,

Now I must return to text.