In my dream it is my sister-in-laws wedding. In real life she has never liked me. In real life she doesn’t talk to ANY of her family so this a big surprise when she is asking my opnion on what to do for this wedding. The first half of my dream has already faded but the second half is that I crawl into bed, as she has invited me to spend the night prior to this wedding, and I realize she has taken every suggestion I’ve ever offered, inlcuding how to prepare a marriage bed(which I have no clue in real life where that one comes from). Except that as I’m crawling into bed I realize it’s my own bed. And it’s a mess. She didn’t do a thing. The sheets are old. There’s spots of blood at the top of the sheets. My SIL crawls into bed too so I crawl out the otherside and there on the floor are towel and paper towels and I don’t know if she is beating up her husband or if he is beating her up. I don’t care, I just want out. The birds in the cages are beautiful. They aren’t singing or anything, but they are pretty. I think they are witnesses to the crap going on in that relationship.

I did look a lot of this up in the dreamers dictionary. The imagery for me almost needs no interpretation. I get it.

The people I admire most get their thoughts on paper.  That’s the only differnce between them and me.

How to screw in a lightbulb-Public Speaking 101.  I would enjoy a job that includes public speaking.  I have enjoyed it in the past.  I like the small groups – 5 to 8 people.  It’s intimate.  I like the auditorium size too.  I like feeling prepared.  I would do “run throughs” beforehand for the auditorium size crowd.  Would I explain how to screw in a lightbulb?  You never know.

When you flip a switch or pull a cord to turn on a light and the light does not come on it will be time to change the lightbulb.  It helps to begin by having a replacement bulb handy.  Please go get one now.  Also have the power off to the light fixture.  Either pull the cord again or flip the switch to the off position.

It is nice to have another lightbulgb handy.  I know tha is what everyone wishes for in some regard.  Or is this me projecting again?  I find it interesting taht the folks yesterday wanted to know if I were chanting for the health of the company.  No, I hadn’t been.  I’ve been chanting to get out of there most times.  I am no longer feeling it.  And yet, I have to give them credit yesterday.  It was a great reminder that it is a known entity where I’m at.  It is harder to move on.

My daughter somehow brought to the forefront of ah-ha moments that I repeatedly see men that look like her dad as cute.  She told me to get ou of the rut.  Ok, not in so many words, but…

Once the power is off to the lamp reach into the shade and loate the white glass bulb – it may be a globe or it may be a spiral of glass – turn this counter-clockwise; to your left.  After several turns the bulb should lift out of the socket.  Place the new bulb into the socket and turn this fresh bulb clockwise, to the right until the fit is snug and not over tight.

I wonder about my flirting anymore.  I don’t really want one one new right now.  So, why do I find myself flirting in public at the party yesterday?   Thank goodness I didn’t make a total fool of myself.  I’ve done that often enough.  I wasn’t “successful” either.  Flirting, by definition is a manner of getting attention.  That part, I get.  I don’t mean for it to go anywhere (do I?).  Except when it doesn’t go anywhere I feel I’ve been dismissed.  I’ve started thinking lately that to be the anti-flirt is the way to go.  don’t smile at anyone, stay in my own group of known cohorts.  If someone want to meet, or play scrabble, they’ll come to see me.  Yeah, like that’s ever worked.

With the bulb that no longer works it is interesting if a globe bulb to shake it.  you should be able to hear the tinney sound of loosid inside pieces rattle as it shakes.  This sound confirms that the parts inside the bulb are no longer viable.  They are not making a connection.  Dispose of the burnt out light bulb appropriately.

Jan 12, 2009

The symphony will be starting it’s season here soon.  I love going to the symphony.  The atmosphere is subdued and yet heightened.  This time of year I enjoy an ongoing fantasy.

The fantasy of walking through the box office foyer and seeing just inside the lobby a fine looking gentleman.  He is dressed in well fitted slacks, a tailored white shirt open at the neck, and a black sport coat.  He is not under dressed for the occassion.  Everything fits well.  The length of the slacks, the fit around his buttocks, the clean crisp lines of a fresh shirt and a sport coat that looks comfortable and classy without being stuffy.  He is out for the evening, not just getting out of the office.  We make eye contact and I realize as soon as I’m able to break the moment that I may have looked too long.  He’s probably married, at least dating someone.  Guys don’t go to the symphony because they want to…do they?  He is most likely waiting for his date to come out of the restroom.

I start to head up the carpeted stairs.  I’ve always preferred the balcony.  My hand takes the railing and I slow down just enough to glance back.  I want to see what kind of woman he admires.  I want to see what she looks like.  In the quick glance, I get a picture perfect moment to take with me for awhile.  He was still standing alone.  He was looking at me.  I smile, not completely to myself, as I turn around and pay attention to the stairs.  

I’ve embarrassed myself enough in the past thinking someone was interested in making my aquaintence, or wanting to hear me babble on.  I’ve been wrong plenty.  I’m not about to embarrass myself tonight.  In the pair of heels I’ve decided to wear I have also decided to pay attention to the stairs.  I may be moving quicker than intended, but now I want to get out of sight.  He was marvelous to look at; steady stance, eyes that catch mine.  

I don’t remember the rest of the stairs, the landing or the usher.  I have a favorite seat.  All the seats in the balcony are unassigned  There is always a great selection to choose from.  I take my favorite, not center, not at the end, but a little in from the aisle, the fourth row up from the balcony wall.  I let myself blush profusely then as the lights come down in the auditorium.

The musicians are on stage doing their warm up.  The cacaphony of instruments stops abruptly and the master of ceremony walks on stage to prepare us for the conductor.  I see in my peripheral vision the man in the sport coat side stepping into my row.  He takes the seat next to mine.  His voice is pleasant. “Good evening.  Is this seat taken?”  I am sure my eyes are wide with disbelief; I can only wag my head, no.  This man settles into the chair and opens his program.  I watch him trying not to appear too surprised.  Internally I am waiting for the woman he arrivved with to finally join him.  No one is coming from that direction.  As he settles himself comfortably  and confidently I find myself sitting back more comfortably as well.  I am struck immediately at how nice it is to have someone join me at the symphony.

This is where the stories in my head diverge.  He invariably puts his hand over mine on the armrest.  It is in such a way that I know this is no accident.  He has done this with intention.  I am thrilled.

Sometimes, most times, in my fantasy he takes my hand from the armrest and places it on his thigh.  The fabric is fitted to his leg, stretched taut.  Over the course of the musical movement he moves my hand up into his lap and the heat rising from his slacks warms not just my hand.  My peripheral vision shows me he is watching the stage.  But the growing warmth under my hand tells me his concentration isn’t on the music.  I am emboldened to lightly squeeze this growing heat.  His hand rests firmly over mine; almost, but not quite, as if we are merely holding hands.  It is nice to have someone sit next to me at the symhony.

The other fantasy is when he takes his hand from the armrest and places it on my thigh.  And though I place my hand over his it is a don’t-take-your-hand-away gesture.  His fingertips are near the hem of my dress.  Hardly a threat, though I don’t think of him as a threat.  He fingers the hem out of the way to have his fingertips resting on my hose.  He merely plays with the velvet hem as if that were his interest and yet we both know the hem is moving higher.  When his fingers touch my skin at the top of my hose his breath stops almost imperceptively.  But, I know; I knew it was coming.  Again from the side view, I see a slight smile on his face that melts into his skin.  As the movement concludes he calmly brings the hem of my black velvet dress back down to where it started.  The lights come up for intermission.  We smile to one another. “May I buy you a glass of champagne in the lobby?” he asks.  That would be lovely.

How very interesting, that one of the “hang-ups” I’m experiencing as I work to achieve my dreams is that I feel “guilty” for spending time in front of the computer.  As if I am wasting time.  When in actuality…so….

My dear beloved, I hereby give you permission to spend all the time in front of the computer you desire to achieve your dreams.  Make us all prouder of you than we already are.  You look good in front of the computer.  Go for it, go for it with your whole heart.  And enjoy!

The cacaphony of night noises

Trapped in the echo chamber

Between the apartment buildings

Pushes the limit of my comfort.

The sound of freeway traffic with

Slapping wheels and whooshing 18-wheelers

Bounce between the stereo sounds coughing

Deep percussions and treble winds.

These noices of my night invade

This dark cocoon of my room.

I would be disturbed except

To not have these noises

Is a terrible nightmare of silence.

After the people go home,

after the trip is done,

the quiet descends

and envelopes me

in it’s grace.

It isn’t writers block, but rather too much to write.  

Direction is missing.  

Focus is fuzzy.  

Is this the time for fiction or the time to work out ones’ life and missteps?  

Is this the time to rearrange ones thought to meet the future?  

What time is it?

She can only doodle 

all the gears in her head

are working too hard on everything and yet nothing.  

It is a wasted piece of paper for her.  

She writes anyway.  

And doodles. 

The toe of her boot touched the grey of the snowy bank.  The grey where water runs under the ice.  Slush oozed around her boot.  Solid footing  is still available under the slush. 

The toe of her boot touched the gray of the snowy bank.  The gray is where water runs under the ice.  slush oozed around her boot.  A solid footing is still available under the slush.  She plants her foot most solidly.  The muscles in her calve and running along her knees are adjusting to any hint of breaking through or sliding.  As her leg calms down she moved her other foot forward onto the ice and away from the bank.  Not far.  Just farther from the bank.  As her head looks up and she surveys the stream she feels her composure return.  The trail of animal tracks that are crossing the stream here have given her confidence in her decision to cross the stream here.  She is emboldened to start her life again on the other side.  She is strengthened by the possibilities.

The steps she has taken so far along the bank of the stream are a mish mash of other tracks, both animal and human.  The snow has gathered and frozen and melted and fallen again.  The snow on the frozen stream is displaced by the wind.  It is merely dunes of snow, small drifts surrounded by still silent sheets of frozen water.  She doesn’t want to leave a trail.  She wants to get out onto the ice, to trace her steps undetected around the drifts.  She will be stepping carefully on the ice.  If she is to get to the other side it is best to do it quietly and with no witnesses.  She could hide out among the brush and off the trails for another week.  In her mind thought, a much longer reprieve would be found on the other side.

She will eventually be found.  She will be sought out; just like she is here.  By then she hopes to have a real hut with four walls, a real hearth to warn the visitors, to make real stews and soups and medicines for their aching hearts.  By the time she is found she will have stocked up on herbs and berries and found others to comfort her, to check in on her well being.  She hopes to find her own health on the other side. 

In these trees and undergrowth she feels so little solace as if all is too public, too much on display.  Her arts, her medicine, her care in others requires moments – long journeys actually- of solace, meditation and privacy to reflect.  To be on display has unnerved her.  She feels again the surprise that she has been able to walk away from the one sided roofed diorama of a home they provided for her.

Sometimes during this short journey she has wondered if this is a trick.  Is this a way of piquing interest again?  She had heard the whispers in the crowd. “Oh, she does that fix for everyone.  You think she’d find something new.”  She knows there is nothing new in her people’s illnesses.  It has always been so; before she began healing- it has just always been so.  The illnesses are wounds and sores that require attention.  The illnesses are from lack of touch.

She learned her herbs and berries.  Mostly she has broken bread and laid on hands to fix her people’s woes.  She has rested her hands on theirs.  A world of health has opened for her people  A touch to change their cares.  A touch to show she cared.  And they have flocked to her.  constant care.  In good weather hoards surrounding her lean-to awaiting the moment she looks to them.

These people now were no longer simply sick, they came craving spectacle.  She didn’t do spectacle.  She did healing.  As she placed on more foot out on the ice she realized she had been set free by these people.  She was not “talented”

 enough to hold their interest.  She knew the ones still sick would find her.  And those looking for spectacle would let her go as not being worth pusuing. She would be allowed to heal again, both for herself and for her people.

She made her way gingerly across the ice.  Skirting the snow drifts to leave the fewest footprints of her whereabouts.  As she reaches the far side she reaches for a low flung branch to help her climb the bank.  The additional clothing, heavy coats, packages of belongings she has strapped to herself and the layers of clothing are taking their toll are her ability to scamper.  Her boots are too big to be graceful.  She is warm and wanting for nothing but her shelter for the coming night.  That will be hours away, plenty of time to fashion some broken twigs for a wind shield or better

The eyes that watch her cross the stream are sharp and intent on keeping this one in it’s sight.  Could be easy pickings.  Could be a warmer night for this set of eyes.  The coat may fit, the boots would be welcome.  

Here then is another stab at writing for 30 minutes a day for 30 days.  Fiction only.

From January 25

And the day came when government warning were issued that for everyone’s own safety and the safety of others , all individuals must be buckled in unless they are actively moving about for a known and necessary reason.  Seat belt for all various uses and places were on sale.  a “universal” restrainer” now had a additional level of meaning.  The universal restrainer sells millions each day as the global warning is strongly reinforced.  In all it’s various forms the universal restrainer is merely an adjustable waist belt with two side clips and two heavy “d” clips.  Most park benches, bus stops, and municipal objects (find a better worked) have already been fashioned with this “safety” device.

One one seems particularly alarmed by the situation.  That the government saw fit to issue a warning actually seems a bit over due for most folks.  The earth had been spinning noticeably faster for some time.  It had become quite evident some months ago.  The earth was speeding up on it’s rotation.  Everything just goes by faster.  The time spent in day and in night takes only around six hours now.  That’s for a long day or a long night.  Government has introduced bills to change the legal work time frames.  No one is sure if the spin will get faster, and no bill appears to be making any progress in any legislature.

Many folks have found owning things that couldn’t be strapped down near impossible.  Knick knacks in their requisite curio cabinets are quietly floating between the shelves.  Once considered an oddity and exciting it is now the manner in keeping small objects to watch them swimming in the air.

Weight loss now is a silly unnecessary thing.  Gaining immense weight to counteract the flinging lack of gravity is useless.  Monstrous weight is still considered a vision of wealth and prosperity.  But even the very rich are dismayed and some have counteracted the lack of weight and the lack of wanting to eat with an over whelming addition of belts and chains and harnessing gadgets.  The finest money can buy.

Things just float.  As the law of gravity loses it’s hold hazards creep up as a daily occurrence.  Driving down a road one has to be careful the tires are gripping the road.  It was considered better to run into floating flower container than to swerve into oncoming traffic.  Container gardens are taboo.  a debris now tends to bounce lightly off moving vehicles and float faster up and out of the way.

Landfills are being covered and reseeded or resodded as quickly as municipal bonds can fund the projects. 

I did not write anything yesterday.  I was scared that I would not be able to keep up with myself.  I need to give myself more credit.  Today, the 18th I will again sit down for half an hour (it always ends up being at least an hour – I have a great time, it just feels good).  And if I only get to input these writings into an entry a couple times a week, that’s ok.  At least I wrote.  And at least I got them entered.