She
Drives to work and
Does the laundry and
Balances the checkbook and
Walks the dog and
Raises the kids.
All that, all day, week, month.

In her day to day there is satisfaction and
Love and
Peace.
But
In her dreams she shreds guitar and
Paints masterpieces and
Writes best sellers.
Someday is passing her and
She wonders when and how to make it all happen and
In the meantime she yearns.

Write now, right now!

It's time to blog again. I've been blowing up my Facebook and still holding back because it's hard to remember which group to publish which posts to. So here I am, back again, after another long break. I've been writing my dreams down pretty regularly which is a start, but those are definitely not for a wide audience. But as I've said before, I need to write, to express my creativity, my thoughts and ideas. They overflow when I keep them bottled up. So, even if it's a line, a paragraph or a while story...here I go again :)

I've been going through a "phase." Mid life? Not quite yet. Needing some change? Absolutely. I cut my hair super short and have been hankering for another tattoo. I'm very, very happy with my marriage, home and work. Being on the road a lot this last 6 months reminded me how lonely I can be if I don't make an effort to reach out. And though I still have urges to paint writing is my outlet of choice. So here goes.

Short, very short story, based on a dream my sister Kelley had. Creepy. Enjoy!

UNREST

She languished in her bed, restless. She had been having the dream again. Whispering, the sounds of rustling fabric. As soon as she opened her eyes, silence. Never before had a dream felt so real, sounded so life-like. The smell of moth balls and sour, decrepit linen had filled her nostrils. As she awoke with a jolt, the smell dissipated immediately, but the memory of it and the hushed voices haunted her. Yet in the dream she was blind. There were no visuals to match the strange sounds and smells.

As time went on she had the dream more frequently. It increased from rarely to nearly every night, to multiple times a night. When she awoke, it took her longer and longer to rid her eyes of the clouds. Rubbing them, she convinced herself that she was just exhausted, not losing her vision. Yet nearsightedness gave way to contacts, which gave way to coke bottle glasses that still left her squinting to read street signs, books, food labels. After close to a year she conceded it was no longer safe to drive.

The declining vision was not the only effect of the dreams. Her weight dropped, her clothes sliding off her shrunken hips. Her once lovely hair, the color of a shiny penny, fell out in handfuls. Her alabaster skin took on a greyish hue. The blue eyes were now clouded over like a much older woman, revealing their loss of vision as a white film muddied them.

She underwent tests- tests for poisoning, cancer, allergies...but found no explanation for her decline. She had her house checked for mold, gas leaks, anything that could explain her ill health. No longer able to work, she lay in bed most days, trying to sleep without having the dream, which seemed to occupy all of her dream space.

It was then that the boundary between waking and sleeping broke down. She could no longer tell when she was awake or asleep. The whispering was constant, the smells overpowering. And when they came to tell her what was the cause, she had lost her capacity to reason.

It’s the people in the closet, she heard them say. They’ve been living in there for over a year. They used to be dancers, but after they lost their music they crawled up onto the shelf and began to decompose. They were quiet at first, careful, but as time drew on and no one seemed to notice, their whispers became more audible, their poorly preserved costumes shredding into powder, flaking into the air. As their bodies rotted they shifted uncomfortably, emitting the smells of decay. By the time they had been found they were merely dust, fine particles floating in the half light, unaware of their deadly influence.

After she had been moved out of her house, and it had been quarantined, her physical health returned. Unfortunately she had gone mad. Muttering about arabesques, concertos and plies, she remained in an institution, unable to perform the simplest tasks. When she passed the room smelled of moth balls and sour fabric, and by the time the coroner arrived she was nothing but dust.

Or:

After she had been moved out of her house, her health and sanity slowly returned. However she had no recollection of that year, the dream, or anything having to do with the illness she had suffered. Her hair grew back in a shiny silver, and her blue eyes had turned steel grey.

I need to write

I admit it. It's been....9, 10 months since I've written? And since the onset of FB Scrabble, I've barely read any books. Busy, busy, busy...writing and reading have been low priority. But lately I've been getting subtle messages that I need to get my ya-yas out...in any creative outlet. I've thought about painting again, but I know I need to flex my writing muscles soon or any of the progress I made in the last 3 years of writing will slip farther away.
My mom sent me an article by Ann Lamott, a favorite author of ours, about making time to write. That people have the absolute best intentions. That they have ideas churning and burning in their heads, just waiting to be released. But the busy-busy-business always comes first. She said you have to decide on something busy and give it up, or you will never get to the writing.
I read this article and thought, yes, yes, that's me, I'm always making excuses....
This year has been even busier. I've spent oodles of time and money on my health. Losing weight, balancing hormones, detoxing, yogaing, making smoothies, packing a days worth of food to cart around on my busy day...even watching Big Love on the treadmill takes 53 minutes. Plus taking car of kids, dog, the yard.... no wonder at the end of the day all I want to do is play Scrabble on fB.
But enough.
I have been feeling a void. Or a surplus. It's my creativity. It's starting to back up...I need a creative outlet...soon.
But what to give up? I only sleep about 6 hours as it is.
Oh, I get it...it's doing this, blogging at the car wash in 45 minutes. It starts here. Because the more I say, the more I have to say :)

Say Anything

Last night Ryan and I watched "Say Anything." Let me clarify- we watched my 22 year old VHS tape of  "Say Anything". I wondered, as it crackled, if it would explode right there in the VCR, but it chugged along through a preview of "War of the Roses" and into the most influential movie of my teenage years.

Much like my junior high viewing of "Labyrinth" sparked a lifelong obsession with David Bowie (if you've seen it, all I have to say is David in grey tights, either you love it or it grosses you out!) this movie was my high school relationship model. Shockingly, with Lloyd Dobler as my standard , I barely dated in high school. I crushed from afar on the unavailable types- the drama nerds, the preppy religious types who I shared honors English with, the bad boys, most of whom did not know I existed or wouldn't have given me a second thought if they did. The one semi-boyfriend I had turned out to be gay...which explains why all we ever did was play tennis! I wanted a guy like Lloyd...basic, as Diane calls him in the movie, trustworthy, sensitive, goofy. The climatic scene where Diane and Lloyd make love in his car on the beach...sigh. I rewound and rewatched that scene hundreds of times, thirsting for a boy who would cradle my chin  in his  big, strong hands as he kisses me and shake because he's happy. I would get a  bursting, ecstatic feeling in my chest, (where I now know the heart chakra exists) a feeling I thought I would experience with the right lover.

 I held this as my ideal for decades...wondering why I hadn't found that one yet, even as I married and had children. I married out of familiarity instead of passion.  I had still not experienced that ecstasy, that overwhelming, all encompassing feeling of safety, excitement and satisfaction that I yearned for yet had pushed to the back of my heart, doubting its' existence.  It was frustrating and sad.

And then I met Ryan. 

As we watched the movie, I told him all of this. 

"The world is full of guys...be a man!" Lloyd's girl friends tell him.

"That's you! That's you! You're a man in a world of guys!" I tell Ryan.

"Am I basic?" he hesitantly asks, not sure if that is a good or a bad thing.

"Yes" I answer. It is a good thing. 

Basic is good, he's simple and uncomplicated. Basic doesn't try to be something he's not and he loves you for who you are. He soothes your fears and loves you even when you are mean and crazy, and makes you feel safe and beautiful, always.

He holds your face in his hands and makes your heart giddy.

I will never, ever break up with him by giving him a pen and telling him to write me.

Blowing Toads

Today, I blew toads. Yes, literally. I was in my front yard, attempting to clear the dumping of leaves and small branches from my fenced off flower area. I seldom use the leaf blower, but having totally jacked up my left arm and shoulder painting the entire hallway in an hour on Friday, I was trying to keep a low profile and resist putting in more steps or painting.

So I got the leaf blower out. Meanwhile, after the storm that caused the tree to go through the roof, zillions of teeny toads emerged, somehow triggered by the first rain of the season. They gather near the house, particularly in the garage at night, causing me to park the car in the driveway, get out and shoo the toads out of my path before pulling in.

So when I started blowing the leaves, hidden toads began wafting about in the jetstream. It was quite a sight and I admit it reminded me of my childhood days, when I burned ants with a magnifying glass, held grasshoppers by the legs and fed them to my cats, and poured salt on snails and slugs to watch them sizzle. Being  mostly vegetarian, a spokeperson for animal kindness and a pacifist; surprisingly yes, animal torture resides in my past. I am not sure what motivated it, but I felt a sense of God-like power knowing the little creatures lives depended on my whim.

This little guy was plastered on the brick, unable to go up or down. As soon as I realized what was happening I redirected the air and released the toad to continue to his destination, somewhat disturbed , likely confused, but not harmed.

I know how he feels!

Now, on with life.....

Under Construction

It occurred to me, as I followed the "Follow me" truck through the construction zone on highway 49 tonight, that would be a good name for my book. Our house has been under construction since we moved (back) up to Ryan's house 20 months ago. This road has been under MAJOR construction since about June. Our relationship is under construction. The ongoing battle within my head..a Winchester-house kind of construction. Doubts, fears, responsibilities, anger, guilt, sadness...building and tearing down, rebuilding, stepping back , re-assessing. There are doors to nowhere, with locks and no keys. There are landings with no stairs. The spectacular garden is visible from every window, but there are days I cannot find my way outside.

It also occurred to me that when i feel overwhelmed, and helpless, and angry, I have nothing to find solace in. That is the time religious people "turn it over to God." I held that thought for  second and realized I truly have no faith. I don't trust anyone or anything to take care of me. It is all up to me. It is both empowering and terrifying.

 Today I awoke, opened the door to a brick wall and walked smack into it. Tomorrow, I hope to reach the garden.