Down on Wacamaw

Zoom to Earth. Zoom to North America. Zoom to the United States of America. Zoom to Georgia. Zoom to Moultrie. Zoom to a blue house on Wacamaw. Zoom to the kitchen. Here sits me. I’m in my childhood home.

I sit at my kitchen table, clay coffee mug with straw (strange, I know, coffee through a straw) in hand that is painted with a scene that eerily looks like Edenton, my new home. Although it is not French Roast in my cup, much to my chagrin, I am still reflectively sipping and I am thinking of all the new things coming back home brings to one’s mind. It is so much more than just coming back, taking a look around, reminiscing… If you’re lucky you can find the precious gem of an old friend to spend time with and absorb the difference in them between when you knew them and now... But, even then, there’s more going on. When you go back home you are confronted with the reality of your own growth. It’s a complex thing. On one hand, the prospect of walking back into the same scenery with familiar faces is comforting. You hope that it is an easy transition and a friendly reception awaits you. On the other hand you realize that you are not the same person you were when you lived here and left and to be greeted by others as they hold a long ago perception of you may be an uneasy scenario. I once heard that a person realizes how much they have shifted and grown when they come back home and realize they don’t fit. It is true. But, then again, I didn’t have to be told that, it is self-evident. And is it all that bad?

No.

I would guess it is the very reason we are alive- to expand, continue to self create, and navigate our way through life with experience. People often say “You know, they are such a good person; they haven’t changed at all.” And ultimately, that is either not a good thing, or a lie. How does one carry on through life and not change at all? Of course they have changed. Maybe the objective is to express that they are still kind as they used to be kind as well. Or, they are still a funny person in general. Maybe they are blessed and not too many wrinkles jumped upon their face. But hopefully they have changed.

When I come home and realize I don’t fit, it isn’t astonishing for me; I most often feel I don’t “fit” anywhere. And I embrace it. I don’t necessarily want to fit into anything. The idea in itself feels confining. But, I do like to feel comfortable and I do like to share common ground with others, especially ones I have had friendships with before. Even when thinking of my marriage I don’t think of us in terms of “fitting together”. I believe we compliment one another. We challenge and inspire and support one another. But to become “one”… what exactly is that? We are one family, but most definitely two individuals. This is all specific to desires, I realize. Others may connect with the words “become one”, but I feel that if I asked Nick of his thoughts about it he would be in agreement. I want him to be all of one himself. Not half, please. I want a unique individual person to grow with throughout life, but not to morph together into a unity that only thinks the same exact thoughts or operate on a system of one passively obliging the other. Disagreements aren’t always fun, but are crucial at times. I maintain my view, Nick maintains his. We work through it from there, but don’t feel we have to conquer the other’s thoughts… just be fully heard. We usually are in synch with conversation, but it is always pushed to new places that face new positions because we do not resign to purely agreeing with one another. I wonder, how does one feel expressed and known by another if not? And the idea of even being known by another is difficult for me to comprehend at times because I feel as though I, myself, am just getting to know me. I know things about myself, but I have realized I am peeling layers off a soul, I’m continuously opening avenues that expose a vast space I was blind to moments before. ‘Me’ holds many secrets that I get the privilege of unveiling along my life’s way.

Have I wandered off topic?

I did have the experience yet again of realizing my many new thoughts and characteristics when I came home and remembered my old ones. It is delightful once this thought of growth is accepted. It has been an incredible journey. I did find gems during this visit home also. I joined a group of old friends that were my teammates and they have cultivated into such extraordinary people with families and successes. Seeing them made me very happy and the comfort I felt with them, because they are open minded and accepting of so much, was, even though expected, a relief. I think sports may be to thank, as well as the personalities involved. It unites. I was in individual sports all along in childhood, competing solo, but the team we formed was close. We spent long days together and had genuinely fun times and that creates a comfort. I exited the group early. I suppose it was because I had been competitive since such an early age and I was more and more curious about what it was like to actually go home after school, or not have serious obligation… to put it lamely, I wondered what it was like to just be a normal teenager. I wanted a break, a less serious commitment. And, although it does one no good to look back in time- and especially to regret, because I value my position in the now- I do think I would choose to continue on with just a mild break if I were there in that long ago moment now. But, you know where that thought comes from? The change that has created the new me. Interesting isn’t it?

I’m not living near enough to make it home often, but I do enjoy it, especially this time. Even though I feel I am not recognized many times, I understand why. I am so rarely here, why would anyone expect my face. When Thanksgiving roles around and old faces pop up everywhere that’s a different story, of course. But, on a random October Thursday, it stands to reason I’m out of place. The chance that I can run into team mates and friends or drive to Thomasville for a lunch date with one of my dearest friends is what will always drag me back no matter how much I change as a person. It is the people I treasure. Because I talk about physical locations on earth quite a bit and how I think they have different energies that align with a person’s energy, I think it is also important to note that people make a place as well. Powerful component to any sort of happiness: people. The fact that I can claim a friend from second grade as one of my best to this day is priceless.

The adventure of coming home is only hard when one tries to adapt backward. It feels hard because it goes against nature. I am thankful for where I was and I don’t want to go back. I am thankful for where I am now and I don’t want to come back. I want more, and that’s what makes up life. If you find yourself not wanting more of yourself, I think you somehow find a way to die. Seems logical. Why would God create an expanding universe and not expanding souls?

On another note, UGA plays UF today… so… no closing paragraph or explanation needed for hasty departure from page. I am being summoned for pre-game fun.

(Go Dawgs!)

Truth of the Moon

Round and round I rise and swirl; I twirl in the Moonlight’s spooky glow. Halo of Souls Passed Before keeps hidden the truth of the Moon. Night of darkness and emptiness, you sneak and intrigue subconscious. Hope is what darkness brings, for Sunrise is soon to gleam. It is only the rise of Sunshine’s beams that bring sighs and collective ease. But while I’m here I’ll dance with you a bit and watch the Night from where you sit, where all below appears so clear. Observing worldly rotation in boundless, eternal creation.

Motion goes, motion flows, motion takes me near. I look at the Moon's halo and say with hollow pride, “Souls, what do you hope to achieve? You can’t keep hidden a light when the source of darkness does not even exist. The only thing that lives is light.”

Souls laughed and said, “But you sweet dear have put me here and written my role to suit your own worry. We do not have a reason to keep what is yours away from you; you plant the seed of fright in the Night right by your very self. But how noble you sound with your wise insight and voice of righteous tone. When foolish thoughts flood one’s mind how could the wise ones rise? The light is the only life, yes, but we hide it not with our haunted might.”

The laughter bounced around the Moon, filled craters and swept the galaxy through and I am left floating in the darkness of uncertainty. I turn sharply with dismay and shout, “Moon, why didn’t you say? You let me think my only hope was in the break of Day.”

“Child, I whisper restful thoughts and lullabies as you sleep and you are the one who hears me not, who should be the one to weep? I am the one who keeps up hope that you will open your eyes to see it is not me you need. With all the soothing words and promises in the very air you breathe, you should not have feelings of worry or doubt, but those are the very things you keep. Your window is open to throw them out and let the Souls serve you well. For every time you are wrong or are consumed by fear, you may find the truth hovering near.”

I swallow my pride, my cheeks flushed red, and turn in the Night to sink low below, return to bed. I seek the glow up above and nod to the Souls with gracious heart. “You may go now from my Night, I need no spooky halo. I care for what you spoke to me and I thank you for your honesty. Please let me say, I like you all but the Night should be as sweet as Day. My Moon will now beam clarity and you, the Halo of Souls, smile down at me.”

I drift through sleep round and round and come up to find Morning. I open my eyes and look at the Sun and say “I had no clue, all along my Night was as bright as Day.”

Grown-up Grump- No costume required.

You’d think I’d have a lot to communicate. But, I don’t. Why is that? After all, I’ve raced from the northeast corner of North Carolina to Atlanta, Georgia to attend a spectacular 30th birthday bash for my vivid and intoxicating red-haired beauty of a friend; reconfigured the contents of my sister’s home; caught up with all three of my nieces and nephews; battled (and finally won) a fierce and persistent headache, it was a doozie; continued the race to the final destination of Moultrie, Georgia where I might as well have thrust my body against a brick wall. The heat and humidity is a mighty force that exists many places, but none quite as potent as in south Georgia. They have an alliance with floating allergens, and it’s a left hook followed by a swift uppercut. I’ve taken the punch, my head bobbled with a slow motion affect, and I am down for the count. That’s what I feel like inside.

I packed inappropriately. I bagged a fall wardrobe accessorized to perfection and complete with all the textures one looks forward to in fall: velvet, mohair, cashmere, a pair of lovely suede shoes. And it will most likely stay bagged because it is 90 degrees outside. I’m so sick of saying “It’s a long summer.” and “It’s a long winter.” Can we change our calendars or request a system reset from Mother Nature? I mean Really! Edenton was actually on the money weather wise when I left. I will not think about that though, those pretty leaves and crisp cool drafts of air blowing past you, sweeping your hair along as they go, while you pull your wrap a little tighter around your shoulders and snuggle into the season… nope, won’t think about that and the contrast of it and what I sit in now… sweaty heat and pine straw. At least there is a pretty cotton field at the end of the street. That helps.

I came down to Atlanta to celebrate a birthday. To get all dolled up and mingle and maybe dance and simply be there for my friend who does her share of ‘being there’ for me. She was lovely and happy and well-loved. The party was a success. As I walked out of View Point and onto the sidewalk of Peachtree Street I was impressed to see the buzz at 1 AM. People were dining and drinking across the street and others were walking in directions heading to other locales and I looked up, breathed it in, admired the city lights in view and pulled my trench tight. I stiletto strutted to my car and was a city gal again for a night.

The next morning, I woke up to a house full of dogs, kids, and noise! It was go-time again, except this unwelcome guest of a headache that had introduced itself to me the night before lingered and proved to be a nuisance all day, and all the next day…until I finally popped my neck enough it was forced out. I helped my sister rearrange her decorative items, fished some key pieces to use from her attic, and hung pictures all while entertaining and watching over China, Selma Lu, and Madeline. Madeline was the most mischievous hands down! She is the ultimate two year old, curious and eager and refuses to take no for an answer, all while remaining endearing. I felt as though I was on a 24-hour deadline for an HGTV show. Hussle and Hang. It worked, though. I think she was pleased with the difference made in such a short time and all with items already in her home.

My nephew, Landry, had his last baseball game of the season, which I attended. It was hilarious. All these little men with the mannerisms of major league players and when the game is in action the ball goes plop. But, the wind up was fabulous! Landry is a great hitter. He doesn’t even have to run fast to 1st base because he hits it hard and it’s for sure no one is going to catch it. It was a neat sight for me, who has never witnessed an all-little-dude team event. Pretty special.

Then, my mom, dad and I headed the 4 hours south to my hometown, swinging by The Vitamin Shoppe before leaving the city so that I could run in and get my magic greens. Magic greens and magic bracelet… my not so secret tricks up the sleeve. So, I’m here now, in Moultrie, and I haven’t a clue what to do with myself. I went to the market to get some of my usual edibles, but I’m floundering around. Cleaning out a random closet or setting up my laptop to sit at and write boring mumbo jumbo about things no one is interested in reading about… what to do?

Halloween is approaching and I’m trying to remember the thrill of it all. I recall being so excited, yes, but I’m trying to remember the exact feeling I had inside, the jitters and anticipation and somehow recreate it and I come to a dead end everyway I turn down this Labyrinth of Childhood Giddiness. What I can remember easily is the thought that I shared with every other kid with a pulse. “What makes adults so boring? How can they not be excited about something like Halloween?!” Am I all of a sudden one of those adults? The one with a dull, half-hearted smile that goes along with the program simply because everyone else is doing so? Maybe if I had a kid it would be different; I’m sure it would. But from where I sit right now, it’s a mystery as to how I can reproduce genuine excitement over dressing up like a buffoon and harassing people for candy. (I realize one doesn’t trick-or treat past 12 or something, I’m just generalizing.) And the candy, well, all you name-callers, get ready, I’m your girl to berate and bombard with insults. Didn’t candy start out being a rare commodity; one that was used on occasions that were out of the ordinary like trick-or-treating? I think getting goodies at the door of strangers (an odd exception to all the universal stranger = danger rules) was more fun when it wasn’t something hurled at me from every angle of childhood… and beyond. Instead of giving out mounds of sugar in keeping with tradition or a toothbrush or raisins in protest, why can’t we all just agree to pull back a tad on the every single day sugar overload? I see kids, I see candy, I see reports constantly finding increases in diseases like diabetes. Hmmm… are we all that moronic? Maybe we’re all (by all I am meaning Americans) addicted and don’t care enough to overcome our insatiable appetite for junk. I think it ruins the body, ruins the mind, ruins the spirit- that junk food. Ruins a country too if it’s full of people who “are what they eat.” Gone are the days of long recess at school, the kind where you run and tackle and don’t have to “air hug” and “air high five” your friends. (What an absolute embarrassment is that, by the way? How have we let that happen? I might find the person who came up with this grand idea and “not-so-air slap” their face!) Gone are the days of candy as a rarity.

I told Nick, when I spoke to him on the phone, about my grump of an attitude about Halloween & that I have evolved into my biggest fright as a little girl. I am a person that thinks, “Yeh, it’s Halloween, so what?” He laughed. Because we both were amazed by the concept as kids, but now have trotted down the road to purely grown-up trick-or-treat behavior. I think dressing up could be fun, actually, but what pressure. I wouldn’t be able to do it half-ass, and would find myself really consumed with looking just like Cleopatra (funny story about this to follow) or just like Madonna and I know it’s not gonna happen. Both Nick and I have to be in a rare and silly mood to do the dress up and get drunk drill. We are so serious. We’d truly rather pour a glass of wine, have a fine dinner and discuss some global conundrum. Good Lord!! I’ve just heard myself… I am certified dull adult!! No question about it. Help the children born to me, I am a Halloween grinch!

Could this be the weather, all of this negativity? Because I am thoroughly peeved about the lack of a chill outdoors. Would I be happier and less of a fuddy dud if it were just seasonal weather where I sat? And it occurs to me again, probably not, because I’m talking about the weather! The weather. Only geezers care about the weather.

If there is a reader with the patience required to withstand this despicable portion of written thoughts, I must say to you, “Thank you, and I apologize.” I sat down saying I didn’t have anything to communicate, yet I have written plenty about that ‘nothing’. This is me- not saying anything. Ha.

Sometimes I annoy myself. I’m nagging me in my head. I’m going to just shut up.

.

10.21

Worthy of telling is this story, to me anyway.

In an earlier post I told of my friend that shared desk space with me at a job I had several years back, pre-Anguilla days. He turned me on to a lot of new music that has since become some of my favorite artists and tunes. We, luckily, were able to listen to music throughout the entire work day and the channel remained on Dave FM for the most part. I would ask him constantly "Who is this?" when I heard a song I liked and he without exception knew the answer. I guess this is how he sized up my musical preferences. Before I resorted to interrupting him continuously as he tried to work, I attempted to climb on a chair and stand on my tippy toes to see the artist listed on the radio that was perched oh-so high up in the corner. Maybe he saw the struggle and began telling me the answer to my questions because he feared an eventual crash. But, I'm a climber. A flipper and a climber. You should see me in my kitchen. No worries, I clean the countertops, but I do have to walk them like a beam because Nick isn't always available to reach up high for me. Anyway, my desk buddy and I engaged in many in depth and really interesting conversations, ranging from politics and cultures to ambitions and the arts. Musicians came up often.

Once upon a work day, there was an especially intriguing song playing on the perched radio. A distinct tone in the song struck me as a mood mover- in other words, my body felt immediate feelings disconnected with my reality based solely on the voice and music I was hearing. Discussion followed regarding the artist and that artist was, drum roll... Elliott Smith. My friend told me of the way this artist's life tragically ended, a story I hadn't heard before. He had been stabbed to death, and many presumed the one who did this was Elliott Smith himself. I couldn't wrap my head around the state of mind required to conduct such an act. Thankfully most of us don't understand how that could ever happen. So, after some investigation, song lyrics were found and discussed through email. The lyrics were in fact very beautiful to me. I am always suspicious about how a person with such insight into the beauty of life and a possessor of a valued gift can also find the tragedy and ugliness so readily available to immerse themselves in completely. Completely as in the irreversible action of inflicting death upon one's self. Mind blowing. After thinking about this at different times, and studying how many comedians are depressed, I have come upon a conclusion that satisfies me enough for now. I call it 'the spectrum of happiness'. For every elated feeling one is capable of, they are also capable of the reciprocal value, which would be the same intensity of devastation. So, a calm person who is rarely excitable would be less often upset or sad. A very emotional person that is full of extreme joy can be consumed with extreme gloom. This, to me, explains how the funniest, seemingly happiest people in the world can fall into a deep depression so often and easily. This is how artists that see such radiance and beauty in the world can also see the devastation and darkness. It's an equal value positive and negative. This is my reasoning anyway.

So, two years and a little memory loss later, I email my friend this message on October 21st, 2008:

weird.
I just heard an Elliott Smith song. I somehow recalled who was singing and the story you told me of a musician that stabbed himself. I wondered if this was the musician and looked him up on Wiki. It is him, and the kicker... It is the anniversary of his death TODAY. He died five years ago today and the way he died was weird. It wasn't conclusive suicide. His girlfriend was there and actually pulled the kitchen knife from his chest.

how are you by the way?

(* note to reader- Elliott Smith died from 2 stab wounds to the chest. He was home with (and arguing with) his girlfriend who was said to have been taking a shower when she heard a scream, ran out of the bathroom and found him standing with a knife in his chest. She pulled it out, he collapsed, she called 911, he was taken to a hospital where he died in the mid afternoon. He was planning on recording a second album, which was posthumously released. A sort-of suicide note was found on a Post-It saying "I'm so sorry- love, Elliott. God forgive me." Investigation never continued, police were satisfied. Coroner's reports found no illegal substances or alcohol in his system, but mild dosages of ADD and Anti depressants. Suicide was never declared official.)

Just a fun little dose of coincidence. Until....

The next year, 2009, I sent this email:

Hey there. This is going to come across as completely random, because well, it is. But I was just now thinking of this song and the lyrics were really cool. It was a male singer and he sang of the soles of his shoes being worn thin. I guess it was relatively depressing, but I know we emailed them back and forth to each other once, talking about the lyrics.

Any chance that you know what I'm talking about? I know its a stretch.

How are you doing lately?.......... (it goes on.)

I know it seems I have a poor memory by these emails, but in my defense a year has passed between them.

His response to me was this:

Beth,
you really freak me out sometimes.
below is the note you sent me a year ago TODAY.
also, the lyrics that you sent me.

(* note to reader- The email he attached is the one I posted above from 2008... just in case that was confusing. And the lyrics and email continued.)

Aaaah! I find that so fun and awesome and beyond a dose of coincidence. Don't you? Don't you love when stuff like that happens and you think you have just had a glimpse of the spider web that is life? Two years in a row?! Is Elliot Smith tapping me on the shoulder? Is he in the air suggesting he should be thought of on this day and that I should email my friend about it promptly? I'm laughing a little as I write this. I doubt it's the case, I'm sure Elliott Smith has much better things to do wherever he is, who knows, but it's fun to think about.

This year's 10/21 was less spectacular. But, it is now a holiday of sorts and my friend sent me a 'happy' elliott smith day text. To which I responded the sentiment. The only sort of cool thing that happened was that I happened to text him back at 10:21 am. Which is of course similar to October 21st.

There you have it. This is my October shout out, as promised, to Mr. Music Man, and to Mr. Smith.

Williamsburg

t.i.r.e.d. m.e.

I'm ti-red.

Not so tired that I have to commit myself to the bed, but tired enough that I slept later than usual this morning, and have been moving slower throughout the afternoon and evening. One of my luxuries in life is being able to sleep late if needed. My husband doesn't wake me. How utterly sweet is that? That one thing he does makes me feel so special and appreciated. And the morning moments have become precious to me. I wake up when my eyes choose to open and if it is later than normal I find him leaned over me whispering bye to the pups and then he sees I'm awake and I get a gentle smile. Loved. That's what I feel in that moment. And that moment was this morning.

Williamsburg, Virginia was the destination of yesterday. To tell you how beautiful Colonial Williamsburg was set amongst the just-turned leaves is nearly impossible. The buildings are as you would expect, quite beautiful- some quaint, some regal, all relatively old. I stress that relatively part because it is just that. Relative to our country, the structures are old. Relative to our ages, the structures are old. But, relative to the buildings and structures belonging to other lands, eh... not so old.

The first time I went over seas we landed in Paris and stayed outside the city, past Versailles, in Guyancourt. Nick was playing in the 2002 French Open and it coincided with our 1 year dating anniversary so he took me with him for a mini tour starting in France, then to England, and ending in Germany. I'll get to the point. It changed me in many ways. On a Wednesday the players and caddies and the 'other halfs' that wanted to go along to the Pro-Am loaded on a bus and we swerved and climbed up hills on tiny roads and we winded our way down on the other sides of them until we got to some plot of land that was a golf course and as far as I was concerned, heaven. The French countryside awakened a new sense in me. As I walked along following Nick as he played, I met a wall. It was lovely and old and I wanted so badly to ask it "What have you seen?" I wished to hear all the stories this beautiful, gray, stone wall had witnessed. And I ran my fingers along the rough surface tracing the stones and had a moment when I really respected this inanimate object in front of me. I realized with a thud that this wall was most likely older than my country. Country, not as in land. Country as in United States of America. Many other aspects of this trip influenced me tremendously, but I attempt to not stray too far off course.

When sitting in cathedrals or palaces in England, France or Italy it is hard to imagine that the peeps that founded our nation sat in them too, and then they paddled the ocean blue and started from scratch. Our (now) historical wooden structures must have been quite a contrast for them. I imagine their culture shock and can't quite get there. It's impossible to truly comprehend. And then, coming over from Europe, today's visitors must think our oldest buildings look primitive compared to their much, much, much-older-than-ours buildings. But, then, starting from scratch means just that. It's step one, cut down the tree, kind of construction. Brick must have been gold. In Williamsburg, I often walk around and look at the employees dressed in period attire and think about how that felt in the summer heat with all the bugs and humidity and absolutely no relief from the elements. One after the other these quandaries appear. But, zap yourself forward to year 2010 and Williamsburg is nothing but a beauty, a genuine delight, that is convenient and easy to enjoy.

I especially love this cafe/coffee house named Aromas. The chef just so happened to be taking orders yesterday while we were there and he instructed the kitchen to make my favorite garden scramble from the breakfast menu even though it was mid afternoon! And needless to say they have French Roast coffee. It feels smart in there and I start the day at Aromas every trip up. Walking around the streets and William & Mary campus never gets boring. I amuse myself by finding a bronze statue of Thomas Jefferson and sitting in his lap, sometimes I smooch his cheek. I study the gardens and the architecture or talk to the sheep behind fences. I love walking in the streets that are closed to traffic and finding myself amongst other walkers and bikers, people with kids and dogs. The leaves added an extra bonus this time. Some had fallen and were placed as if an art director had designed a set. The leaves that were turning splashed so much color through the air. It was a day to savor and take deep breaths... and lots of photos... which mom took ample care of. She was buzzing so fast that she didn't have time to process her words through her brain before she spoke. I made a list of some of my favorite quotes from the day. They were hilarious. My all time favorite was "1607, Beth! That's really old. That's just past the 1500's." She was reading a brochure on Jamestown Settlement as we awaited our ferry ride over the river and found herself so overwhelmed and giddy that she didn't think about the words before they escaped. And she was right, of course; 1607 is after the 1500's, but she was trying to express that 15anything seems ancient to her and that it puts 1607 in new perspective when she thinks of it in those terms.

Mom loved the area. Intensely. She was on the verge of tears at one point because she turned and saw the Governor's Palace at the end of the long green and realized it was the building in a print she had hanging on her wall that she bought long ago. She felt about Williamsburg the way I felt about Versailles. It moved her. It felt to her like her place in the world, the place that shakes and rumbles something inside of you. Whether a location evokes flashes and sensations of memories you've never lived or you just feel rooted to the land, it still makes this irreversible impression on the soul that never fades. And something always calls out to you once you find a spot like that. It is the soul's home. The energy of that specific point on earth matches your own and it feels like crossing a finish line. Like a pursuit met with realization.

Williamsburg is a place both Nick and I love. We always say we could live there. But, I love that it meant so much to my mom and that she physically walked grounds that she deeply connects with her inner being. She has it in memory and wonderfully recorded on film and perhaps one day she will navigate her way there and call it home. She is, smartly, asleep downstairs and I become more drawn to my bed with each passing key stroke. It's nice to be tired from long days of good times and not from days spent trying to get to the end of them because they are a chore. That's the whole plan, right? Why else would we be here if not? To endure? To only make sacrifice? I think not. I think there's so much joy in experiences like those mentioned above and the gift of that is intended. Even in recalling them, I feel an ignition of the same happiness inside. Success. I close my eyes the way I opened them this morning, feeling special and smiling.

I am shoppe keeper... today.

It hasn’t been the easiest morning so far. Several things have gone awry. Not to say that matters very much at this point. It’s behind me, I am here, happily now, and before me is a day different than every other. I’m heading in to keep shoppe (I try and spell it with that extra p and e whenever I can. It’s more sophisticated.) for a friend who’s gone to market and that will prove to be fun, I’m sure. It has been the few times I’ve done so thus far.

Do you remember that scene in You’ve Got Mail where Meg Ryan/ Kathleen Kelly opens her bookstore door and walks in to her space that seems miles away from the NYC streets just outside? I love that scene. I love that bookstore. Really, I love that character too. So charming, all of the above. Well, I get to live a little bit of that when I go in to Urban Village. That’s the name of my friend’s boutique. It’s almost displaced, feeling miles away from Edenton. Even when not working, I go in to talk to Jennifer because it feels so great (and smells so great!) in the store; she plays my kind of music and shows me her new treasures. And, because she’s so fabulously kind and cheerful. I’ve yet to see her not smile.

Spending my day there is no chore at all. It’s pleasure filled. I look around the room and decide that I should, at first chance when I get home, wrap a scarf around my neck, sit at my writing desk in a slip covered chair (don’t have one, but it is in the vision) and send a personalized note to a friend. It makes me want to decide on a signature fragrance for my home… or to put it quite simply dot the i and cross the t on every aspect of my daily life. Inspiration for finishing touches. You could say accessorizing, but I don’t want to. Too many times accessories get the shaft, but they are the bow on the package. The most noticeable part, the part that shares the biggest excitement and reveals the nature of what is beneath without exposing it completely. They are exciting. Like a sexy girl with clothes… on. Much more intriguing than one stripped bare and holding no secrets. There’s something like that about a room and a home. Ambiance is crucial.

I have less than an hour before I go in, so I have to go now. My mom will keep me company, and I may have time to do some creative jotting here and there. But I will for sure have time to momentarily step into a different life and profession. I feel like a child pretending. I recommend it to all.

Words of Manipulation

I clear my throat. I think out loud. I say what I mean to say. What do you hear? Me or yourself or something in between? What makes a word and takes a word places we don't intend? And can ever an action rectify and stitch the heart to mend?

I fear we forsake our emotions; we paint them with stripes of pride. Yet, we are never so clever to put our own egos aside. The root of the matter is rarely what's cared for, we've veered and strayed off course. Intention instead is splattered, with hurt and disdain and remorse.

My tongue can't hold back what my heart says is pain and feels it is owed, its whole be reclaimed. The thoughts? They are shattered, they've ripped and they're tattered and no one is left the same. The words grew larger, breathed life of their own and they are the ones to blame.

We berated. We debated. Now clearly something unrecognizable is created. The words don't hush- they rush, now mocking they distort what we mean to say. Our stripes? Oh sure, still on, but blurry and faded and heavy with selfish weight.

We stop. Pause. Take hold. We look around the room. It's dark in here; it's musty and cold like a cavern or maybe a tomb. The walls are thick with the molds of forgiveness that was never let to fly free. No breath is left between the two, what it is is what it will be.

And all of a sudden the words whisper something that makes it all so simple and plain. "Wisdom defends itself with worth and ignorance dances in shame. One beams and shows us the light and the other dwindles and fades. It is true that between you two the flame flickers to dim. Tell me now again, just who is the victim?"

Frozen with terror one looks at the other, the chill of the words seek their prize to claim. Too late they've come to realize what was before and what it became. The words knew the answer, we just played along. I clear my throat. I think before I say. "Is it me? Or is it you? Or is Truth the one that is slain?"

Daddy Tracks

My parents are coming up to North Carolina to see me today. They've been once already, during the spring, and seemed to really appreciate the area. My mom walked past every single historical home in Edenton, snapping photos of the house names and dates of origination. It was nearly comical. She was zig-zagging and darting across the street from one sidewalk to the other, talking to herself. She had no clue I was trying to hold a conversation with her. She was thoroughly amused right by herself wandering the streets of historical Edenton. My dad would wake early and walk to the coffee shop downtown. He'd perch himself on a bench or at a cafe table and look like a local. He'd field questions from visitors as best he could, as he was no authority of the area at all... he was visiting too. The best was watching him walk up to all the fishermen at the Sound and start talking to them like they were an old friend. "Whatcha fishin' for today?" and then the two men would carry on a conversation until they ran out of common ground. This suits my dad. He likes to observe areas. He can sit in the woods and be completely amused. Literally, sit by a tree, and watch wilderness and be content. I am like him in that way.

That takes me to a memory I have of when I was little. I used to love going on a day adventure with my daddy. So, he'd tell me to hop in "Blue Thunder", his old blue Chevy that to this day remains symbolic of Gerald to both me and my sister, and we would head to the woods. We would find deer tracks and look at all the squirrels and wildlife and eventually find a place to settle. He would do things like show me how to make toothpicks from twigs. This was my version of hunting. I was hunting for tracks. I wanted to hunt for evidence and maybe see a deer. Thankfully my dad recognized my sensitivity toward animals early on in my life. Had he ever shot one and I witnessed it, I would have been beyond repair. I'm sure he gathered that from my reaction to Bambi's slain parents. If I sat here and thought about that now I would weep. It is traumatizing!

When I was three I saw my kitty Lobo get smashed by a teenage boy speeding down the street who couldn't find the courtesy to slow down and avoid my beloved pet. My dad saw this too, whistled so loud it sounded like a tornado siren and got the careless boy's attention from down the street. The boy stopped and I, with my quivering frowned lip and shaky little arms, watched my dad march to his car window and give him a passionate verbal lashing. He had to yell at me to stop first because I was running toward my cat in the street hoping to save him from the zooming car. No doubt, my dad was angry at the situation of my cat being killed in front of me, but infinitely more angry that this was a residential street lined with playing children, like me, that could've ended up under his wheel doing things like attempting to save their furry friend. Lobo- a handsome, loving cat with black fur and a white chest and paws. Driver- an oblivious asshole that killed my friend and left a stain in my mind to this day. Dad- my defender and protector and possessor of a fierce whistle.

Too bad every child doesn't have a dad like I do. He preferred spending his time with me (and Paige) than at a billiard or bar or even at a friend's place. Pushing me on my swing, listening to my faux news broadcast recordings, watching me dance to The Pointer Sisters' "I'm so excited" and Lisa Lisa's "Head to Toe", carving twigs, encouraging me to "just do that flip with no hands" as he practically taught me how to do my first back tuck in our backyard... ample fun for me, but looking at that from my current adult point of view, I realize how much patience it required. I see many dads these days have glazed eyes when watching their children. They tote a demeanor that reads 'I am going through the motions, putting my time in, and counting the minutes until I can go do what I want to do.' I truly wish to the stars for all children to have a real daddy. Not a father, not even just a dad, but a daddy. Someone to curl up on and watch Braves baseball games until they fall asleep (Dale Murphy is only so entertaining, yawn).

I had a nice childhood. I wonder how many people feel differently in the world. It's priceless really, loving your childhood memories. I was never treated like an idiot. I always got straight answers. I was never told to stop asking questions. I was always given respect. And never, ever did they take another person's word over mine, even adults. They parented me as an individual, not a scenario in a how-to parental guide. And they, especially my dad, appreciated my odd sense of humor and direct approach that was sometimes, unfortunately, misinterpreted by others as offensive. All in all, it fed my security in self, reinforced my thirst and demand for explanations and answers. It rooted my belief in the words 'can', 'miracle', and 'justice'. No pressure with parenthood, right? What if my parents had tried to raise me strictly? What if they constantly tried to harness my thoughts and opinions? What if they smothered and pursued to mold me? My demand for true freedom in all areas of life comes from having had it as I grew. Freedom. That is a word that lifts my spirit. It is creative license for my life. I owe my knowing and feeling of that word to my parents. They saw that I needed space and liberty as a child and gave it to me. Thank God.

They'll arrive tonight, their only request being to have coffee brewing. Weather-wise, it is an ideal time to come here to the Inner Banks of North Carolina. Fall feels nice and walking around town and venturing to Williamsburg will be enjoyable. The pups have already been told Nana and Papa are coming and they watched the door for 15 minutes. Eventually, Selma tip toed to the bed, sneaking past me as I typed this, and she is now sound asleep, snuggled in the down comforter. China, too, has given up on their entrance and is doggy paddling through some lake located in a dream. She found the blanket located closest to my feet. I can't ever be out of sight from either of them. I always know where they are and they always know where I am. Like usual, they will be thrilled when Nana and Papa get here. Selma jumps like a kangaroo and China makes ewak noises as she throws her hands up insisting to be picked up so she can give proper kisses immediately.

I rarely know what I will dump on a page until I sit down in front of my computer. But, today's subject seems one of the most worthy in the world. Cheers to the men in the world who have the strength, compassion, wisdom, the list keeps going, that it takes to be a daddy. It's obvious when you are absent and it makes a life when you are present. Present. Now that's a word. Be it and you Give it. A cherished present that lasts a lifetime and beyond. It's like those deer tracks. Even if you don't see the one who made the impression, you see the evidence.

the girl

I have read some of my previous entries back to myself and have found something. I have a few things yet to deliver. One, that poem, the one I said I'd look for and post if it had relevance. You guessed it. I forgot to look for it. So sorry. I will try and devote some time to that rummaging and rustling of papers. The other thing I said I would do is tell of that 1970's girl in the before-sleep-sequence that played out in the black of my eyelid flaps. And, since no one has indicated that they want to read the fifty-million ton book that led to my early-week rant (big surprise, eh?), I guess I will fill an entry or two with my impressions of that too. But, that will be down the road, as I am a very slow reader. Nick reads super fast. Me- not so much. I have this hang up where I have to visualize everything in a sentence in detail before I will allow myself to continue on to the next sentence. If I am having a day-dreamy sort of day, just imagine how many times I can read a sentence over and over and over... Sometimes I don't realize I day dreamed and have continued to read on auto pilot, the words going who knows where, perhaps to some black hole waste space I have allotted for drifting blank words that my imagination didn't tackle. What exactly is a word without the mind's visionary process? Do some people compute words without seeing them? This is an eager question. I really want to know. Back to the point, it may take me a while to read Night of Stone. But, I will read it and I will report back. Rest assured!

Ooh, guess what just came through my speakers. Santigold has just been given her turn on my play list. "Creator" is on. Fingers are typing to a beat and the hips can't help but to break it down on this one. Writing and dancing at the same time, my kind of gig. I have no problem with combining these two actions, surprisingly. Multi-tasking at its absolute best right here my friends!

Okay, on to the next song, can get back to whatever, if any, point I was making.

The girl. It was the girl I was going to tell about so that I can strike that promise off the list. I was lying in the bed. The bed at this point in time was located in a tabby house on Saint Simons Island, Georgia. Nick was already asleep. I had probably already woken him up at least once. I do that thing where the room gets really quiet and I'm thinking and he's drifted off to la la land and I say "Hey! Remember that 'so and so' I told you about?" I sort of have a voice that projects itself easily and whispering is a challenge for me. I don't scream, but my voice cuts the air. That's not all bad. I don't tell secrets or gossip because of it (and many other reasons too, but this is why I couldn't even if I wanted to.) But, it is partly bad if you are Nick, sound asleep already, and I have just blurted a random comment across the bed. It wakes him up pretty much every time. Oops. It's hard to keep track of the time when I'm in my head. It's a timeless, magical place up there. I get a groggy "Huh?" There are two versions. One is genuinely sleepy and bogged down. The other is his irritated one that really says, "I was almost there, fully asleep and you want to say what to me?" This one is sprinkled with pretend sleepy sounds. Like when you were a kid and at your friend's house playing and you realized your parents were downstairs talking to your friend's parents and you decided you wanted to spend the night. That is where the pretend sleepy voice was invented. It has proven to be a useful trick in the bag well into adulthood. So, I had probably already done the thing where I wake him up again, and have now silenced myself and sunken into a relaxed state. Right there, in that place, is where I see oddities.

Faces. Some old, some young, a mean one or two that I promptly shoo away and say "Don't you ever come back. Not welcome here."

I see locations sometimes, like a path curving around a chain link fence on a dewy, barely sunlit day.

One time I saw someone run out of an office with apparently good news on the sheet of paper in his hands and lean over the balcony of the third story of a building to tell me about it. The wooden railings were Victorian style and the floors were black and white checked and I was looking up, having been waiting. It seemed like a New Orleans location. There was a square lobby in the middle and it was pretty. It felt like an era when the air conditioner might have been cutting edge.

Once, there was a very attractive soldier sitting on his helmet and his elbows were on his knees. His body language was slack and his hair was brown and longer than a typical military cut. The hats were Army green and round and the uniform was old Army green style. He was facing my right and turned and looked straight at me. It was a little intense and I was like "Who are you?" Did I expect an answer? That would have been really startling, more so than seeing a detailed image of a face pop up from nowhere. I saw him while trying to fall asleep in Atlanta.

A favorite of mine- an old Indian man's face gazing slightly left. It was like a semi-profile portrait except he was the texture of liquid. He was so tranquil. I immediately thought "This man watches over me." And I love Indians. I am meaning to say Native Americans in actuality. That label Indian was a mistake that stuck. "Uh-oh, we aren't in the East Indies?" I am a mut, a good ole' American mut and part of that mixture is Cherokee. I like it.

I'm not trying to add suspense to the story of the girl. The stalling is purely accidental.

Enter.
I have the point of view of sitting in the back of a vehicle and looking out of the window. This window is lower and is one large, dusty window pane, looks like it belongs to an old station wagon. It has those horizontal stripes going all the way down the glass... in maroon. The carpet was an ugly blue in the back. This is not a happy trip. The car is going down a long desolate dirt road to nowhere that I can see. But, what I do see is dust and dirt flying up from the wheels and a long stretch of road we have traveled that is lined with poles stringing power lines on both sides of the road in a methodical arrangement. They are all tilted slightly in, toward the road, as if done on purpose. I found that strange. The roadside terrain is brush and desert. Nothing was around. This seemed to be a girl who was taken and was being driven to a location. I couldn't tell how much fear she felt because I was concentrating on what I was seeing. But there was a vague sense of fright.

The next thing I see is this: floating upward from a dark body of water is a girl with long brown hair that is weightlessly floating too, in all directions. She is wearing a high-waisted full skirt and a maroon button-up shirt half tucked in and the right half not. Her limbs were outstretched, limp. The right arm was straight, pointed up and in front and the left was lower, and half bent. Below her to the left is a wood paneled station wagon and I thought "They drowned her." Then the word 'Reno' popped in my head and all disappeared. And when I thought, "Who would do this?" I felt like the guy who did had dark hair almost shaved and was talking to someone else on the passenger's side, his window cracked slightly as if to let smoke out.

There you have it. It was a murder mystery. Did I make it up? What all is in my brain to have produced such visions that I didn't knowingly prompt? I did look up some key words out of a sense of duty and curiosity. I didn't find much. I'm no Jessica Landsbury... I mean Angela Landsbury, right? Did she play the role of Jessica? That doesn't matter.

I just remembered something. I once had a dream of playing tennis with a friend's father that had passed some time back. I told her about it and how he was dressed and how he was so nice and funny, but turned serious. He was hitting the ball back to me hard and he didn't want me to be nonchalant. Then, he called me to the net and said something and all I remembered after waking was the word Monday. Funny thing was, she showed me a picture of him in the same type of outfit I described and she said he was always a person her friends turned to, so it didn't surprise her he would be in a friend's dream.

I guess we have to figure out which dreams or flashes are greatly important by which feel real.

Well....... I must go now. I'm going to go hop into bed and blurt something out to fulfill my wifely duty. I hope when I lay down in bed tonight I don't wish back my entry. I hope I'm not seeing visions of myself looking like a flake on paper for any and everyone to see. Then again, there are far worse things than having bizarre, flaky dreams. I'll claim it.

Sundays: Bloody? No, thank you.

I almost didn't post this one at all. But, what is this site I've created for, if not for expressing the gritty along with the lighthearted aspects of what I see and think. These entries are an attempt to reflect all the contrasting strokes of what compose a finished, glorious piece of art. The art being life. Life also demands dark moments & thoughts or we would not see the brighter, vivid ones. They would fade and blend into a dull, drab blob of boring.

Here's to the meat of the mind... cheers!

Yesterday:
I've come to the computer to unload a heavy subject. I was in the middle of brewing my French Roast coffee when dialogue pounced on me. It was a frenzy. I meandered down the galley to my salad mixing bowl to dump a heap of walnuts on top of my greens and blue cheese and the banter was still there, working me up inside and I just couldn't get it to go away. So, voila. I'm here. Facing the page where I get to vent my internal feud or ramble on about everyday marvels. This page is my way to usher these emotions out and to a new place.

I have a serene environment here in my casa. It is as usual for a Sunday. Lazy pups lounging around; mug of warm coffee to enjoy regardless of the hour; David Gray, the amazing artist that amplifies the soul's otherwise mute cries with such emotional precision, echoing between brick walls; books in small piles waiting to be read, a candle or two lit and infusing a very faint scent into the room. That's a wonderful scene. I am so proud of this scene I sit in and call my life. That's why when turbulent thoughts rumble through my brain, it disturbs me and I have to put them to rest for this moment.

It pertains to the pile of books, I think. There are three comprising this pile. They are 1917, Russia's Year of Revolution by Roy Bainton; The Russian Century, A Brief History of the Last Hundred Years by Brian Moynahan; and the one I have been itching to read since I picked it up, Night of Stone, Death and Memory in Twentieth-Century Russia by Catherine Merridale. I picked this last book up, read the back, immediately flipped it open and read the first 7 or 8 pages until I had to leave the store and haven't stopped thinking about it. The subject matter is serious and tragic and true- and it is somehow written with beauty. I have read the back to at least three friends over the telephone. I'm telling you, this book is going to be like a slap across the face. These Russians, do you know what they have endured? I will tell you. "During the twentieth century, Russia, Ukraine, and the other territories of the former Soviet Union experienced more bloodshed and violent death than anywhere else on earth: fifty million dead in an epic of destruction that encompassed war, revolution, famine, epidemic, and political purges." Seriously?! How can one not be compelled to at least learn of what has surely taken the Russian spirit and wrangled it, defeated it, and left it for dead. Much like our rodeo, right? But, my love for bulls will surface at another time. This is insane and I must know what leads a society to get victimized like this. This is not ancient history. This is relevant. These people are dealing with this today, in personal ways. This is not just politics. This is infringement.

To give you a fair understanding of why this rattles me intensely, I'll clarify my point of view. What do I hate more than anything else? Someone telling me what to do. I hate it. I'll fight it fiercely. The moment someone tells me what to do when they have zilch, nada, no supremely valid reason, I think "Who are you to tell me what to do? Who gives you the authority to inject yourself into my life?" I think "My soul did not come into this body to live your version of my life!" I am having to hold my written tongue from using nasty language as I write this. I mean, I get irate. Do you know what I think a progressive thought is? "Mind your own business." Yeh, it's that simple. "Don't try and control me. Get a hold of your ego and leave me out of your dictation."

Wow. Heavy stuff. It's just that this controlling, the rules, the conforming; it has always blown my mind. "I should do that and I should do it this particular way... Says who??? Who gets to be appointed so important that they get to make the rules for my life?" This is my thought regarding the Neo-Conservatives I watch with all their so-called wisdom and justifications on all the contradictions they pose. And also toward their counterpart, the Liberals who are basically communists. Radical. It amuses me that neither of these groups are actually liberal thinkers by definition, they are highly intolerant and control freaks. I can pretty much spell my own political beliefs by saying that with everything that I've read so far, Thomas Jefferson displays the most modern mind of all. That is what I see as progressive. So many are trying to march backward in time toward things that have already proven to be devastating and nicknaming this, falsely, progressive. These are all simply my thoughts, my opinions. It is a volatile subject, one that offends others too easily. But, why not speak of it, while we still can anyway? Why not learn about it and talk about it and leave American Idol for the brain dead zombies.

When things like control is what we are debating , fifty million dead is at stake.

It goes beyond conforming of course. But, I would like to take a moment and post this observation. If you consider yourself an individual, of a truly independent mind... Think about if you live that way. Do you call yourself part of this group or that because it's a trend? Do you want to fit in, or save yourself from ridicule by your look-a-like friends? Do you call yourself a free-spirit hippie and dress up to look the part because that's what all your hippie friends do too? Do you live your life one way and then wish to be part of a bigger, cooler crowd, and quote talking points? What do you really think? Most people that protest conformity do their best to project it loud and clear. They pierce every abstract part of their body, tattoo themselves, whatever... you know the exact look I'm talking about. Isn't it funny that they are striving to fit into their non-conformist crowd? They are trying to fit in. Hmmm... isn't that strange, considering that. is. conforming. It's disgusting to observe.

I hope I don't sound judgmental, even though, I know that is exactly how this is coming off, but I hope to God above I don't fit in a group, a stupid cliche'. Get me out of a clique. Let me stand alone on the thought foundations I've spent a lifetime accumulating. I think of what attracted me to my husband. Well, at first, it was because he was magnetically attractive, (hubba hubba) but then, the most important part that grabbed me is that he is a leader. He leads his own life. He does not follow anyone. He thinks and stands on his own ground and he's brilliant about the way he does that. We are highly compatible on our political, spiritual, cultural beliefs; and it is so refreshing to hear new perspectives that are relevant and matter in the world. To ignore any system put in place that dictates how you get to live your life is idiotic. The cheese in the trap? Stupid reality shows, coke, "gladiator sports events",... These appease the masses. Legislation is passed while the public has a big coca-cola pacifier in their mouths. Not saying sports is bad. I love sports. Truly. I love the competition and the devotion it teaches one. I love that it serves as a tool to show someone their own strength, to be a member of a team, and that losing is as valuable as winning; but not at the expense of more important topics on which to be educated. Who's stealing your crumbs off the floor? Who is snatching your rights away?

When artistic, inventive, freely expressive people preach about communism I want to barf. I want to say, all that you are is deleted the moment you create a system like that. Do they actually think they will get to paint all day? Do they think the world will become a utopia? People are not designed to be the same. It goes against the core of the spirit. It is like hammering down your soul. Why does everyone want to be the same these days? Why are some glorifying or even defending this idea of being valued only on one's worth to a particular nation's government?

I am looking forward to reading this Night of Stone, where the author reads actual KGB documents and discusses at length the ideas of communism with those who have lived it. This is valuable to me as opposed to theories written on a page and sold as propaganda to eager college students hoping to impress others as intellectuals. Maybe they are intellectual, these radical lefters and radical righters, but really when it comes down to it... whatever they think is their own right... but don't let it affect me. Don't control me. Stick your nose in that manifesto and paint about it, or squawk on TV about how morally superior and untouchable you are... but harness your "power" to your own life.

Nick is going to read 1917 and I of course, Night of Stone. This Russian history is, after all, woven into Nick's own family. His father was born in Sevastopol and his family left their country during this Revolution. I read his great grandfather's essay on what we all know as Bloody Sunday. It's hard for me to imagine, this kind of family history. But, it is important for me now to absorb what all of this was about and not just the packaged, branded version of it all. It is part of his heritage and that makes it part of me.

I will find that article of his grandfather's and post this entry when I do.
http://www.shsu.edu/~his_ncp/Cass1905.html
Arthur Paul Nicholas Cassini, Marquis de Capuzzuchi di Bologna, Count Cassini; Russian Ambassedor to the USA (last of the old Tsarist regime).

It is possible that many others can think of these topics and not care so much. I am very Aquarius, so I can not, and do not want to be oblivious or content living in the realm of someone else's rules, or even mentally sedated by pop culture. Is this threat of suffocating control not possible? Well, just make sure the next time you take your car to Jiffy Lube, they look under the vehicle for suspicious tracking devices, smile when you stand on the street corner, because someone is watching, and the next time you check your bank account or send an email, already you are not doing so privately... the instances go on and on. Is this all for our own good, for our protection? Or is it a matter of control? Just a question.

The next time you hear someone say, "I'm not doing anything wrong. They can look through my emails, go through my accounts, perform a cavity search all they want. Fine with me." think to yourself about what that really means. Suppose the people searching for bad guys, over time, change what constitutes suspicious behavior. Soon everyone could become suspicious. No one has come up with clear, definitive guidelines on what makes one a target or not. Who is it deciding these things? Who are we giving these powers to? These are people, after all; not a perfect, purely ethical force of nature that will always stay fair and just and resist the power of control. And when one becomes trapped, controlled and has no voice to dispute- it is too late. And be certain, in photographs taken of people who are at mercy to others- they aren't smiling, they look miserable... and there is a distinct absence of piercings if you know what I mean.

p.s. Anybody want to read Night of Stone with me? Probably not. But, if so, let me know. That could be fun.

Dream Weaver

I conclude that there are many different levels of dreams. Some are wacky insights to the inner self, some are reflections of one's recent experiences or thought topics, and some aren't dreams so much as they are experiences beyond what we have given readily accepted labels. The latter are my favorite and I have a few that are as precious to me as any waking moment I've experienced.

I just spent the last twenty minutes researching the meaning of my dream from last night. That doesn't seem to work- ever, but I continue to try and match up my dreams to professional interpretation. Never can I find a specific match between my dream and the one-word examples I find online. Car. And then the site lists what it means when you see a street car in a dream. What I fail to find is what it indicates when I am in the back of a navy SUV that is soaring off a pier and into the turquoise, clear water on a sunny afternoon complete with blue skies and cumulus clouds. I shouldn't expect to have some outside source tell me about my subconscious. I have a better chance of doing that myself, with just a little introspection.

Last night's dream wasn't close to being the wildest. I remember being one of four girls in the back of the SUV. We were all brunette, if that matters at all. And the other three were taller than me, which simply shows that my sleeping projections are realistic. We have left a place of business, or shopping/dining experience and the driver says she's going to pick up some fish from the fisherman by the pier. The girl who is familiar with the area keeps saying, "They won't be open. Don't bother going. He won't be there." The driver rebuts, "Well, he told me he would be, so I'm going to see anyway." She doesn't understand why she can't go try to pick up her fish without permission or even resistance. I am observing from the back right side of the vehicle. I sort of think this back and forth is amusing and completely normal for these two and their relationship. I don't know who the third girl is either, the one beside me, but I keep trying to insert my sister into the back seat with me, and my brain corrects this by telling me this is impossible, she doesn't live near me. All of a sudden, the car accelerates, we zoom past the fisherman's hut, which is on the left, near the end of a pier. It looked to be closed, but I kept that to myself. I remember that the pier was nice; it had recently poured concrete that led to sturdy wooden planks. We were going so fast and I thought this was actually quite fun. It was thrilling, except we all realized the brakes weren't going to have time to slow our car down before the last wooden plank. The driver tried. It was as if she had accelerated only out of frustration in the first place. We went flying off the pier and I vaguely remember having a smile on my face. I remember being watched from land. We went flying and landed, boom! We went down quickly, too quickly, and this is when I thought, oh, I can't open the door and I didn't have time to put down the window in mid air. Never did it even occur to me in this dream that I wouldn't find a way out. So, I woke, of course. I needed a solution for this timing issue, so I tried to go back to sleep and force a new ending. Ha! That never works either.

One dream that is more interesting came a few weeks ago. It was quite violent. It packed a punch and swirled around in my mind for a couple of days, so I sent it to mom in an email, just to give it an exit. Here's that email:
My dream the other night- crazy.
I was an observer only, but we were in a futuristic building that was large and white and it was clear research was going on in the center and it was open floor to ceiling. The staircases were concrete, but they led to balconies with clear Plexiglas walls and so everyone and everything was exposed. My point of view was here, on one of the many floor's balconies with three people. We watched as this crazy man somehow dangled himself from one of the floors and kept stabbing himself to throw off the 'enemy' that was capturing all these people. Blood was everywhere. It seemed he was fighting his own demons completely, because he kept hurting himself with an odd satisfaction and then surviving and so he was doing it over and over for show. Then, two of the three people who were seeing all that this man was doing; and they seemed like okay, decent people; began racing up and down flights of stairs looking for their little boy. They couldn't find him no matter what and it was like they were captured and had to leave the building and if they didn't the walls would fall in, but they couldn't leave without their boy. The other girl who was with them tried to help, but was not able to. At the very end when they realized the child was not at the top nor the bottom, they froze on the staircase and one said, panting, "Is this hell, and we just keep trying to get out?" It was a realization that all of the panic was invented and continuing, never ending, but not a reality. That's when I woke up.
Pretty nuts right?
I'm sure my mom appreciated the transference of that ugliness.

I've always had dreams like this; it's nothing new. When I was young I dreamed Adolf Hitler came to our neighborhood and we all had to line up in two parallel, single file lines that led toward the stop sign at the end of my street. We had to go either right or left depending on the line we were in and do forward rolls on a curved, balloon type surface. If we fell off we had to gather in one crowd and if we made it we were gathered behind him in a crowd, presumably the safe one. This dream, no doubt, came from my attempt to read Mein Kampf in seventh grade.

I have been abducted and escaped from a white van by unhinging the floor panels. The kidnappers were men dressed and masked in head to toe black. I ran back to a palace that was set in a long ago time, holding a long ago political and cultural ball, but I was still present time and knew my way around the palace easily. I ran up the grand staircase to the right. It was a wooden staircase and there were lots of red upholstered walls. I got to the second floor, ran right to the second door on the left, turned in it and ran around the four poster bed. Everything was extravagantly decorated. This bad man in black came in and faced me and we had a moment of a stand off. I had nowhere to go. Trapped. So, I grabbed a bedpost, pulled it up out of the foot board and speared him with it! Nice job, huh? That was survival instinct, I guess. I never go down in the dream. That's good to know. But, that dream was as real as they get when I was dreaming it and I remember it in vivid detail to this day. I must have been 18 when I had that dream.

Once, Joey from NKOTB died my hair lime green. He tricked me.
I dreamed Nick and Obama were on the floor doing crunches and discussing their very strong political views, which is probably the most far fetched of all these scenarios.
I've had butterflies squeeze my finger so hard it has woken me up.
These are all funny and colorful. I find relief in knowing I dream in color.

The ones that intrigue me most are the ones that I don't fit in the category of dream. I break them up in two ways. The images I have before I fall to sleep, when I'm floating in a sleepy limbo. I see faces mostly, only long enough for me to think "who the hell is that?" And I've seen a whole scene unravel once. It involved this girl that I assume was from the 1970's based on apparel. That one is rather interesting. I may write about that one later. Then, there are the dreams that are not dreams and instead, soulful moments taking place in a realm that connects those that are physically here and those who have left us already. Say bogus. I care not. I feel what I feel. Today's worldly logic plays a minor role. That's the best part about dreaming. One of the most meaningful of these was back in 2006 when Nick's uncle died. It was magnificent and I'll tell of it later I suppose. Too much to say. And the communication that goes on in these sleeping sequences is beyond words on a page anyway.

But, I guess my point is, writing dreams down or thinking about them at length is gratifying. Who knows what you may find. Looking back at them can be startling sometimes. They are as much a part of us as what we do while awake. The subconscious and the magic of the brain is surely overwhelming. It is endless. It belongs solely to us. It is our ticket for instant escape. It is worth a waking moment. I think so anyway.