I dreamed that Mars was perched just over the surface of the ocean last night...it was grey with a big hunk taken out of it somehow, like a bite out of an apple.  The inside surface was molten red...it looked like Mars was dying.  As I watched, the seemingly diminished planet fell out of the sky and landed in the waves with a big splash, then rolled across beach and dunes to take out a couple of the houses settled along the coastline for the night.  A giant bowling ball, and they were its pins. Strike!

I remembering being there to witness this, but feeling removed.  Possibly because I was aware that it was a dream, or sheer disbelief.  I think there was a newscast of some sort playing somewhere, and they interrupted the drone of the loop with the breaking news that Mars had fallen from the sky and bowled across a beach.

What was notable about this to me was the feeling of incredulity that I felt when I woke up...not so much that I envisioned the ultimate demise of Mars as we know it, but more because my brain came up with such a creative dream.  "Oh, Ye of little faith", I chided as I dozed.  In daylight hours, my brain can work up unlikely scenarios like this and more all the time...none anymore believable but still turned over too frequently by my mind, as if these rampant fears warranted any such inspection as valid concerns.

Lesson to learn, here, me thinks.

Evidently, in my mind I see the savant type of writer...the wildly impassioned, temperamental genius who needs absolute silence and strangely beautiful, elusive muses to be inspired to create. Evidently, I have coveted this image of a writer who needs extremes to let the words flow; only if the end result is from a deep, unique, almost spiritual place can it be considered beautiful prose. And once the train of thought has been lost, it is gone forever, banished to creativity hell and mourned from the deep recesses of a brain who only cherishes and respects a thought at that moment, instead of nurturing it into fruition forever. I have seen writing purely as art, instead of work, without realizing that it only exists as art in my mind and is glorified in that shadowy place alone...to share it, which will probably alleviate a multitude of my frustration, I will have to work at it, chipping away at this rock of writer's block like an unglamorous miner instead of a ethereal, wispy fairy who waves a magic wand to make lovely little words appear. Which is irony at it's best, because while fairies are pretty and magical, they can be crushed like bugs...a characteristic that I absolutely don't covet.

Evidently, I need to come out of my mind a lot more and give it a go in the real world for a bit.

I want just one word, or maybe a few, in your hand writing...a few words from you to me. So that I can tattoo it on my soul. Or at the very least my skin.

Anxiety. Bleh.

I know that there is a relaxed person inside of me. Maybe I really am type A and am in a serious state of denial. But I don't think so.

It's weird, 'cause I am pretty articulate. When I allow myself to communicate, I really can match up the words to the thoughts that are rambling around in my head. But it always seems to be in this slightly autistic, borderline unhinged kind of way. It's verbal vomit, where I am not really thinking about what I am saying, I'm just sayin'...it. And it's right. I am actually communicating the right thought to correspond with the current situation. It might not be pretty, but it's out there in the open where it is much easier to manage. It's as if my brain is a candy machine (I think I would charge more than a penny for my thoughts, though) and my subconscious can access it to dispense the words with the touch of a button.

It's the thinking that fucks it up.

Thinking too much causes me to become this very verbal, very communicative mute. Because I censor myself so much, my voice has become this rusty mechanism that I don't trust to function properly anymore. I've never much liked to hear myself speak, I prefer to listen. Honestly, it's just easier. But it's counter-productive to the point of being damaging. Damaging to myself and to those that I love. At least in my head.

Because they can't follow me to wherever I go when I shut down. They can't know how much I love them when all that's out in the open is a mask of indifference. And silence. Somehow I have managed to create silence that is LOUD, this almost tangible refusal to speak, make eye contact, or act like I give a crap, really. It's gotta be difficult to understand that I'm really just being hard on myself in my head, willing myself to use my big girl words, trying to find a way that makes sense to me, trying to stop thinking and just be. To just speak.

It's hard to explain that even when I know that something is not a big deal, it's seems so to me. My whirring mind spins things so vastly out of proportion so quickly that even I have a hard time figuring out where the hot mess of drama that it turns into comes from. Most of the time I am able to sort through the BS detritus that my brain has created and set myself straight...sometimes before it's even noticeable that I went to that weird place. But sometimes I get stuck there and it seems that nothing short of Divine intervention, a backhoe and some dynamite will make me come away.

And I am there now.

I had a dream, and as I have actually been remembering my dreams lately, I thought I would try to get this down...

We were walking on a sea wall - some place cold and misty, like England; it was a foreign place, but it still kind of felt like St. Augustine. There was an older man with us who I didn't recognize, but his presence was kind and it seemed that we cared deeply about him.

Somehow, I got ahead of the two of you. All of a sudden, a gigantic tsunami type wave came and swept me off of the wall, gobbled me into the sea like a baleen whale sucking up a tiny fish. I was dragged to the crest of another wave, and pounded back into the water repeatedly. It was terrifying, but somehow I was staying alive, and there were other people in the water who seemed to have removed themselves from the vicious cycle. They kept telling me to take a deep breath and dive, dive down into the cold, unknown depths and eventually I would escape to a small beach that capped the tide line.

So I did. I guess I miraculously turned into Aqua Girl, because I held my breath long enough to sink down into the navy blue calmness and free myself of the crashing waves.

Once back on land, I was frantic to find the two of you, scared that you had been swept off into oblivion. But when I found my way back to the sea wall you were still there, hands in pockets, having the kind of solid chat that is rare and meaningful. I don't remember wondering whether or not you noticed that I was gone; I just marveled over the fact that you were still there, waiting for me to return. The panic dissipated as I realized that you were safe, and I was safe, and we were together again.

It was a good dream, it was a dream that meant something to me - perhaps that you represent the calm in my stormy psyche. And the old man? THE Old Man, maybe? Walking along, having a chat?

Did you know that God was by your side?

Repost. To remind myself. Trying. But could try a lot harder...

Friday, December 25, 2009

Before the inspiration dips below the horizon of my heart...

"I gave her my heart, and she gave me a pen." Say Anything

I am starting to know when something is right...I feel it. I just know. I don't question it. It just is. Like an instinct. Like the sky. No doubt in the addled brain means a lot. But I am also learning that even though I know something, it doesn't always mean anything...because some of the feelings that I have, though valid, can't ever breathe the light of day if they are not shared. Other feelings are significantly mine: when warmth spreads through my belly: inspiration. When my pupils dilate, my lips part and my skin tingles: excitement, curiosity. When I isolate myself on the island of my cold side of the bed: loneliness, self-induced. When my toes hit the sand touch the waves: my spirit, my home. When my throat feels closed, tight, tense: mute. Oh yes, mute is a feeling to me; not using my voice, burying myself under a mountain of each other person's expectation will be death by silence. And it will be a quiet, hurtful violence if I allow it to happen.

It is ok to feel in color, to hear so acutely, to bundle up each tiny emotion in it's own unmarked box so that I am never sure what I am pulling out of the attic of my soul. It's ok to want to fish with the egrets in the salt marsh and covet Christian Louboutins: pumps, black. It's ok to be wrong, it's ok to fight when I am right, even if that means everything around me will change. It's ok to want it all, from one opposite end of the spectrum to another.

And it's ok to be afraid, as long as that fear is an impetus. Because if I don't take my respect for the things that I love and turn them into something useful for me and the world, it will be a waste. No one can write about the heart-breakingly beautiful shades that the intercoastal can be on any given day like I can. No one can wax poetical about her love of a small beach town and live in the greatest, craziest city in the world like I can. No one can talk my particular brand of smack and use the same mouth to sooth a fussy child like I can. No one can feel people and read people and really see people like I can. I can, I only have...all I have is to try. But I know before I can do any of it I have to be without fear. I am ok with trying and failing. I am not ok with dying and never knowing.

What I have longed for is this. The words; somehow communicating the intrinsic beauty I see in the things that are special to me. I have been trying to feed the longing with other things, I have been thinking that what I ache for is him, or that thing, or this place...when really I have been aching to be me. It all makes me stupid with distraction, discouraged that I can't seem to get it right and no one seems to get it. But I am not trying to be anything but a fraction of me, a shadow of the dark, sweet, honored power that I posses. I ignore and I pretend and I smile and I hope for the best, but nothing else will mean much until I use what I have at my fingertips...my very own heart. No one can see it or judge it or measure it, only me.

My gift is me.

I feel like a flower bud
Or a nut that is being
Cracked by sheer force,
Determination...
And maybe a pointy tooth

I feel like something that is
Opening
Changing
Growing.

I met this fabulous lady at the bank yesterday - older, walked with a cane. She had on a black hat, but the rest of her outfit looked like she said "I can't decide which color I want, so I think I'm just going to wear them all today." Multi-colored scarf over a patterned blazer. She was a black & multi-colored rainbow.

We had reached for the same pen when filling out a deposit slip - I of course deferred to her because she was older, mostly, but also because she was so stinkin' cute. I got in line for the tellers before she did and, I'm not gonna lie, was kinda relieved because ya know how old people are...slow. But I turned when she approached and as we exchanged a smile, I chided myself for being a jerk and asked her if she would like to go before me. She said "No, thank you. I just had my physiotherapy and I feel rejuvenated." So there, Kelly, for thinkin' she was nattering and feeble. We started to chat about the price of gas and the necessity of planning trips. She explained that she wasn't one of "those people" who complained about prices today because her father always said in life, you have to roll with the punches. Evidently, he also said "remember the $25 days" which I had never heard (even googled it, no help there) but took to mean the days in which a family could live off of $25.

It seems like her father was a pretty awesome man, because he was a fan of one of my favorite sayings; it's an oldie but goodie "never follow the crowd...I hope if everyone else is jumping off of a bridge, you are not." As I listened and took in the features of her face I was just totally delighted by her presence, even in that little slip of time. I always want to collect these cool people that I meet, but I have come to learn that they are probably just there in that time and space for a reason. Whether it be to brighten each other's day (I am sure she was surprised to find that I wasn't a twit because of the way that I raced to the line to get there before her; I'm not subtle) or remind each other of something, as in this instance, a thought that needs to be reinforced. I am an absolute fool over people like that, who are clearly their own person and tell you neat little tid bits that make your day. But I don't let that adoring girl come out much...only with strangers who I will never see again...makes no sense, does it?

Thing is, if we pull our heads from out of our asses for long enough, we find that we are surrounded by these people. I really think you attract to you what you are looking for with the energy that you perpetuate; the vibe that you give out. So, it's important to concentrate on positive ish instead of worrying all the time. Perhaps if I stopped worrying and engage that adoring girl part of me a little more, I'd deal less with d-bags and more with delightful creatures.

Common doesn’t write his lyrics down. He rhymes out loud until he finds the words that he wants, then he just memorizes them and lays the track. He is dedicated to his art.
I avoid mine like the plague. Wtf for, you might ask. Is it my grossly abnormal, debilitating fear of failure? Sure. Is it that I will not stop long enough, sort out my time sufficiently enough, be still in my heart and my mind long enough to hear the words that have been jumping around in my soul all of my life? Absolutely. Ab-so-freakin-lutely.

I think sometimes I know my worth and the height, depth of all that I am capable of. Sometimes I am able to feel the rich beating pulse that is my voice, I am able to put my finger on it. But instead of recognizing it as my life force, I let it quicken, then fade. WHY do I DO that?

So in order to get your blood flowing, clear you head, hear your voice, you have to just stand up and move, correct? Maybe stop asking why, just see what happens when you stand up. Take that famous one step to start a journey.

Yes, Kelly. Another one. Actually, it's not so much a new path to start down, it's the one you've been meant to be on all of your life. You've just meandered around a lot of other paths, snake trails to highways, in order to find this one.

So, in essence, shut your face and get to steppin'.