Tag Archives: Observations

None of this is real

August 5, 2010

Nightmare“It was a dark and stormy nightmare.”
~ Neil Gaiman, “Sandman”

I have this neat trick. I don’t lucid dream (oh but don’t I wish!), but I can wake up. The second I realize, or think, or say “none of this is real” or “this is a dream”, I ‘m instantly awake. Of course, I wish I hadn’t said that during the Johnny Depp dreams of 2007 but alas, I did. Which is only mentioned to point out that it works on good and bad dreams. Well, and because it’s Depp. It would be nice if I had more control. If I knew that saying that would wake me. I don’t. It sucks. But in a good way when it’s a nightmare.

I had four nightmares last night. Back to back. I kept realizing there was no way this was happening and waking up… and then going right back in. Now, mind you, not back to the same dream or same spot, though I’ve done that accidentally in the past. No, I mean that I went back into that negative world. The characters were the same. The outcome the same. But how we got there each time was different. It was like a special edition DVD with alternate middles instead of alternate endings. And each time, I got a little further into the horrible end before my brain put the brakes on and screamed “I don’t think so!”

So, since it’s Thursday, and this week’s been nothing but remnants of Monday masquerading as its siblings, let’s talk dreams—good, bad and ugly. What do you do? Can you wake yourself? Can you go back in and pick up where you left off? Can you control things going on, or people and places? What tricks does your nocturnal mind have that it’s not sharing with your conscious?

Entertain me… I could use it this week!

Also tagged , , , , , , , – 3 Comments

Due North

July 29, 2010

moralcompassAs is the case with many blog entries lately, this was spurred by a chat in the garage. It’s a place of deep conversations and highly emotional rants and gigglefests of pure speculation. Last night it ranged from religion to the gas station and back again.

Apparently, I have “an extremely high moral compass.” Seems if you want to give back the incorrect change the clerk gave you, or any of the other things listed to me, you have a high moral compass. But the conversation turned, and it wasn’t about the compass anymore. It was about the points on the compass. Or rather, who they point to.

Fine, I have a high moral compass. Blame my mom, I do for almost everything anyway. I’m comfortable with it. It’s kept me out of trouble on countless occasions, including a few I clearly remember wishing it didn’t exist for. But it’s MY moral compass. It’s what points me north or south, right or wrong. It’s there to keep me straight, not judge others. And it has shocked me (a few times in the past) to find out that “fear of my judgement” because of my “high moral compass” is possible. Really? This is me. Everyone talks to me, tells me secrets, confides—because above all else, I’m loyal. And shouldn’t that loyalty automatically mean I won’t judge? It’s not my place to judge—it’s my place to love.

Oh wait… Thursday… there should be a question. Sorry, I got all rambly there. I could do a whole blog on judging, which turned into it’s own conversation and moved locations and oy… Hmmm… Ok, how about this:

Do you have a compass? Nah, that’s a given, even if it’s a little broken one, you’ve still got one. Ok, how about: Where’d you get it from? Does your moral compass come from your upbringing? Your faith? Your experiences? Your desires to be a certain way? How did you come to the morals that you hold yourself by?

I guess I answered before I asked this week. I got them from my mom, but also from experiences. There are certain things I will never ever evah do, because they were done to me. They hurt on a level that can never be properly expressed and I would never want to a.) be responsible for making someone feel like that, b.) sink to the level of those that did it to me. My compass is part mom, part me—but sorry, no pink elephant. I personally don’t think an invisible entity threatening my afterlife is a good enough reason to behave in this life. I live the way I do because before I die, I have to live… with myself.

Also tagged , , , , , , , – 4 Comments

Post-Con Fail

July 19, 2010

redvelvetYep, it’s Monday. Nope, there’s no real blog. Hell, it’s taken this much of Monday to screw my head back on straight.

Yep, it’s post-con. Yep, the notebook came back for a zombie-style appearance. Nope, there’s no real writeup.

Easily my favorite con, and one I hope to never miss, but I didn’t really con like I would normally. I had a specific agenda—a 2-part plan. Powwow with a little brother. Hug, hold and smother a big sister with love. I did those things. Everything else was just butter-cream frosting on my lovely red velvet cake.

So while there is no real write-up, there is a post-con nod to a little brother and big sister. And a thank you. To old friends and new. To late nights and late morning starts. To sparklers and unicorns, burning books & timely bladders. To sunrise surprises and sunset meals. To 4am doorbells that come with smiles and roommates that don’t kill the messengers. To uncles that mentor and sisters that giggle. To frozen pudding and Watership Down. To Elvis on velvet and bunnies. To cake. To frosting. To Necon.

See ya’ll next year.

Also tagged , , , , , , , , , , – 1 Comment

Billy Jim Joe BOB

July 15, 2010

tms1-38Nope, this isn’t a blog about the hippie. Rather, it’s a blog about all the other bob’s in my life.

AND it’s kinda sorta maybe a question, so we’re calling it garage talk, since it’s Thursday. (You like how I’m magically posting this from the road on my way to Necon… sneaky aren’t I?)

My life has always had bob in it one way or another (Yes, I get the irony):
Bob’s Chop Suey (see this post)
Doctor Bob (see image)
“Do it yourself, Bob!” (old commercial my family will never forget)
Dear God Bob
Bob, bob, bob…

NOW the boyfriend, too?!!

I need a new generic name. I figure if religion changes throughout the years and their gods change, I can change the name of my generic bob… I kinda like Henry. Henry is a nice strong name, but Dear Henry? hmmm, I’m reminded of the song:

And, as much as I love my Sesame Street memories, I’m not sure I can say “Dear Henry” without “there’s a hole in the bucket.” I need suggestions. I need help. The hippie is too easily confused with and by this strange habit of mine.

Mostly, it’s to replace “god,” because even though I’m a dirty rotten atheist, I don’t like “Dear God” or “Oh my God” because it’s blasphemous and I try and respect belief, even when it’s not my own. I’d go with Steve and borrow Nugget’s new “everyone name,” but it just doesn’t roll off the tongue quit right, and I promised someone I wouldn’t use that particular name for anything outside victims of brutal deaths, accidental and otherwise, in my fiction.

Damn it.

Suggestions? I’m open to just about anything…

Also tagged , , , , , , , , – 5 Comments

Tastes like Summer

July 12, 2010

dreamsicleA single sunbeam is enough to drive away many shadows.
– St. Francis of Assisi

I love dreamsicles. No, really, you need to understand… I turn into a twelve-year-old when I hear the ice cream truck. I jump up and down and run to find my wallet or the hippie’s pocket, bat my eyelashes, and smirk like a kid that knows what they’re getting for Christmas. And every time the ice cream truck stops, someone brings me back a dreamsicle. They don’t ask what I want. They know. Because I love dreamsicles.

Because they taste like summer.

I heart Ra in general. Sunshine is a good thing. It makes your soul smile and your skin tingle. But if you zero in on the generality of sunshine and just consider summer… well, that’s where I went while savoring the last dreamsicle I had.

I said it tasted like summer to whomever was standing there, and then I thought about that. What else tastes like summer? Better yet, what other senses bring summertime to my mind?

I hit that thought again at work during last week’s heat wave. As many of you know, I abhor shoes. I am barefoot whenever possible, even if it gets me yelled at by certain waitresses that will be missed at HFW this year (Nora!) or other people of supposed authority. As such, I was barefoot at work when I went out to get the mail. Walking across the parking lot was like walking on lava, but instead of cursing the heat, my mind traveled back to a summertime long ago.

When I was seven, we lived in Texas. Across from our apartment building was a giant field, then a 7-11. I was sent to get tomato paste. I don’t know why I remember it was tomato paste mom needed, but I do, because the mind and memory are weird like that. I have no idea what I learned in eighth grade history, but I know thirty-four years ago my mom needed tomato paste. And I was barefoot. And the parking lot of that 7-11 was like lava.

Pavement threatening to blister my feet feels like summer.

And then I remembered what I said about the dreamsicle and I wondered about the five senses of summer again. So I started thinking about it. Dreamsicles taste of it. Hot asphalt feels like it. What looks, sounds and smells of it?

Smell could be lilacs, but that’s cliché and more spring than summer. Bonfires? Perhaps. Because they remind me of parties at the point, burning tires, laughing with friends and sitting on the sand. Sound could easily be associated with the ice cream truck music, but that’s a little too close to the dreamsicle and each sense deserves its own trigger. A new summer sound would be cicadas. They’re loud and obnoxious and absolutely fascinating, if only because they’re still new. Perhaps next year that will sound like summer. This year, it’s too fresh and sound will have to settle for being… I don’t know. And I don’t have any idea what summer looks like to me. I’ll have to think about these things. Or rather, pay attention. Because I don’t believe I can just remember, or decide, what summer smells, looks or sounds like. Not with that same rush of warmth through my chest that the dreamsicle and asphalt brought to me. Not with that tickle in my mind that reminded me of childhood summers and the escapism brought with them. I think those things have to be experienced with an “Ah-ha” moment, where I become twelve again and declare “this” smells like summer.

Moments of declaration are a strange thing. In this case, a whimsical thing. Equating a sense to a season is just a fun exercise in silly at this point. But silly is good. It keeps you young. It makes you buy sidewalk chalk and blow bubbles in the house. I keeps your spirit high when stress wants to drag it down. And it helps you live the only life you’re going to get.

Summer is different now (sorry mom, I’m going there). Summer is warmer and lasts longer. It comes earlier and stays late, like a canadian trying to suck the most out of a three-day weekend. It brings fireflies by the droves and a night sky that doesn’t quite look right to me. It smells like tiki torches and feels like the cool water of a kiddie pool. Someday, I’ll figure out the other senses—by accident. Right now, I have a dreamsicle, that tastes just like summer.

Also tagged , , , , , , , , – 8 Comments
« Older posts