Living a Dream

Alone in a Crowd

Dear Mike,

38 years ago we were living a dream

now you’ve been gone for 23

tears still form when I play your songs

now I’m old and still alone

sometimes I feel life has passed me by

but I’ve lived long enough to know

I’m not missing anything…

except you

remember the time you wanted to leave everything behind?

I made you promise to take me with you

many nights I wish you could have

but that was not your call

I haven’t done much since you left me behind

18 years in the health and fitness industry

and I’m so sick, I’m bad for business

remember how no one knew what was wrong?

well, I have a long list of diagnoses now

seizures, autism, Lupus, PTSD with flashbacks, 

migraines, vertigo, and severe anxiety disorder

only half are true, but I don’t know which half

on a brighter side, my faith finally feels real

yes, I knew it was real when you were alive

yet I never felt like I belonged

things got awfully dark before I could see

you’ll feel it too when you come back

although I might seem a little different

I’ve lived 14 years longer than you so far

but we’ll be living a better dream then

I live in an RV now, which you’d enjoy

although, you’d make the bed bigger

ok, and the bathtub too

remember that night we froze in our tent?

we could be warm cozy glampers instead

traveling wherever, planting gardens along the way

we’ll stay a few years in each place

making friends everywhere we go

that’s what I’ve been doing since you’ve been gone

no real place to call home

even our house felt estranged

a place for roommates to land

the RV makes moving so much easier

I can take my home with me

6 years with a PO Box address

is as close to home as it gets

the latest PO Box is shared with some wonderful friends

I can’t wait for them to meet you!

this dream feels so real now

I just want to share it with you

Love always,

your Happy Camper wife

 

Some More from the Doodle Journal

Twisted Perception

Twisted Perception

This rock turns in on itself
Parched and no pity
For those God condemns

In a dream
The old man is beaten and stoned
But not dead

I think they were wrong
But it’s my job
To clean up the mess

12-15-19

Morning Pages

This is a repost from my other blog, Awakening the Sleeper.

I awoke this morning to Errol Flynn making fun of me for being melodramatic. How ironic! The next half hour was spent arguing with him in my morning pages. This poor misguided drama king has not been properly trained for his role and has been given the wrong script. He's supposed to keep me real, yes, but not to the point of blocking my writing. After three pages, I believe I have won round one. - Day 15

I've been reading a book called The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron that was written to help people unblock their creative side. The author refers to the block as a little voice in your head that tells you there are more important things to do, and you're not good enough to be wasting your time on these creative endeavors. She calls it the “Censor”, and says that it's part of the “Logic” brain. Some people may be more familiar with the term “left brain”.

One of the exercises she recommends is the “morning pages”. You're supposed to write three pages of whatever comes to mind when you first wake up. It's not supposed to be good. It's supposed to be a release or vent of all the whiny anxieties that “stand in the way of your creativity”. I call it getting-all-the-crap-out-so-I-can-focus-better.

It's interesting to note that writing requires the use of both sides of the brain. The left brain or logical side is needed to put words into a logical order of structured sentences, and the right brain or creative side is needed to find the right words to convey the thoughts. The act of writing helps unite the two sides for a common purpose, creating more of a balance between the two.

I am not a morning person. My mind is anything but peaceful when I first wake up. Sometimes, there's an entire army of negative thoughts marching around in my head. I usually try not to pay attention to them; try to force myself to focus on positive things. When that gets too difficult, I daydream; dream up happier places to go to. All of this is done without realizing it. The morning pages have made me more aware of my thought patterns and habits first thing in the morning.

On some days, I write 3 pages of rants, on others, it's a 3 page pity party. On my better days, it becomes a list of things I need to do that day or hope to accomplish sometime in the near future. I find that I am able to think more clearly throughout the day, and remember things better, since I've started this.

Not long after I first started writing morning pages, I had a weird dream with Errol Flynn over-acting a scene where he was supposed to be relating a sad childhood story. He was dressed as one of the Three Musketeers with a sword in his hand. The acting was so bad it was funny. While I was writing about the dream in my morning pages, I realized he was making fun of me, especially the sword-pen connection. At that time, I was still putting this blog together, and still writing my personal weight loss story. My “Censor” was trying to tell me that all of this was a waste of time.

Those 3 pages became a lecture to my censor, which I have named Errol. I spoke as a boss to an employee, or a director to an actor. I said things like: “Your role is a necessary role, but you have become confused about your job description. You are overstepping your boundaries. Stop blocking my writing!”

Therapists call this self talk. Affirmations are a form of self talk. There are some rules to remember with self talk. For example, the subconscious doesn't recognize negative words like “don't”, “not”, “no”, and “never”. If you say, “Don't block my writing.” It hears, “Do block my writing.”

Another is that you can't deny a part of yourself, because you don't like what it's telling you, which is essentially what I had been doing by ignoring the negative thoughts. If your finger was broken, you wouldn't cut it off. Likewise, the negative voice or censor shouldn't be cut off (or told to get lost), but redirected to function in a healing capacity. If I say that it has become confused about it's job description, then I need to redefine what I want it's job description to be, which is what I tried to do that morning.

It was a struggle first thing in the morning to find the right words to tell Errol what I thought he shouldn't be doing. I kept wanting to use negative words. And then, I had to figure out what I thought he should be doing. It took a couple of mornings to get it right, and may take a few more. Hopefully by putting it in writing, I'm forcing both sides of my brain to work together on this. I think it's paying off.

At the end of each day, I write a random paragraph about anything that comes to mind as an exercise for a writing group that I belong to. The paragraph in italics above was that day's paragraph.

Haunted Tour

Haunted Tours

I once saw the Aurora Borealis
Tried to capture it, but it flitted away
Now I search for my faithful camera
Finding only incomplete equipment gifted me
In a misguided attempt to prepare for passage

I offer guided tours for your reading pleasure
Through secret corridors
Behind the walls of my childhood home
Where a colorless version of those Northern Lights
Flickers among apparitions that haunt here

Ice Water River

my foot knows where to go
though I’ve forgotten
alighting each step
with precision

like a grasshopper
descending the embankment
leaving roots undisturbed
and sand in its place

grade steepens and
steps turn to leaps
building momentum
yet retaining agility

I marvel – after
months of heavy heat
from a parched withered land
such a light footed find

Ice Water River from below
they say too cold to swim
but I’ll just wade
and find relief from the Drought

I've Been In La La Land Lately...

...and haven't been doing much blogging. It seems I've been in the mood for drawing mythological beings instead.



This is a color pencil sketch for a project that I'm working on for a friend. I call him Thor, but he seems to be dressed for a warmer climate, like maybe Greece. Could be because of the 100 degree weather we've been having lately.



I made this one with different colored ball point pens. She was originally just an outline I made for this piece of digital art from several years ago.



The weather we've been having has been wreaking havok on my mood lately. We're six months into a drought right now. I've been trying to save my gardens, but may end out loosing a tree. I've been known to cry when a tree dies, and there are dead trees everywhere I go. These little beauties help lift my spirits when I go out to water.



I like to imagine that little faeries danced on the top of this one and left a trail of their steps.



And, the Faerie Princess left her crown on this one.

But, then I wake to sad dreams in the morning. This morning the dream was about a dog that I had abandoned and then died before I could get back to it. It made me think about a real dog that I used to have years ago, whose death was surrounded by mysterious circumstances. So, I wrote this poem.

Taken to the Woods

taken to the woods
by a friendly face
did she wonder
why he was with her
instead of me?

visit to her favorite place
ends abruptly with a
bullet in her brain
I failed her again

old and sickly
I left her vulnerable
was it a mercy killing?
look of horror on his face
when I mention that
she was getting better

extra effort required
isn’t given when needed most
another piece of me is gone
and the cycle continues

he leads me astray
but I follow willingly
into the woods
looking for peacefulness
because it’s just easier
he thinks he’s doing me a favor

This last one was written the other morning.

My Conscience is so Much Crueler

while my subconscious
whispers to me in my sleep
like a compassionate lover
“you underestimate yourself”
“feel unworthy of giving encouragement”

my conscience becomes enraged
lies in wait for me to wake
to scold with a harsh voice
like an angry father
humiliates and rejects me
until there is no more desire to wake

Well um... I think I'll go back to my mythological world now.

Flying Boats

sinking boat
suddenly takes flight
like the hearts of lovers
when lust is consummated
only to find
when the magic washes over
nothings changed

soaring unrealistically high
propelled by adrenaline
over bridges meant to be
sailed under
crossroads bypassed
in favor of a mid-air stall

last second parachute
cushions the end of a free fall
alighting further down stream
going nowhere
in a sinking boat

parachuting boats
as quixotic as
flying boats
and yet, unable to do
what it was meant to do

Spent

Coins dropped
into a hand of rotting flesh
Character spent

An old hag strikes a deal
with a luminescent daughter
Pale and delicate
retaining white linen that
repels murky water…
and wispy dark hair that
opposes ivory skin

Preservation paid for
she slips away
Constitution bared and bled
left standing alone in murky water
holding the putrefying jawbone
of an attacking dog

Camaraderie gawks
concludes and criticizes
standing safely on dry
decaying continents
of dragons and voodoo masks

They’re happy I’ll be staying
Preserved for decadent perishing
There’s no turning back
She took the dinghy with her

Antidepressants

eyes coated with a medicated blur
words refuse to focus
shoulders are lighter
but pages still haunt

don’t care about the pain
don’t care about the gift
lazy hands laugh
unmotivated feet dance
-in purposeless directions
-in silent numbness

but sleep reveals that
core chapters have not been numbed

Illustration Friday: Entangle

handless people mesh with
wicked minded hands
entangle with wicked thoughts
actuating the hands

ineffectual dexterity
plucking anemone tentacles
from sex books strung
together like beads

feeling foreign philosophies with
acquired unstable tactility
organizes books, but
salvaging anemone is futile


only a week late, but oh well, thought I'd post it anyway.

Funeral for a Friend

Funeral for a Friend

They cut away at her
attempting to starve the demon
possessing her bones
They force her to run
using all remaining strength
to a chapel door
An alter candle burns out
the ascending medicated confusion
wafts and dissipates as
the door closes
Where was I?
Puking in the ditch
back on Zion Road

Diligence can’t prevent
the birth of guilt at death
Intercourse - an awkward exchange
of secret emotions in this pew
I don’t belong here
They judge me unfit
Disfellowship me

Dream of the Gifted

Dream of the Gifted

long hair thick with power
a genetic gift
voice written with
celestial notes
underscored with chords of callow haughtiness

small stature belies her strength
delicate child climbs
ancestral monument
ancient stage carved with her heritage
searching through faces of history for
the source of mystery and power

suspended center stage
long sharp spear
once grasped, androgynous dancer
appears, amusing and entertaining until
self-indulgent curiosity pierces its human neck
rabbit face distraught
turns ominously toward her
“What have you done, child?”

daylight obscured
nature’s balance blackened
dance ends in death
severing lyrics from melody
darkened stage
keeps performing on its own
haunted, materializing
over abundance of food for her family

a score of negligent indulgence
is written
for her repertoire


I submitted the first draft of this poem to The Critique.
Dallas, an editor, offered many helpful suggestions that you can read if you follow the first link. Below is the first draft. Let me know what you think.

Gifted

youthful hair thick with power
and a voice written
with celestial notes
underscored with chords of callow
haughtiness
her tiny frame climbs
an ancestral monument
an ancient stage carved with her heritage
searching through faces of history
for the source of mystery and power

suspended center stage
a long sharp spear
once grasped, the androgynous dancer
appears… amusing and entertaining
until self-indulgent curiosity
pierces it’s neck
it’s rabbit face distraught
turns ominously toward her
“What have you done, child?”

blackened balance
ends the dance in death
severing lyrics from melody
the darkened stage
keeps performing though,
materializing
an over abundance of food
for her family

a score of negligent indulgence
is written for her
repertoire