Dreams #8, 9

Two nights ago, I dreamed of multicolored mythical sea creatures flying out of the ocean and chasing me - and then that I was dating RDJ and set him up (for work) with Elizabeth Reaser because I thought she would be "a good romantic foil" for him, so I watched him guide her through weird acting exercises that looked a lot like him making funny faces and weird noises and seeing how she would respond. Last night, I had one of my lovely Peter Bishop dreams. *sigh* I hate waking up. .

Picture This

For years, I've had this picture in my head. It's called "The Romantic Life of the Writer". I see myself sitting in a large room with hardwood floors. The western wall is all windows, overlooking the ocean. The north wall is bookcases and the entertainment center. Pretty and esoteric music floats through the air. The sun is shining, and cartoon birds circle my head.

As it turns out, being a paid writer looks nothing like that. There's an apartment with hardwood floors, but the windows look out on parking lots, a crack house or two and a McDonald's in the distance. I don't sit at the table - the chairs aren't comfortable enough. I lounge on the couch, laptop on my lap, foot pressed up against William's belly for warmth. None of these things are bad things, they're just not like I pictured them.

I thought I would feel different. Self assured. Giddy. Intellectual. I thought I could rest easy. Instead, things are pretty much the same. I still worry about the same things. I'm still (for the time being, at least) having trouble making ends meet. Thankfully, I'm still a dreamer. I close my eyes and I can still see the ocean. I can still see him, whoever he is. I can still hear the music, even if my fingers cannot yet play it.

So for tonight, I'll watch Penelope for the millionth time. I'll enjoy that amazing kiss and try not to think about spending the next two days at my day job because if I do, I'll have to break out the Xanax.

Watched: Penelope, August Rush

Dream # 7

John Cusack dropped down from the sky into this industrial room that was very dark and full of pipes and metal grating.

I was competing with Addison and somebody else to go to the White Sox game with him. I answered his questions right and won.

He's very upset about a dead girl. I explained to him how he tried to save her and it wasn't his fault. He looks at me and says I'm the one to be his next apprentice.

We go down this marble slide thing into the underground lair. We're in another time or another dimension. He explains who we're fighting and why. I'm upset at how long I'll be gone.

Mom's there. I explain what's going on to her. She wants to know that he and I will be together and that we'll be ok. He wasn't going to do it then but he drops down on one knee to propose and gives me a small round crystal earring with a sharpened end and puts it through my ear.

I'm crying hysterically, saying goodbye to mom. I tell her that I'll get back as soon as possible and I'll try to find a way to visit even though he said no. I cry and tell her that she has to be alive when I get back.

Mom and B. are pushed through the wormhole slide thing. The spirits escape. We try to get them back in. We put a penny in each of the corners of the room to contain the spirits. I get them in and jump back in.

I find mom and B. in the bedroom with their dog, who immediately pees on the floor. B. looks older. Mom says they want to go back, it's been a long time and she's disconnected from me. B.'s pissed off that they were taken away from their home. I wake up before I find him, but I know he's around somewhere.

Dream #6

I don't remember any of the details, but I was trying to tell Chuck that I was in love with him and talking to his surprisingly supportive friends about whether or not he might break up with Sarah to be with me. Not surprisingly, I really didn't want to wake up.

Adrienne's Fifth

As anybody who has never read my blog would know, last year was without a doubt the worst of my life. So much fell by the wayside, unfortunate casualties of my medical and financial situations. More than anything else, I have missed feeling like me. I like me. I think I'm cool, wildly funny (just ask my mother), a quirky yet feminine sartorialist and passionate bibliophile. This is a blog post and not a personal ad, I swear. Among the things I have missed was my life as it was, filled with music. I've slaked my musical thirst with the notes of others and now, I am happy to say, it is once again my turn.

In my previous musical lifetime I dedicated a decade or so to wind instruments - clarinet and flute, to be specific. I was never truly at home with either of them, though. Today, with my carefully saved change jar money, I put a down payment on a very affordable first acoustic guitar. She is Luna, and she is beautiful. Her tonal qualities resonated with that strange bit of my mind that seems to crave not specific songs, but specific notes. For the first day in way too long, I am happy. I am excited. I am looking forward to something.

My life is still filled with frustration and fear, but at least I have this. Who knows, maybe next will come a paid writing gig. Dare to dream, eh?

Dream #5

I'm in a house with Sweets, Booth and Chuck. I wanted to talk to Booth about the fact that I was in love with Sweets and he didn't seem to return the feeling. I was wearing a Star Wars costume that was half Leia in the bikini and half whassit with the long tail things on top of its head. Booth was out running and wanted to shower when he got back so while he was doing I went upstairs. Chuck was playing cards with some friends and then was playing the guitar. I picked up mine and started playing counterpoint. I was really proud of myself that I could just pick it up as he was playing.

June 22-29, 2010

Dream #4

He was tall and skinny, with buzzed hair. He said he was tired of knowing every woman would say yes if he asked them out. He asked me out - I laughed and said no. He smiled and started to walk off - nothing is new to him, in terms of dating. He's used to women just throwing themselves at him, not trying to know anything about him, etc. As he walks off I shout after him "top three bands?" He turns around and smiles again, startled. He rattles off the names of three bands I don't know and leaves.

Flash to: I ask him what kind of music the bands are and he says heavy stuff, like metal. I snort, like you listen to that stuff? He looks at me, fully expecting me to say I don't listen to anything hard or fast. I said "Well, if I listen to something like that, I go for Rise Against or Queens of the Stone Age." He looks at me, smiling slightly again, happily surprised to be surprised.

Flash to: Getting ready for a date. I'm looking for a shirt to put under the black sheer Buffy shirt. He's around somewhere, and I'm at ease.

Flash to: I'm lying on my stomach and he's tracing lines up and down my back. He says he loves it that we can do something like this and not just jump into bed. He's used to that, women just jumping him and not wanting intimacy from him.

The Needle in the Haystack

I've been thinking about God a lot lately, or at least the concept of God. Having been surrounded by the religiously apathetic and the anti-religious for the entirety of my life, I've found it difficult to differentiate between my viewpoints and those with which I have been surrounded. Those who know me might be surprised to learn that I have actually spent a considerable amount of time over the years attempting to find my own beliefs amidst the others - the proverbial needle in the haystack, if you will.

I've always felt something more than myself was out there. For the most part, I've thought of it simply as life. The energy of an infinite number of living creatures that, together, can make some amazing shit happen. I've been convinced that God was/is something as likely as vampires and aliens. But I've always had a hard time being able (or willing) to call this energy God. For one thing, I didn't/don't think it really matters. Some call it God. Some call it Allah. Adonai, Jesus, Jehova...there are a million, and I don't want to offend too many people by leaving some out or being flat-out wrong about others.

The point is, if there is a God, than God is Adonai is Jesus is...you get the picture. That's what the whole one God thing means, right? Maybe the name for what I feel, Life, is just another one of those names. I don't think that God and science are incompatible. Creation and evolution. I don't (or rather, haven't) read the bible, but I love to learn. Like politics, religion is an area where ignorance serves nobody.

In the meantime, I'm going to stick to the things in which I believe with all of my heart: treat others as you would be treated - with love, compassion and respect. We are all equal, and we all deserve equal rights. Judge not, lest ye be judged. Gamers and geeks are awesome. Leave the gun, take the cannoli. Never go anywhere without your boomstick - they can be found in the sporting goods department. The force is with you. Screws fall out all the time - the world's an imperfect place. Rexy is sexy, but peacoats are better and Browncoats are the best. And above all, watch out - the fire swamp keeps you on your toes.

- Adrienne Cook

Dream # 3

I have dreams like this almost every night, but more and more they seem to slip away with the dawn. That said, here's last night's...

I went to a party at Zachary Levi's house. We were rockin' the old-school Mario on NES. He joins me for a dance and asks me if I want to stay. I tell him I don't understand Jesus. Some people come in, needing his help. He goes to help them and I stay for a while.

At some point I go back to school - I'm living in a dorm. Because I was out all night, which is against their rules, they have locked me out of my room and put William out into the hall. I picked him up and went to yell at the snooty sorority girl working the front desk. I made her take down my statement to the dean in triplicate. I finally got them to let me back into the room so I could gather up my things. I'm standing there, holding William, when he walks back into the room. He looks at me kindly, a sweet smile on his face and simply asks "how can I help?"

Cue to William meowing me awake after 6 hours of sleep. Couldn't let me enjoy that one some more, could you, cat?

The Other Me, The Other You

I sometimes wonder if we all have alternate versions of ourselves - if we're all really Superman or Wonderwoman masquerading as writers and architects. Then I stop and think to myself -maybe that's who the superheroes are. Writergirl. Architectboy. And my mind, the way it always is with its auto-movie-associations, flings to Michael Douglas calling out for the triumph of his own Wonderboy amidst a sea of naysayers.

I know, I'm rambling tonight. I lie awake and I think about the others who have gone before me, who move stridently down the yellow brick road or leap tall buildings in a single bound. I think about the hero I would become. Could become. Am becoming. In another life, I dreamed I could be an architect. It's easy for me, the visualization. The numbers of it on the other hand, are beyond me. Gaudi's curves, Corbusier's clean lines...the thought and the action, all in one breath.

What does writing have to do with architecture, you ask? Nothing. Everything. It's all creation, isn't it? And that is what I wish to give to the world. I wish to free each and every one of us to create. I can see it all in my head...the building so grand in scale but so light, so free. A puzzle so intricate, interlocking need and beauty. Space for the painters, the dancers, the violinist...If I had the head for it I would work out an algorithm of space and place and time - x feet in y location for z need. Music room. Painting studio. Gallery. Barre. All free and open for anybody with the heart for art. I believe in it enough to say that it is important. Art and books and knowledge and experience open us up to a world we may otherwise never have known. Where would I have been, had my grandparents not introduced me to musicals? Had my parents not introduced me to books?

I am thankful for the knowledge, for the gift of learning, for the gift of seeing what is possible in the world. I am thankful for those with the head for putting together the architectural puzzles and for making them somewhat comprehensible to the rest of us. One day, hopefully not too far away, I will make it happen. I will solve the puzzle. Writergirl to save the day!

Breathe

How will it be

to lie in the sky

without roof or door

and wind for an eye

- Mary Swenson, "Question"

Every so often, something happens that makes me realize my soul is so dependent upon this body. I believe, perhaps naively so, that if the soul is strong it will survive after death. How, I can only guess. I've pondered an existence floating around my loved ones as a ghost, finding myself in another body and another lifetime, even finding myself in my own version of heaven. Because how could heaven be heaven if it is the same for everybody?

When I was young I believed that when you die, you had to watch a video of your life and tell God whether or not you deserved to go to heaven. My plan at that point was to tell God I was unworthy and be let in due to my display of humility. As an adult, I believe in a power greater than myself, but I do not call it God. I call it life. I believe in the energy of an infinite number of souls, a universe of living things that may or may not be sentient. I believe that if the soul is strong enough, it will find a way to survive outside of this body. I believe to be a strong soul, the greatest thing you can do is to simply be yourself. I believe in sacrificing comfort for commitment to the vision you have for your life. I believe in sacrificing convenience for love. I believe in looking for work that you love rather than settling for a 9-5 job because it pays the bills. I believe in thought, in creativity, in a thirst for knowledge.

Are those things dependent upon this body breathing? Upon this heart beating, upon blood flowing through these veins? Am I still myself if my fingers cannot type, if my legs cannot move, if my eyes do not see? Am I still me if all this body can do is breathe?

Enough Said

Somebody Once Told Me, Part Two

A family member once told me that a person (meaning me) should be able to be happy regardless of the place in which they reside. The lesson I was supposed to take from this admonishment was that if I were better or stronger or logical, I would be just as happy in place A as in place B.

Forgive me, but seventeen years later I still say bullshit. Anybody with an ounce of creativity can and will tell you that every place has a different feel to it. Anybody who would tell you that Manhattan has the same feel as Seattle is blind. Watchung Reservation, for all that I loved it, pales in comparison to the woods of the northwest. The air is different. The colors are different. Life is different. As every person is different, so every person fits better with some places than with others. I know where I am miserable, where I am content, and where I belong.

As a writer, I find it nearly impossible to be creative here. If I were more new age, I would say that this place feels as if it is leeching the color from my aura. As it is, I can only say that living here, I feel as if my soul is being sucked dry. How sad it is that a person could be stuck somewhere like that, a glowing orb stuck in an iron box.

So to all of my artistic compatriots, I wish you air that frees your breath and earth that moves your soul.

Perchance to Dream

A friend once told me that I was lucky I have a dream, something to which I can aspire. It's a heady thing, desire. A lifestyle, a person, a career...it is all too easy to waste a lifetime dreaming of things that may never be. So how do you know when a dream is just that or when it's something worth pursuing?

My therapist tells me that what I dream is worth the longing, the pain that comes with wanting something I do not have. She's right, it is. Writing is more than something I like to do. It's all I've ever wanted. It's a part of who I am. I live inside of my stories - at times, to my detriment. It would be impossible to create characters who truly live without doing so. I don't know if other writers write like this, but for me the two are irrevocably intertwined. I don't have an idea and write it. I see my stories in my head and I try to find the words to describe what I've seen.

I think of a writer as the introvert to an actor's extrovert. Opposites of the same coin. We both put ourselves into other people, other stories. As a writer, I create stories and place them out in the world. I hope they will survive. I hope that somebody will find them, love them and nurture them. A great actor brings his/her character to life. It feels a little like looking for your other half - looking for the person who will take the character I've created and bring him to life. Maybe it's a little like love, this dream. As I look for my other half, my characters look for their other halves - the ones who will bring them to life on the screen.

Life would be so much easier without all of this desire but we're not just the sum of our experiences, we're the sum of our hopes and dreams as well. The things to which we aspire give us drive, make us alive - and aye, there's the rub.

Dream #2

He had lost the lower half of his arm in an accident. He was in a wheelchair and had trouble standing up. I told him that if anybody could do it, he could. Later, I asked him what we were. He said that now I was his friend, but I was going to be his girlfriend.

Epistolary Ghost

I have always loved letters. For years, my friends and I wrote letters to each other. I have made a study of love letters. I have read hundreds of letters sent from one heart to another but I have never received a love letter myself. I've spent a lifetime waiting not only to be a receiver of love letters, but also a writer. I wrote my letters to a ghost, and I tried to give it shape. I tried to turn the mist into something solid, something my pen could reach out and touch.

Each night, my dreams take me from one love to another. As I sleep, I am the ghost. I pass from one world into the next but am never substantial enough to survive the dawn. Dreams do not create reality. The strength of a soul cannot lend solidity to a ghost.

Dream #1

I just woke up at 7am after falling asleep at 2am (watching Zombieland) with this dream:

I was at a camp of some sort. We all introduced ourselves. I mentioned wanting to be a writer and that I was working on a couple of novels and a screenplay. One girl jumped down and rather intensely asked me what my screenplay was about, because she was writing one, too. I wouldn't tell her the plot, only that it was called Eden. I went about being myself, playing in the rain and swimming in the middle of the night when I couldn't sleep. I wasn't hated (by most, at least), but I certainly wasn't popular.

I met a guy there - how he looked kept changing. He changed back and forth from the kinda cute dorky that I like to this sort of young homicide detective-in-training. We liked each other a lot right away, got to know each other. One night, when he was the dorky one, we kissed on his bed in his room.

The order of this next part I'm not sure of - two main things happened:

One, the group of us (minus the guy) were standing out by the pool and having a heated religious discussion. I spoke, and another guy verbally attacked me and called me a hypocrite because I had either said or given somebody something that had to do with George Washington and in his mind that meant I was acting in accordance with his religious views. I made my case quite effectively, and then the girl standing next to me (with whom I thought I was friendly) put her arm around my shoulder. Every time the counselor turned her head away, the girl moved her hand up to my neck and started choking me. I yelled for the counselor, but she never saw it so she didn't believe me. Finally, I was able to pull an exacto blade out of my pocket and cut her enough with it to make her yell and jerk back. The counselor saw the choke marks on my neck and was ashamed that she hadn't believed me.

Two, my guy was back in detective mode and told me that tonight (which was the night after we kissed) he got called on an assignment - his first chance to go out into the field. He seemed to think I was going to be upset and not believe him. I smiled and told him I was happy for him and I knew he was going to do a great job. I was in an office with the counselor and he was standing in the hallway. He asked the counselor to close her eyes for a moment. She said she would give him thirty seconds. He came in, put his hand on the back of my head and kissed me.

And now, hopefully I can get back to sleep, with the dream and The Dream Life of Rand McNally stuck in my head...

Answers

Four months ago, I asked a question. Another question followed, and another. There are always questions; the answers, it would appear, are a little more elusive.

Last year was indubitably the worst year of my life, filled with trauma after trauma. Trauma is a funny thing. And in the aftermath of trauma, people have a variety of reactions. We change. We shuffle about, try to reestablish our place in the world.

Each day, I search for a connection to myself in the things that surround me. One day I find myself with Ingrid Michaelson, another day I find myself a Muse. One day I am in Wicker Park, another day I am Serenity. One day I am fighting zombies, another day I am a vampire. I make choices. I make sacrifices. I sacrifice comfort and companionship for love - or at least, the hope of love. I sacrifice the safety of normalcy for acceptance of what I most love about myself - the ability to live completely in my mind, in the things that I see and then put onto paper.

Is this the dark path? The light? Does it matter? I don't know. Will I succeed? I don't know. Will I be happy? At times. Will I ever get one thing that I want? Yes. If nothing else, I will be myself. I will create worlds and characters and bring this strange and wonderful universe to life. If the only love I find is love for myself or the love I give my characters, it will be enough.

It has to be.

Question This

It’s human nature to question. We question everything – our environment, our lives, our thoughts – even the questions themselves. Why am I here? Is there a point to my life? Is it too late? Have I failed? Will I ever be happy? Will I ever succeed? Will I ever get one single thing that I want? The answers are elusive. They are fickle. They taunt us with promises of happiness. They promise peace, a respite from the confusion and pain. They offer us glimpses of contentment and then, like a glimpse of sunshine on a cloudy day, they are gone. How long can we go on, how long can we survive, without the answers? And if the answers we do find lead us down a darker path, what then?