Dream #14

I was playing video games in my house after having wrestled with a rather large copy machine that started to smell like it was burning. Somebody knocked at the door. I opened it, and Zachary Levi was there. We shook hands like there was nothing odd about somebody I'd never met (and him to boot) just showing up at my house out of the blue. He simply asked what I was doing and when I told him, he came in and we played video games together. Oh, and he thought it was cool we were both wearing cons.

The Wrong Side of Real

I totally woke up on the wrong side of the bed today - or futon, rather. My Nathan Fillion dream slipped away from me, and for the first few hours I was awake I was in that in-between state where I flipped back and forth from feeling whiny one minute to wanting somebody at whom I could yell the next.

I'm still feeling a bit groggy, but at least the other urges have passed. The SDA (Starbucks Drink Approximation) has helped a little. Still, it's one of those days where I'm not feeling the book. Despite the surprising amount of progress I've made in the last couple of weeks, I'm only at 73 pages and 22,806 words. That's about 25% of what the book's total length should be. I'm pretty confident I'll still reach my goal of finishing the very, very rough draft by my birthday, despite the fact that my sad little book will likely only be 100 pages - one third of what the final draft should be. The amount of work I have left to do before my first novel is ready to be sent out into the world is staggering.

The second and third/final drafts, I am guessing, will be substantially harder to write than the first. The first is easy. Get the plot down and make as much of it as you can decent writing. In the second, I'll have to more than double the word count. I'll be adding another eight or so full chapters to fill in the ones that, for expediency's sake, I skipped in the first round. I'll also have to bulk up my current chapters by between 7-10 pages per chapter. All of this will have to be done in a manner in which the new chapters meld with the old. I'll have to edit as I go and I suck at editing.

I really wish I'd been keeping a time sheet for my writing. Despite the fact that I woke up with the idea for the book in my head approximately three years ago, I'm guessing I've spent two months writing it full-time if I add up the hours. Let's say it will take approximately three months then for a first draft. Allowing for the difficulty level of the second draft (after which I'll be passing it around for constructive criticism), I'm not sure what goal to set for finishing that part. The end of this year seems too soon - it's only eight months after the first draft should be finished. Before I turn thirty-six on 4/15/2012? By the end of 2012? I work so much better with a deadline. Of course, all of this is dependent upon if/when I ever find gainful employment.

By the end of 2012 is the latest I'd like to get it done, so for now I think I'll set the goals as finishing the second draft by 4/14/2012 and the final book by 12/31/2012. If necessary because of work or other unforseen circumstances, I'll push the deadlines back as far as finishing the final book by 4/14/2013 so that at the very least, it will be finished while I'm still 36. God, this is nauseating. It's rather real now. I'm 90% sure that the SSP (super-secret project) will be done before the novel but only 3% sure that something will come of it. There's this - the blog that I intend to keep if/when I ever miraculously get published. More than both of those combined is the enormity of finishing a novel and sending it out into the world. I've wanted to be a writer for as long as I remember. I wrote my first novel when I was thirteen. If we go from there, that's twenty-three years of working towards a goal. Twenty-three friggin' years. That's a long-ass time. To fail after that - after twenty-three years of waiting for my dream to come true...Do you recover from that? Stephen King's first book was rejected. I'd like to think I would go on. That I wouldn't give up. But for now, eighty-six days from turning 35 and eighty-seven from being closer to forty than to thirty, all I can think of is how terrifying fighting for your dream is.

Wish me luck, ok?

Listening to:

Gramercy Arms, "Looking at the Sun"

Crooked Fingers, "Louisa's Bones"

Dreams #12, 13

I apologize if these dreams sound a bit garbled or incomplete - I woke up feeling incredibly dizzy and groggy both times.

The first:

I was working in a residence home for juveniles. We had these wire mesh cubbies in the front room for our things. This girl left a creepy note in mine saying she knew who I was and what I was doing and she was going to kick my ass. I was being bullied there - somehow I got out and was driving home but she'd taken my clothes so I got pulled over by the cops for driving sans clothing. The cops are acting very odd - they won't let me say a word or make a phone call even though I keep asking them if I can just tell them what happened. They give me this long scarf and have me wrap myself in it like a mummy to cover myself. They take me back to work. I'm sitting in the waiting room watching a dozen or so of the cops gathered around one cop car chatting happily like they solved some big crime and they're just superpsyched. They do one of those things where teams all huddle and put their hands on each others and goooo! break! team!

They come into the building and tell me that I'm a spy. I keep telling them that they're wrong and I have no idea what they're talking about. I think at some point they realize that I'm not lying and that somebody did something to me to suppress my memories. I say (after what seems an interminable amount of time being questioned) that I'll only cooperate if they let me have William with me and if I can talk to my mom on the phone on a regular basis. They say yes. They pry open my mouth. It feels like they're pulling out a tooth but what comes out is this rather large microchip thing - it's about an inch and a half wide and three inches or so long.

The rest of the dream kept fading out - flashes from event to event. I think they were keeping me drugged when they weren't having me doing things. At some point I admit that I had always wanted to be a spy but I was too fat and lacked the hand-eye coordination, couldn't think on my feet fast enough, etc. Chuck, Casey and Morgan are there along with a bunch of other teams. The teams of two are sparring. I guess at this point I've been there for a while because I finally believe them and I think if I start to fight I'll know how. I tell Chuck I want to fight, too. Morgan's all psyched because apparently they have me in a t-shirt and no underwear so I go to the drawer to find some and I take a pair out. Casey tells me those are the wrong ones and I look at them, but they look like the ones I always wore so I put them on - it turns out they're six sizes too big. Through all of the haze and drugs and whatever they've been doing to me I lost all of the weight and I'm in seriously great shape. I put the right ones on and go out and spar with Chuck and it's fun and I'm good.

The next thing I remember is finding out that somehow 100 years have passed and we're in the future. I find myself coming to in what looks like a circular room inside of a space ship. Chuck and Morgan are talking about how the future is cool because you can get real light sabers and not just those plastic toy ones. I join in and say how cool that is.

A little bit later I'm in another room and suddenly I slump to the floor. Chuck comes over. He's wearing a white t-shirt. He sits down and asks me what's wrong. I say that if 100 years have really passed then my mom is dead and I don't know how long she had to live without me and now I have to live without her. I start to cry. He talks to me in a low voice and comforts me and I forget what he's telling me but it seems like he's trying to convince me that it really is ok somehow.

The second:

I'm being kept somewhere - people are trying to sell me off to the highest bidder, but I'm not sure for what, only that when they're done with me they'll kill me. They keep giving me things to do - learn to play the piano (which Lester tries to teach me), find the perfect sexy but not trashy bikini, etc. The last one I think had something to do with food. I go into this room and a lot of the characters are there - from different shows, too, which is unusual for me. I say that I need somebody smart and pretty to help me and I call for Mark (Sloan). One of the other characters looks offended because I hadn't asked them and I assured him that I needed Mark for a reason and apologized. I think we were going to try to poison the people who were holding me because whatever Mark and I came up with involved a big box full of bags of cough drops - in the picture on the bags, the cough drops are this really gross shade of green and they have flies surrounding them like "we'll rot your cough away" and we were going to use them to do something to the food.

I know, it's a rather abrupt ending to that dream, but it's all I remember.

Nerd Love

Dream #11 - aka, More Sweets

I should preface this dream by three things; one, the leading characters in my dreams do tend to go in phases; two, this is the third (or fourth, I'm not sure) Sweets dream I've had in the last couple of weeks; three, I jotted this down bleary-eyed when I woke up in the middle of the night so the ordering might not be 100% accurate. That said, here we go:

I was working as the lunch manager in some sort of Sam's Club type of place with Booth and Sweets and a couple of other guys - I forget who. I must have been new (either at the store or at that position) because my badge was one of those paper temporary card things.

One of the girls who worked there was supposed to have sold this giant roast thing whole but she had cut it into slices and was going to get into big trouble. I was trying to help her figure out how long the meat would stay good so we could try to find some other way to sell it so she wouldn't get fired. I said that I knew somebody who was "really into tenderloin". The woman and I were cutting through this field that seemed to go on forever. She was a few steps ahead of me and I saw a dollar on the ground, but when I picked it up it turned out to be a few fives and a few dollars - yay dream.

I'm not sure where these next two parts fit into the dream - before the Giant Roast Tenderloin Caper of 2011 or after.

All of the guys were playing some sort of rpg - I asked them which one they were going to play and they took it to mean I was asking to join them. I went off on some tangent about how I used to play magic and vampire (which I did) and warcraft (which I didn't) and that some friends of mine had worked for white wolf and tsr but that it had been a while. I didn't actually want to play and I didn't end up playing, but I don't remember actually saying that in the dream.

Oh, and Casey also worked there. He was put on registers and he was getting frustrated because he couldn't figure out the keys. I went over and showed him how the shape the keys formed looked kind of like a gun. I asked him to tell me about the gun and how the gun would work and told him to picture the keys like parts of the gun. He gave me that grudgingly pleased grunt.

Now, Act Three, or what I like to call happy (but quintessentially weird) dream time.

I was upset about something and I was walking through the field again, alongside a dirt road and this time away from the store. A jeep slowly passes me and as it does, I see that Booth is driving and Sweets is in the passenger's seat. They slow down and then stop as they pass me. I thought I saw Sweets catch my eye so I turn around and start hurrying back towards the store. Sweets got out and ran over and caught me by the arm to ask me what was wrong. I was embarrassed because I assumed that Booth had told Sweets something like "duh, she's in love with you" or something like that.

Flash to: I'm back at the store, in the back which was mainly all empty except that the back wall was lined with four or five large spaces partitioned off - like separate rooms missing the front wall. Booth had made a mistake and I was trying to fix it. For some reason, this involved me doing something with bunson burners and glass pipettes. And since I'm so not a chemist I managed to catch the room on fire, so I went out the back door because I think Booth is there and I need to tell him "uh, help, the room's on fire" but Sweets is out there with his girlfriend who has just broken up with him and some older man that is somebody's father. I only see the girl from the side, but it looks like that April girl he dated before Daisy. I apologize profusely for bothering him and mumble something about the fire. The fatherly guy comes in and helps me get the fire under control while I try to explain that I'm not a drug addict and wasn't cooking meth.

Finally, Sweets comes in (alone) and I'm talking to him. He asks me how I'm adjusting. I tell him that I really like it there but I still have to find furniture and I don't really know where anything is. He says that he knows some places and asks me if I'd like him to show me around the city. I say yes, that would be great and he says how about we meet at this place at this time - it's outside but there's a tent over it so we can walk around and look at things. I'm all nervous but I say yes and the understanding seems to be that it's going to be a date or kind of a date but that at the very least, we like each other.

Lost Words #1

Twice a year, there is a massive book sale in Ithaca, NY. I go on the day when all of the books cost ten cents - I like to navigate the stacks and see what little treasures I can unearth. Last spring I found a postcard. On it was written something I found somewhat amazing, and I bought it. It cost a penny.

Last summer, I found a post-it in the parking garage across the street from my Starbucks. There was something written on it; the combination of content and handwriting struck me, and I picked it up. I saved it.

Last year (I don't remember when), I found two more of what I call lost words - one was a license plate and the other was a piece of graffiti that made me smile. I collect the words. I was hoping I would find them more easily, but so far I only have the four. I wanted to make a website for my writing projects - try to market myself, get some readers and possibly wiggle my way into getting paid for any of this. I bought the domain name - www.adriennecook.com is all mine. The problem is, I don't know anything about web design and I can't afford to hire somebody. I have a design in my head, and my lost words would fit in nicely.

In the meantime, I thought I would occasionally post the pictures here. If and when I ever do have actual content on my website, I will begin to transfer all of this over there. I hope you enjoy finding my lost words. I know I did.

The Pandora Posession

Perhaps I should say addiction. I recently discovered Pandora; the more I listen to it, the more fascinated by it I become. As I mentioned once before, I have often found myself craving particular notes as opposed to specific lyrics. What I'm learning from Pandora is a whole new vocabulary. I am a person who loves to learn and who loves music; I am also passionate and can be a bit...obsessive in my enthusiasm when I discover something new. Or rather, when I discover the why behind something old. Perhaps obsessive is the wrong word - a word that stems from an insecurity that says "this isn't normal" or "my, aren't you odd". When I make a discovery, I delve into it. I research it. I attempt to understand it because in understanding the pieces of my life I come to understand both myself and my relationship to the world.

Tonight I learned that I greatly prefer major to minor key tonality. I am attracted to acoustic sonority and vocal-centric aesthetics. I prefer acoustic instrumentation: guitar, piano and strings. I continue with my finger-stretching exercises and have moved on from staring stupidly at my guitar to some basic fingering exercises. I have filled up my plate rather full with writing to get paid, writing to finish the first draft of my book by my birthday, reading books, listening to music, teaching myself how to play guitar (attempting to teach is perhaps more accurate) and now becoming familiar with my heart's musical desires. At this rate it will take me years to gain any sort of proficiency playing my Luna, but it will be well worth the effort.

Listening to: Pandora - Indie Singer-Songwriter station

Favorite songs:

Ingrid Michaelson, "Maybe"

Kate Nash, "Merry Happy"

Jose Gonzalez, "Heartbeats"

Dream #10 (aka the longest dream ever)

I was in Copenhagen with Chuck, Sarah, Casey and Morgan. We were in a hotel suite; Chuck and I were in one of the bedrooms on the floor, propped up on a bunch of pillows and watching a movie. Sarah was puttering around, getting ready for the mission. Casey and Morgan were in the living room, doing some sort of mission-related stuff. Chuck reached over with one finger and stroked my face a couple of times; the tip of of his fingers just brushing the corner of my mouth. I was having trouble breathing - both because I was overcome with emotion that he was actually touching me and getting pissed off because he was still with Sarah. It was obvious throughout the dream that we had a strong connection and that Sarah had been taking him for granted.

I had to get out of there. I got up and ran out of the room. While I was getting to the elevators and running through the hotel to get the hell out of there, Chuck walked into the living room to face Morgan, who has a very disapproving look on his face. He says to Chuck, "What are you doing, man? Don't tell me you don't know she's totally in love with you. Or that something is definitely going on with the two of you. Look, I don't know what's going on with you and Sarah or why you seem to be ok with being taken for granted, but you need to do something about this before your life turns into some dark and twisted version of a John Hughes movie." Morgan looks out of the window and sees me emerge from the hotel, still running, and head off down the street. "She's out there alone, Chuck. And there's a pretty pissed off weapons dealer out there."

Chuck grab his shoes and starts to put them on. Sarah comes over with that exasperated "god, what is he doing - now I have to put a stop to this" look on her face. She says, "Chuck, you can't just go out there. We have a mission. She doesn't matter."

Chuck replies as he heads out the door, "We wouldn't have gotten this far without her. And she does matter. You should know that." He leaves, and runs after me.

I'm running through the streets, twisting my way through a maze of tightly packed shops. I run into an old used bookstore, where the old and jaded proprietor is glaring at the American tourists pawing the books and murmuring how quaint the store is. I look at the counter and see a box on top filled with thin white cotton gloves, much like a box of peds in a shoe store. I put on a pair and walk to a bookshelf marked Architecture. I run my fingers lightly down the spines as I read the titles, approaching the ancient texts with due reverence.

My back is turned to the door, so I don't see when Chuck catches up to me. He stands in the doorway, watching as the proprietor approaches me. The proprietor thanks me in Danish for being respectful of the books and asks with what he can assist me. I reply, in Danish, that my grandfather grew up in Copenhagen and used to tell me stories about the house in which he grew up. I explain where the house used to be, what the building used to look like. The proprietor smiles and tells me that the building is still intact, but it is now owned by a German businessman. I ask him if there is any record with details of the building or blueprints; I tell him that I would like to have a model of the home built for my grandfather's ninetieth birthday and would love to present him with as accurate a gift as possible. The proprietor sifts through some papers and books in the back, and emerges with some blueprints of the original building and the surrounding streets/buildings. He tells me with a chuckle that now I may build my grandfather a model of the whole neighborhood. I thank him and ask him what I owe for the blueprints. He grasps my hand and says that there will be no charge, it has been his pleasure conversing in Danish with someone so knowledgeable who obviously loves books and her family so much. I thank him again and turn to leave. I see Chuck, who follows me out the door.

Once we're out of site, Chuck pulls me into an alley. My back is to the wall of one of the buildings. He takes the blueprints out of my arms and looks at them. He smiles and says, "You were amazing in there."

I smile and say, "So I was right? This will help us find them?"

Chuck nods. "With these blueprints we can get in, get the weapons and get out. And if we're lucky, we can catch an arms dealer at the same time."

He takes my hand for a moment and gives me a thoughtful look. "And then we should talk. Ok?"

I nod, and I am hopeful.

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?