Tuesday, December 18, 2018

Dreams

I don't generally remember my dreams, but lately I've been having a spate of nocturnal mental movies that stick around well after wakefulness.  Not only am I able to remember the dreams, but I remember - and to an extent, I feel - the emotions I felt in the dreamworld as well.  It's an odd sensation, to say the least... but then, dreams are odd things.  Not much makes sense in them, though in the dreamstate, all seems perfectly normal and rational.

I'd like to think that dreams are something more than just the randomly-firing neurons processing daily events and thoughts, storing them away for later... part of me would love it if dreams were a way of reaching out into some great, collective unconscious, making contact, if fleetingly, with fellow dreamers.  Sharing in their journeys, as it were.  It would be fascinating to discover that all through the night, our dream selves are free to wander in and out of scenarios rising out of shared thoughts, desires, memories.  It would certainly explain some of the more distressing dreams I've had - and part of me would like to think that those upsetting scenes and encounters weren't my doing at all, but were instead the product of someone else's mind.

In the same way, I'd love to believe that the friendships I've made in dreams lingered in more than just my own mind... that somewhere out there, another person is mulling over a particularly pleasant dream he had, and wondering who and where that other player - me - came from, and if I'm just a figment of his own imagination.  I can't really make myself believe this, of course... I am, at my core, too rational for that.  But it would be nice, nevertheless.

Tuesday, March 20, 2018

Spring Has Sprung... Sort of.

It's a gray day outside my window, gray and brown just like it's been since the snow started to melt.  "Started" is the operative word here; up on the hilltop where we live, there's still plenty of snow about, particularly in the shaded areas.  And, according to the weatherfolks on TV, there's more to come tomorrow: six to twelve inches of the white stuff.

So why do I feel so light and hopeful, on this vernal equinox?  Is it because I feel somehow balanced, on this day when light and dark are equally shared out between day and night?  That probably has a good bit to do with it, since I'm not great friends with the dark of winter.

But there's more to it than that.  Even without the first peek of crocuses or the new-green of spring buds and shoots, I know that winter is on its last lap.  Snow tomorrow be darned, it is SPRING again - and pretty soon that will mean warmer temperatures to go with the longer days, and afternoon trips to the dog park with Ariel, and walks and bike rides with the family.  The semi-voluntary confinement of winter will let us all loose on probation again, to stretch ourselves out to the sunshine and the smell of fresh grass.

It's funny how an arbitrary label on a date can affect one's mood for the better.  Would most of us really notice the equinox, if it wasn't also called the first day of spring?  The equinox is set; the planet tilts and light pulses from our nearest star, resulting in twelve hours of light and twelve of dark.  We call it the first day of spring, this vernal equinox, though in many locations there won't be much spring weather or flora to be had for some time yet.  But the very word "spring" is a mood enhancer, bringing to mind all manner of good things, from flowers and puffy white clouds to baby animals and digging in the garden.  Most seasons are two-faced, with things to love and hate about them in roughly equal measure, but spring seems to smile and brush off things like mud and lingering freezes and lets us welcome it with open arms.

Welcome, spring!

Saturday, February 17, 2018

Being the Human

Sometimes, it really sucks to be the human in a relationship.

My dog is dying.  There's nothing I can do for him except to keep him company and comfortable; the massive tumor on his shoulder could not be removed, and now has begun to go necrotic, rotting from the inside out.  The vet has bandaged it, but he's soaked through two sets of bandages and I feel horribly guilty - guilty that I didn't catch the tumor sooner, guilty that there wasn't anything I could do once the tumor was found and deemed inoperable due to anemia, guilty that I've decided to help him out of his pain on Monday, guilty that I wish I'd done it sooner.

Nevin, my good dog, knows none of this, of course.  He only knows what is now... the ebb and flow of pain, managed by pills that he's obliging enough to eat without being forced.  He doesn't seem to think of the past, of when he was happy and healthy; he doesn't seem to think of the future, or wonder what it will bring.  He just knows Now.

I am the human in this relationship.  The memories of Nevin in happier times belong to me to hold in trust; the knowledge of the future, when I take him for his last visit to the vet, is mine to hold as well, even though I don't want it.  I'm having trouble with the Now, seeing him lying and trembling on his dog bed or hiding under my bed and refusing to come out.  I can't help thinking that I should have insisted that we put him to sleep on Friday, despite my family's objections... my husband and son had a camp out to go to, and my sister-in-law wanted to have her chance to say goodbye, too.  In the Now, I want this to be over for him, without suffering, as much as I don't want him to go - want him to somehow defy the vet's diagnosis and heal.

I wish I wasn't the one in charge here, wish his fate wasn't in my hands.  I wish Nevin could make the decision for me, and pass quietly in my arms like my beloved Riley-dog did, in the sunshine of the back yard, not needing help from the vet.  But I am the human, and I am in charge.

Sometimes, it really sucks to be the human in the relationship.

Nevin, in happier days.

Wednesday, February 7, 2018

Words, Come Back!

My words have gone away.

Some people would call it writer's block, but that's not really what it is.  My brain is buzzing with story ideas.  I've got old ideas that are begging me to write them down, new ideas waiting to be born, stories that I drafted ages ago hoping that I'll dust them off and breath some new life into them.

But the words aren't there.

I spent an hour in my drafts file, tweaking a phrase here, a sentence there.  Nothing struck me as ready to be sent out into the world, but I couldn't manage to work up any enthusiasm for improving them.

I spent another thirty minutes staring at a blank document, typing out a few lines and then deleting them, starting and aborting new stories before they could ever make it to revision phase.  Nothing I wrote sounded right, felt right.  Nothing was up to what I consider my usual caliber. 

Of course, at this rate, my usual caliber is getting to be... nothing.  I haven't written anything new in ages.  Even this blog is gathering a pathetic layer of cyber-dust.

I don't know where my words go, in these long spaces between productive writing periods.  I don't know how to get them back.  I've read the advice, most of which boils down to "muscle through it."  Write something, even if it's garbage.  Write anything, just to keep the inner gears cranking.  Write from a prompt, keep a journal, compose reams of bad poetry.  Just write. 

There was a time when I was an avid writer of fan fiction, which served nicely to get me over the dry spells. but lately even that has deserted me; my fandoms are dead, and I haven't found the passion for any new ones.

I don't even have a writer's circle to call upon, to help me through these desolation periods.  No other members of the SCBWI live near me, and the one group I tried to join up with met at a most inconvenient time for someone who needs to hold down a day job.  I didn't stay long enough to form any lasting friendships, and so far I haven't mustered the courage to form a group of my own... that would put me in a position of quasi-authority, and I don't want to be the leader.

And so I sit, and I stew, and I send out a plea into the ether... Words, come back!  Come home!  So much of my self-image, my idea of who I am, is tied up in my identity as a writer that I don't really know who I am without my words.

Sigh.

Words, come back!  I miss you!