Dream: "If you can imagine to dream, you can imagine to write..."

I had a dream last night. My friend says that it sounds a lot like Inception and if I ever watch it, I'll feel like one of the victims. It was like my brain was trying to give me a peptalk, like my brain does want to write.

I was in this room with this person (in the room she was a girl, but later on it was a guy, and then a girl again, so I just say "they" usually) and they wanted me to climb this bookshelf. I tried several times, but all of the books were perched on only half an inch (the shelf was only half an inch wide) so when I would try to grab, several books were in danger of falling off. I told the person that I couldn't get up it and they said it was okay, we'd find another way to get in there. I didn't know where "there" was, but I went with it.

Then I was outside at a gas station and walked up to the person (now a guy) who was filling his motorcycle with gas. He finished and went in to pay, telling me to get on the bike. I did and then he got on behind me, wanting me to drive. I was nervous because I'd only briefly driven once before, but onward we went. The paved street turned into a dirt path and went into the woods. I really didn't know how to navigate now, debating between big rocks like a Maine hiking trail or a narrow dirt path, ended up going with the path. The guy kept saying, "See? This is a dream, if you can imagine to dream, you can imagine to write." We kept going and the path kept getting harder, so I was going slower and slower. Finally we reached a drop-off, and luckily I could stop in time because we were going slow enough. He said, "Okay, we have to get in there."

We got off of the bike and slowly slid down the cliff and he said again, "If you can imagine to dream, you can imagine to write," and we landed in this little doctor's office type room. One after another these doctors kept coming in talking about how they were going insane and the person (now the girl) would lean over and say again and again, "See? This is a dream, if you can imagine to dream, you can imagine to write."

"Beach Ride"

“Let’s ride to the beach!” I said, one foot touching the ground and the other poised on my bike pedal ready to take off.

“Which one?” Dad asked.

“We haven’t gone to Headlands for a little while,” Mom said. 

And off we went. Usually it wouldn’t be safe to have a conversation in the middle of a street, but ours was different. The strip of pavement serviced only two houses, first our neighbor’s yellow sided one and then ours with darkly stained wood, before dead-ending into the woods. The water line was aimed up in the air after our driveway creating a fountain which would coat the branches of a nearby pine tree in ice come winter. 

We turned right, onto Jordan, passing the old baseball fields. They hadn’t been used for baseball for about twenty years. Now they were the grassy meadow home of a herd of approximately forty deer. As we rounded the curve–proclaimed by black arrows on reflective yellow signs–the field turned into an old pine tree farm. The precise rows occasionally sullied by one of the sixty foot giants crashing down to their grave. 

The pine trees gave way to the wet marshland that surrounds our little island of sorts, tall reeds reaching up and bushy cattails swaying in the breeze. Most people didn’t think of Headlands as an island, but there were two ways to get to it and both required you go over a bridge. It just wasn’t as obvious because of the surrounding marsh which just looks like four foot high grass. Every few years some stupid high schoolers will catch the marsh on fire. The fire spreads with incredible speed through the dry tops of the reeds, sending up huge clouds of black smoke. But then it just grows back.

We slowed our bikes to turn right again. Headlands Road used to go all the way along the shoreline with grand houses overlooking Lake Erie, but then the houses on one side started falling into the lake and soon several sections of the road followed, leaving only a fragmented remnant of itself. I started testing my brakes, just to be sure they wouldn’t fail me. We were about to go down the hill and I didn’t like losing control of my bike and crashing, which had already happened a few times. 

Right next to the road was the sledding hill which would become littered with children in winter but was currently serving as the hangout of several pairs of Canadian geese and their growing goslings. My parents flew past me, peddling on the downhill, racing to the entrance. I glided at my more leisurely pace, swooping around the curve and onto the bridge over Shipman’s Pond. A couple of boys sat on the edge fishing and a man and his wife paddled further out in kayaks. 

Rounding the second curve, the beach entrance came into view. The highway literally dead-ended into the beach entrance so I was careful to check for absent-minded drivers flying past the stop sign. Swerving past a family of ducks waddling from one stream to another, I finally caught back up with my parents. We wound our way through the parking lot, being careful to avoid the sandy patches before stopping for our final reward–the rocky pier stretched out and was finally crowned by the white lighthouse with red roof. The sunset spread across the sky, reflecting in the unusually calm water. A hush fell on the beachgoers as the flaming ball dipped to it’s final farewell.

Tree Thoughts

I've been thinking lately. About trees, careers, dreams, growth.

We have different stages of life. That is good, but stagnating is bad. It's the people who seem frozen in one stage that concern me. I have a friend who has had several different careers. Every six to eight years he would switch to something fairly different. From engineering to sales to being a triathlon race director to being a lifeguard to being a paramedic to being an account manager. That is the kind of life I want to live.  That is the kind of life that it seems you would look back on and feel the least amount of regret.

I love climbing trees, but there is one here at school that just is leagues above the rest. It is my absolute favorite one to climb anywhere. From the outside it is a perfect "tree" shape, a rounded out triangle. From the inside it is a maze of intertangled branches forming almost a spiral staircase. As soon as you know which branches to duck under and which ones to climb over, you start to see all the possibilities. There are branches that are perfect for looping you arm around and taking naps, or standing, reading, sitting, lying down, and the list goes on. The leaves are all on the outside, creating a green dome around you and the branches cradling you sway as the wind rustles through them, sending down a swirl of little green helicopter seed pods. These create a carpet at the base of the tree, a perfect nursery shaded from the sun's fierce glow where inch high seedlings begin to unfurl.

I want to write. But (as you may notice from looking at the blog archive dates on the side) as soon as the semester’s class let out and I stopped getting assignments to write, my mind has been functioning as a black hole, sucking away any idea fragments that slide past and funneling them into far away oblivion. That’s not good. It really doesn’t bode well for my dreams of writing. Why can’t I just be inspired enough to write on my own? I also feel that I can’t write anything good on purpose (even when I can get words onto paper). If there is anything good, it’s a complete accident. I’m walking into a major that will definitely stretch me and teach me a bunch of things that I need to learn and that’s great, but also very daunting.

I have this problem. I think it comes with being an extreme dreamer. I’ve also heard that it is related to my personality (INFP creating the acronym I Never Find Perfection... hmmm...). Whatever the case, I can be extremely passionate about something, latch on to it and pursue it completely, but then once I’ve started getting into it, I get discouraged and lose interest in it, finding continuing on that track to be nearly impossible. Tie that with being incredibly future minded and you get a mess. I really want to major in English–I promise. Really. But right now I’m taking a bible class, moping about not having any writing ideas, drawing out completely useless floorplans, and trying to sort through future plans. I’d like to get my MFA in creative writing (haven’t taken any classes as an English major yet) but I’d also like to get my Master’s of Divinity and become a chaplain at a children’s hospital. That could be my steady job so I could write, too. But my day job was going to be being a college prof. Why did I want to do that again? And why a chaplain? Right now I’m about the last one of my friends that I would go to for advice or counsel or comfort, etc. (Yeah that makes sense, doesn’t it? I detach myself from myself and wonder among my friends and decide to sit down and have a conversation with myself... no, just kidding.) Or I could move to England. Or do all of it, piece by piece. But what first? Oh whatever. Conclusions are elusive and currently irrelevant. Why can’t I just focus? Like on finishing writing the paper that’s due next week? ...

Looking up at the dome of the leafy cathedral

Creative Writing Manifesto

Creative Writing Manifesto

I am a writer. I sit at the keyboard and words flow out from my fingertips, racing each other, vying for a place on the page. 

I struggle with consistency, mute until the deadline, then rushing to capture the torrent in writing. This usually happens late at night or mid-morning. 

I am paralyzed by bright, sterile places. My mind goes blank and the words freeze up in my head and on the page. Instead, I long to be in touch with nature or withdraw into the dark. 

I need human noise to be quiet. Then words can flow into that silence and stories make sense again. Sometimes I loop The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe soundtrack. The haunting yet hopeful melodies unlock my mind as well.

I want to make a habit of getting up earlier and writing, making it a top priority. I know I need to practice writing regularly so it becomes more and more natural.

I use writing as a healing catharsis from depression, a release from frustrating circumstances, forcing me to reach deeper and persevere through. If I’m upset, I will be agitated and restless until I can sort through my jumble of thoughts on a page.

I love stories. I am intrigued by the idea of character development, that a character could begin to do and say things that I didn’t tell them to do or say. That thought thrills me.

I realize that there is a contract between the reader and me, but I also hold a contract with myself. If I’m not interested by what I’m writing, I find it extremely difficult to continue.

I jot down ideas as I read, things that I find interesting or springboards that inspire me to write. I also make up stories about people as I pass them on the sidewalk, recording unusual snippets of their conversations.

I appreciate the empathy that writing brings. In understanding a character that you wouldn’t necessarily agree with, you can then be more compassionate in reaching out to other people you meet who are similar to that character.

I am not a writer because I have published books. I am a writer because I write.

Car Craziness

So my van wouldn't start for 20 minutes when I was supposed to leave for school- no turning over, nothing, just not starting. My dad has been working on it all weekend and charged the battery today, it shouldn't be dead. We call him on his way to work. Looks like the only chance is to push the van to be even with Mom's van. 


My mom and I go out to the driveway and start to push it but it doesn't budge. "Okay," I say, "we have to do this together. One, two, three." We push and it rolls. Called Dad back for instructions on how to jump it. "Well be sure you're completely dry." I look up at the downpour all around me, rain from my hood cascading onto my nose, and the down into the inch deep puddle coating our driveway and the stream taking over the yard. "I don't think that's going to work well, Dad." "Well get a towel and try to dry your hands as best you can." I duck back inside, grabbing the nearby dog towel and try to dry my hands but as soon as I move the water from my sleeves applies another generous coating to them. As I lean over the battery, drops bounce from my hood and onto the battery so Mom holds the towel from the hood of the car to over my head. I obsessively dry and redry my hands. 


"This is the dangerous part," comes Dad's staticy voice over the phone. "Only touch the insulated handle." After much cajoling, the clamps decide to remain on the temperamental metal. "Now start your van." The vans are parked too close together so I slide into my passenger side and reach the key over to the ignition, but it won't turn. I slide to the drivers seat and try again but with no better luck. "What do I do if the key won't turn in the ignition?" I ask. Dad immediately responds, "Is it the right key?" I look at the incorrect engraved symbol and reach into my pocket for the appropriate one. The van starts right up.


My mom thinks that the alternator is draining the battery but tells me if I just keep it running, I should hopefully be okay. She adds that I might lose my headlights partway there and if I do I'll have to pull over and get it towed.


Picked up Cora with no problem. Two hours to go in our trip and the battery light comes on. Keep hoping it will get there okay, check headlights on passing cars bumpers to make sure they're still on. 


Drive into Cedarville and almost park in a handicap space but remember the last time the police officer yelled at me for doing so. "It's okay," Cora says. "We don't have that much stuff, we can carry it." We drive around back instead and go to back into a space and Cora says, "Wouldn't it be funny if your power quit now?" Boom. Nothing. I quick stepped on the brake before we rolled down hill and turned to her saying, "You mean like that?" So with the help of a passerby we pushed the van the rest of the way into the space. It's a little crooked, but hey! :) We made it! :)

"Marywood"

When I first came to Marywood, the music camp I wasn’t sure if I’d like it. Then I saw where I’d be staying: in the four-car garage of an old mansion, built in the early nineteen hundreds. It was every sixth grade boy’s dream! The garage door wasn’t used anymore and the inside now was set up with bunk beds, but still, it was really cool! The counselor, John, was my french horn teacher for the next two weeks. His quarters were in the hallway between us and the bathroom and were as generously spacious as what a Navy crewman might hope for at sea. One of the nights, John told us about how he got mugged downtown and then chased down the mugger, pleading for his horn back. He explained how that was the way he made a living and talked about going from paycheck to paycheck until the guy finally agreed to give the horn back in exchange for a watch and a $30 cash card!

Now it was the Sunday afternoon of the final performance and all 40 of us were very excited and kind of nervous. Mom and Dad had come and taken me out for lunch. I just needed to warm up before the concert. Walking back into the garage, I didn’t notice anything out of place. I grabbed my horn from my bunk bed and tried to toot a few notes, but it wasn’t playing well, at all. “John?” I called, heading into the hallway, “am I doing something wrong? I can’t play my part.”

“Let me take a look, try playing again.” I blew into the mouthpiece but the rich ringing tone that should have followed was alarmingly absent. “Whoa,” he said, looking closer. “Let me see that a second.” I held the horn out to him. “What did you do to your bell?”

“My bell? Nothing, it was just laying on my bed, why?” I bent to look over his shoulder and realized that where before the bell had just had a bunch of dents in it, now the metal was quite crunched in.

“These braces are broken, too,” he said, twisting the horn back and forth a little to show me how the horn was moving when it should have been perfectly solid and still. “We’ve got to try to do something to fix this before the concert! Help me look for some tape or something.”

We started searching through our own stuff and the camp miscellaneous drawer. “Here’s some scotch tape,” I called.

“Looks like that’s going to be about the best we can do for now,” he said coming back around the corner. “Let’s see how it will work.” After trying to tape it back together, he handed it to me. “Try playing something.” I started playing my second horn part for one of the pieces that would be on the concert. It didn’t sound good, but it was a lot better than before the tape.

What neither of us counted on however, was how scotch tape would react with water. Not to long into the concert, the tape was rendered fairly useless by the moisture from my breath and the sound reverted back to the gurgling air noise.

After the concert, the camp director apologized profusely to my parents, explaining how the kids in the juvenile delinquent home across the street made a practice of sneaking over to Marywood once a summer and doing some act of vandalism. “Unfortunately,” she said, “it would appear that Chris’s horn was this year’s victim.”
    My parents sent it out right away to be repaired. When we went to pick it up, the repairman turned to me and asked, “So, have you been missing a pencil?”

“No, I don’t think so,” I answered. 

With a laugh he pulled a curved pencil out from his desk, handing it to me. “I found this jammed three-quarters of a turn from the bell! I have no idea how it got up that far but your horn should play a lot better now!”

The next day I headed in for my regular horn lesson. The perfectly smooth bell felt foreign to me in memory of it’s previously dented existence. 

“Alright,” my teacher said. “Play me the scale you’ve been working on.” I tried, but wasn’t able to play in tune at all. “What happened to your playing?!” While I explained the events of the past two weeks as best I could, he leaned back in his chair, scowling. There was a long pause and he finally said, “Your parents have got to get you a new horn!” 

"Misty"

The four year old girl ran towards the looming shelves of toys, roughly pulling a gray wolf with yellow eyes down and slamming it along the floor in harsh galloping motion like waves pounding a jetty. “Gabriella-Nicole! Time to go. Come take Mommy’s hand and we’ll get some ice cream!” The girl responded to the sing-songy voice coming from the other end of the Bar Harbor, Maine tourist shop and I watched with horror as she violently threw the wolf pup across the room and ran the other way. 

Quietly stepping out from my position of relative safety by the wall, I skirted around little tables with puzzles and beads towards the still figure. The pup had bounced off the shelf and was laying in a rather painful looking position on the floor. “Are you okay?” I whispered, kneeling down to assess the damage. She seemed fine. I scooped her up and petted her reassuringly before carefully placing her on the shelf. 

My dad had said I could get one of the wolf pups, now I just had to choose. The options can be overwhelming when you’re six. There were wolves with blue eyes, yellow eyes, green eyes, and brown eyes and some were sitting, some laying down, and some with looser legs so if you held them off of the ground, it looked like they were standing. We had come into the store earlier–before I had gotten permission to buy one–and I had decided that I would probably get one with blue eyes in the seated position. As I looked at them now though, I was struck by how similar those ones were. They seemed lifeless and, well, stuffed! I turned back to the recovering pup I had just put back on the shelf. I hadn’t been planning on getting one with yellow eyes. Then a terrifying thought struck me. What if Gabriella-Nicole came back? What if she tried to hurt the one with yellow eyes again? 

I looked again at the blue eyes pups, all sitting in uniform rows, wave after wave staring past me with a blank expression, then back at the one with yellow eyes and she looked back. Her head was cocked at me as if to gently inquire. I lifted her from the shelf once more, cradling her in my arms as I walked back to where my dad was looking at postcards of whales and lobsters near the counter. 

“Find one, Joy?”

“Yes.”

“What will you call it?”

I looked down at the soft gray figure in my arms, contemplating for a second before answering, “Her name is Misty.”

When they rung up the order, they rolled Misty in tissue paper and placed her in a white paper bag. As we walked towards the door, I said, “Hold on a second,” and crouched down next to the bag, easing Misty out of the tightly wrapped tissue paper and crumpling it up so she could perch on it. When her head was poking out of the bag to my satisfaction, we continued down the street in the salty air.

***

That was how Misty and I met. Since then she has accompanied me on innumerable trips, staying in hotel rooms, at camp, sleepovers, and relative’s houses and being a faithful comforter through tears or after one of my frequent nightmares. We were separated by an evil force called a pre-med major and a silly notion on my part that such majors didn’t have such close friends as Misty accompany them. Now that has been corrected and Misty once again occupies her rightful place on my bed.