Dreams

Dreams are weird things. They come from this strange land inside our brains where all the parts of our life swim together in one big pool. Work, social, family, and all the other parts of our lives mingle with one another without regard to the usual compartments we set up to keep these things separate. I tend not to tell people my dreams anymore because they tend to look at me like I have 3 heads or something. I do need to start writing them down though. They'd make some good inspiration for poetry. For example...last night's dream...

My grandma brings me something (what it is is a mystery) at work that I need to fax. She looks more elderly and fragile than usual. I help her walk to this big office center we don't really have at work, a really nice one with 2 fax machines. I am bummed because the repair man is working on the nice one and I have to use the older one. My grandma does not remember the number she needs to fax to, but for some reason one of my clients, a man with Autism, holds the key. While I am trying to get the number from him another client is talking, someone is paging over the intercom and another staff person is telling the client I'm getting the number from to be quiet so she can hear the page. I answer the page and it is another staff person freaking out. She says, "Is it true?" I ask, "Is what true?" She says there is a news report out about toxic shock syndrome and because of this new information our company is forbidding all staff persons from using tampons. I assure her it is a rumor and the dream ends.

Weird, huh?

Why do I write?

People don't understand it. My drive, desire, passion to write. Not just words on a page, no, it's not that simple. It is who I am. Sometimes I think it is a curse to be creative. I buried this part of me for years and only let it out again last fall. I was happy on the surface, but down deep it felt like a part of me had died. So here I am again. Writing. Only this time the addiction is much worse. I carry paper and pen with me wherever I go. Books about my craft are a part of every ensemble. They are hidden in my desk drawers at work. I twitch thinking about the next time I can get one out. Every walk, interaction, everything I do or see is potential inspiration for my next work. So the answer is...I write because I HAVE to, because if I don't I will burst.

I Am

The color blue, in the shape of a spiral. A crashing
wave against a bright summer sky.

The number eight, artistic yet stable. I won’t
tip no matter what side you stand me on.

A cat, I curl up beside you and purr,
back arches with your hand's stroke.

A maple, I provide inconspicuous shade, but
occasionally show bright red plumage.

The moon overhead when you sleep outside
and the dew on your face when you wake.

Afraid of nothing and everything, exploring
unknown things and not reaching.

A collector of images and words. I keep them
in a treasure box behind my eyes, a pen my only key.