Dreams. Dreams. Dreams.

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Once upon a time, there was a woman, and she had dreams…

Dreams. Dreams. Dreams.

She loved to soak herself in them like the warmest, most perfect bath, ever drawn.

Dreams. Dreams. Dreams.

Wisps of them–the dreams–wafted off her much like morning dew on a warm summers morning. She loved every second of them. Every single moment of those dreams. They were her happiness.

Then, one day, she realized the world was changing around her. A society that once felt forever stagnate and motionless spun and turn like a possessed top. While she was still tethered to her dreams (dreams. dreams. dreams.) Their tails wrapped around the ball of life, a long, twisted bit of twine created a tangled ring of all her moments in time.

Of all those dreams…

Until she felt stuck.

The dreams that once felt as silky as honeysuckles on a humid night’s breeze transformed. Sweetness went sour. Silk became burlap.

You may think the spinning whipped and turned her around. The tether lassoed to her ankle, wrist, heart–pulled her from her origins, thrusting her into the world. They didn’t. She was a damsel tied to the railroad tracks–a locomotive barreling down on her.

She knew it was wrong. All of it, but she’d become too obsessed, confused, disoriented to begin to understand what was happening. Especially, now… without her:

Dreams.

Dreams.

Dreams.

But one day, a notion dawned upon her. A perfect ‘a-ha’ moment pushed her through the clouds of her mind. What she figured out was none of it is real.

The tether.

The spinning globe.

The disorientation.

They were all illusions conjured by the most wicked evil maker of them all–herself.

…dreams…dreams…dreams…

She’d become so concerned with the outside perception of her she’d neglected her truth. That neglect led to her forgetting who she was and accidentally distanced herself from those                                            dreams.

The moment expanded, growing like a bubble stuck to the tip of a child’s plastic wand. Rainbows and stripes of swirling color encased her. She was the nucleus. She was the yoke floating in the center of it all. And just outside the thin veil separating her from those awful thoughts and her truth–were those dreams.

(dreams. dreams. dreams.)

She knew, while she stared through the stained glass coloring her vision, life was what she decided it to be. She was the creator of her illusion and understood what she stared at the longest became her truth.

Her fingers uncoiled and the tethers released–completely.                                                      Her dreams. All of those…             Dreams. Dreams. Dreams.

Caught in an upward current, floating high above.                                                                                                    Each dream holding every desire she’d ever harbored–bobbing reminders of who, and what, she was.

She was herself. Perfect and true.

She was the right amount of everything because she could never be her or her or even him. And her dreams… all of those dreams! (dreams. dreams. dreams.) kept her afloat and moving forward–high above everything trying to hold her back. High above herself.

The End

 

What, you may ask, is the moral of the story? Simple. You are never too old to dream. Your dreams are valid. Just because someone else doesn’t understand your dreams will never and can never diminish your dreams. And even if your first had your dream many years ago doesn’t mean it’s not the right dream because dreams don’t have expiration dates–they only fade if we give up on them.

You are perfect just as you are.

Life in General

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painting by Alyssa Monks

Inspiration. When I first started writing I looked for it everywhere. Sometimes, I still set out on a quest, searching. The problem is I never know what I’m searching for. Not until I find it.

The older I get, the less I rely on inspiration. I put all my energy on hard work.

Maybe when you’re younger you can’t hear how it’s really hard work that makes the difference. Maybe you’re not ready to hear it. Or maybe you already feel you’re doing all the hard work–with little to no reward.

Maybe I’m talking about myself.

That’s more than likely.

Yet here I am.

The interweaving roads I walk in this life can feel too great to accomplish at times, yet when I stare back, my footprints have been left on all of them.

Unrational fears are the first thing I create. I dismiss my factual proof and cling to reactions. Overreaction. Fear. All the different shades of the unwarranted emotion that clings to me like frizz to my hair on a humid day.

I’m knee deep in denial there is only one real path.

I’m really not in denial. I know there is only way path. It’s through. One foot in front of the other, never give up, ignore all the name calling and bullshit, on the path that leads to my goals.

Goals.

Do you have some? Any? None.

I have too many.

That’s a lie. I have one. People think I have many. People tell me what I should do with my life all the time. I listen. In one ear and out the other. I’m not lost. I’m quiet. I’m busy. Always plotting. Maybe it looks like I’m being lazy.

You can call me a lot of things. I’m not lazy.

Never been.

I should be lazier. It would be good for me. Not doing anything would be good for me. Not. Doing.

Stop.

In the darkness, there is a solace. In the silence, there are the loudest shouts ever heard. I hear it ALL DAY LONG. I hear it now. In the words, music, streets, in the people around me. They all say the same. They have a story.

I have a story.

We all are stories. One billion of them. No, more than a billion. A trillion. A quadrillion. Stories everywhere. Whispers on silent lips.

It’s hard work to hear them. To shuffling through. To find the right ones. They must fit better than custom-made kid gloves. Perfection in every fold.

And it circles around. It always circles around.

Pay attention.

Quitting is failure. Hard work is the key. There is one path, it’s lined with words, stories–quintillion stories–waiting for you to gently brush your fingers over, breath in, hold.

This is my life, in general. This is me.

I’m not lost. I’m dancing. I’ve always known the way. Just wait, you’ll see.

 

 

 

[this post brought to you by the inspiration from Alt-J’s album, “This is all Yours.”]

 

Inspiration

Inspiration.

It keeps me awake at night. Trips me up when I’m working out. Distracts me from real life. It is a whisper in my ear telling me what it thinks I need to know. Its message,  a thousand gentle fingertips brushing over my skin, raising each hair in their wake.

Call it a muse.

Paint an image of a woman in a flowy dress or whatever you like, but make sure it warms you on chilled days, lifts you on dreary ones, and dances with you when the sun is out.

I will not call mine muse, it is more like a scent on a breeze. A sprinkle of confection sugar, sweet on the tongue.

Hidden thoughts woven in air.

An enigma, a ghost, a jolt to my psyche. Arriving without announcement, planting seeds intended to devour me. Each spiky root burrows deep, claiming, consuming until I have no choice but to float on its rhyme without reason. For it has none other than to ignite.

I suppose there are things worse than being consumed by ideas, stories, images. Like, not being consumed by anything at all. A blank page, blank mind, the drab vortex of nothingness.

But I have my inspiration. It came calling like a rogue wave, washing over me when I had my back turn, pulling me into its folds. It has claimed me, uncaring of all those other things I should be doing.

I bend at its will because when it planted those seeds it has also molded me into what I’ve become. Thus proving, life without inspiration can only be death.

The Blog Post

It’s so difficult for me to come on here and write. Not because I don’t want to, but because of life. I write and maintain another blog, one for a whole other branch of my life.

The more I do it, the harder it feels. Not because I don’t like it–I do. But this is what I’ve always wanted the most. Writing. It’s been my greatest love since I was seven years old. I married a writer. I gave birth to a writer… <- that is a 100% true statement. That kid, he loves to spin a good yarn. (and boy does he have the punishments to prove it.)

Does anyone else feel this way? Like, maintaining a blog is too much?

I use my spare time to work on my current WIP. I wake up at 5 am. I stay up late. I sneak in minutes here and there. I work out scenes in my head before I fall asleep, so they’re ready to go when I have my next second to sit in front of this here old computer.

The other bits of time are filled looking back at older, completed (and in dire need of a good edit) WIPs, or forward to a series I have plotted out in my head. Just like the idea of my first High School boyfriend, it’s all consuming.

And the blog is forgotten.

A land of crickets and mothballs. Cobwebs line the pages.

Yet, I want to do it! I want to have a weekly post, but the lists of “Inspirations for Writer’s Blog Posts” are about as inspiring as a cookbook from the 1970s.

How’s this for inspiring:

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In case you aren’t sure what I’m referring to ^^ that’s what I mean.

So, dear reader, please forgive me for not posting weekly, monthly, or at all. I have good intentions, much unlike the team at Betty Crocker when the staff thought, “You know what we should stuff? A head of iceberg lettuce! BRING ME THE PIMENTOS!”

“Don’t forget the olives for the fish eyes!!”

Lordy… I’m making a promise to myself to try harder. Maybe I can write about uninspired recipes from each decade? Or I can get back to working on my WIP…?

It’s not a tough decision.

Till next time…

A

 

Crows

crows

Once, many centuries ago, there were no crows. The world was void of the oil soaked feather birds–nothing but doves and canaries to stare at.

The branches of the golden curls willow swayed in a breeze scented by jasmine and honeysuckle–empty as a baby-less pram. No caws. No taunts. Nothing but coo’s and tweets.

What an empty world it must have been without their wit and charm. I am happy I will never know that world. For the crow–and all it’s murderous charm, is the hope I need.

A scavenger.

A humorist.

A hero.

 

 

No more excuses

Ah! My first post of the New Year. Took me long enough…

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So, 2016 didn’t much live up to the expectations of the gen pop–but you already knew this. You’ve watched the news, seen the memes, followed the feeds, read the blogs–you, my friend, are in the ‘know!’

And I respect that about you.

2016 has become the punchline–no, the *excuse* of a decade. It is the reason we are sad. It is used as the basis for what is lacking in your life, or this world. 2016 is the quote, it is the comparison, it is rational for every last thing we’ve lost control of or never had control of in the first place.

Well, it’s no longer 2016. Thus, it no longer applies.

Now, I could go into a rant (one that is political in nature) and confabulate with you on what is waiting over the next ridge–but I will not. I could grab a sandwich board and slap some paint on that baby, before draping it over my bony shoulders with a message painted in my scratch writing–but I won’t.

All of this nonsense are distractions. What is the point of this lollygagging when there is so much to do?

I shouldn’t have waited so long to come here and post, but the holidays are a big deal in my life–so I’m here now. I’m here to say, no excuses in 2017. It may not be the best year. It may be worse than the *dreaded* 2016. But it may also be the best year you’ve ever known. This is how I’m looking at it: I know what I want, I’ve known since I was seven–and I’ll keep working to make it happen.

the karate kid

Time to be Daniel and Crane Kick 2017 in the face.

The only wise words I have for those reading this is, “there is no such thing as an over night success.” Remember that when you’re a slave to your craft–to your words. Hard word and dedication are the key to success. The only true failure in life is quitting (unless you’re a smoker, than it’s the opposite.)

Happy New Year, friends! And happy writing–xxoo-A