Amalgams in My Dreams

It was surreal to see a nine year old wielding an automatic weapon, smiling the way movie villains smile when it's their turn to shine in the story. Surreal. Terrifying. And not like any dream / nightmare I'd had to date. It's not often that I dream of violence or guns. In fact, I recall with odd clarity the last time some one held a firearm withing the confines of my dreamscape. She was one of the good guys. But this moment... it was not right. And yet, I wasn't afraid. Unlike the entire dream leading up to this moment, I was disengaged and watching it like a movie. My mind editing the scene together, cutting back and forth through the chaos of an L.A. traffic tunnel being taken hostage by mercenaries. Led by a nine-year old boy with an itchy trigger finger.

Not one to analyze dreams beyond the usual "maybe it's something I ate," I didn't think much of it, except that it was so vivid and such an odd climax to a random series of events.

When I was little, I was convinced that dreams were not dreams, but rather a place where we go when we sleep. The dream world. Yes, I was voracious reader in my youth and the tales of "Alice in Wonderland" and "The Chronicles of Narnia" sat upon my bedside table regularly. It made perfect sense at seven years old that we existed in two places: here, the real world. And a subconscious realm of interconnected dreams.

So it was odd last evening to find myself in a rapidly changing world where reality was close enough to this one that I didn't question when day turned to night in an instant. Friends appeared and disappeared randomly -- or sometimes switched places on me just in time for a car chase through, where else... the tunnel which would soon be taken over by this kid and his crew.

Perhaps it was too much "Dollhouse" -- the Joss Whedon show that I'm sad to see leave the air. A recent episode was quite dreamlike and I can see the parallels if I pay attention. Or perhaps it was just the entertainment my brain concocted last night to make sure I got enough rest. Either way, I'm curious to find out what happened to that tunnel.

Do you take stock in your dreams? What's the most memorable one you've ever had? These were not my most memorable. And not the most real. But they were fascinating in the way the events in the dreams blended so smoothly that it felt like one dream, instead of the sequence that it truly was.

off to write. Hopefully I can keep some bit of creatively flowing and produce some work by the end of the year. A friend just instructed me to write a comedy. We'll see how that goes. My stories are leaning to not-comedy, but you never know.

Late Night Rambles in December

And over there, a feline stares as me from atop her throne and wonders why I'm not asleep. I wonder myself. The dawn will soon make its way over the horizon and I've yet to make it to bed. Not even MY bed. I'm house sitting for my best friend (once a known blogger, now silent), and I'm too hopped up on Coca-Cola Classic and sugar cookies (thank you, John) to get even a wink of sleep.

Or maybe it's the fact that this is the most writing I've done in just about forever? Maybe. Guess I'm just out of habit. Been tweeting and Facebooking and the blog has been left to rot mostly. Which isn't fair. But it's the gorram truth.

Alot has changed this year. Quite a bit. Too much to sum up here, but I enter month five without a job, note that I am keeping a positive perspective and optimistic view of the coming decade which eagerly awaits on January 1.

Best to ease back into blogging. So that's enough for now. There's a bed waiting for me and I aim to use it.

Inspiration verses Will

Which is it? What does it take to write? A lightning bolt stolen from Zues by a precocious muse? Or a level of determination that would trip up even Ghandi? To write... to breathe life into a page... into words? What does it take?

My answer? BOTH. I could have a million ideas zipping through my over-taxed cranium and yet, if I'm not on the ball and excited to sit down and push them from potential to kinetic creativity, I won't have anything word reading when I stand up. Conversely, I can sit all day and stare at blank paper (or the dull blankness of a computer screen), but with out that muse nipping away from her friends to whisper deliciously in my ear, I'll spend most of my time doing nothing more than staring at a wall or cursing said muse for standing me the frak up.

This synergy is crucial for proper writing to take place. And yet it is elusive.

I'm up late... past my bedtime. An odd phrase since it's me who determines that hours which I slumber. I choose them. And though I'm tired, I feel this need to stay alert and at the ready. As if writing were akin to sitting inside the fort waiting for the enemy to come. Waiting with your weapon in hand. Poised. Still. Focused.

Should I be frightened that I've equated my pen with a weapon and waiting for the muse to descend to something out of "Platoon"? Perhaps. I know that I am running out of time. Deadlines approach swiftly from the north and south and as my horizon collapses upon me, I am struck with the simple realization and inspiration and will have to co-exist if I'm ever going to write something worth reading.

But tonight, the will is not there. Tiredness takes hold quickly.

There is much on my mind. It will be dealt with in the morning, I'm sure.

When Worlds Collide

I'm struck by a memory of a scene from the movie "Chicken Run" when Mr. Tweedy, all covered in chickens, shouts "Mrs. Tweedy! The chickens are revolting!!"... his claymation body brought down with a thud as the poultry revolutionaries take their first prisoner in this fantastically fun film.

WHY am I thinking of claymation chickens that ramble off physics and mechanics all in a British lilt? Because in my world, the chickens are my characters. And they're still at it. And in their own quiet way, they've started a revolution.

It's really quite something and more and more of them get into the act with each passing day. It's not all of them... we're not talking flash-mob here. But my characters, some of them, seem tired of waiting and once again I hear their cry, "Write us!"

And yes, I know they're not actually real people. I just read that last bit and realized that I'm writing my own pass to the asylum with each word --- but you get my point. Characters that I've been carrying with me for years are suddenly springing to life again. And it's not exactly how you'd think they'd do it.

To quote Mr. Tweedy again, "They're organized."

By simple virtue of "write it, don't talk it," I can't get into more detail than that (yes, I'm a tease; some people like that you know?). I'm just observing. And hopefully in about two weeks, I'll be able to explain these postings and you'll see what I mean by all this.

Someone once asked me, "How do you keep it all straight?"

"What?" I asked.

"Them -- the voices... the characters and the stories?"

"I just do," was my reply. There's a lot in this world that I don't know. Much of it involves dates in history, names of songs, and sports statistics. My brain isn't designed to retain such things within easy recall. But a plot... a character... the words on the page... that I know. That I remember. It's like they're plays and books and movies I've already seen. I recall them with fondness, even if they haven't been written. I've been watching them, reading, living them... for years.

Always looking for the right story... the right vehicle... the right moment. Weird how that works since it's all coming from my brain anyway---you'd think I'd be able to craft those scenarios by now, huh?

It's frustratingly serendipitous. I have two plays I've been itching to write for months. And now that I have the time, they're not there. And these other characters and plays are. Very much so.

The natives are getting restless.

But, before I can write tonight, I have real world things to do. To deal with. Events. Discussions. Meetings. Life.

And then... we'll see how the revolution goes.