Lucid Waking

Archive for August, 2009

Reach

        I needed to be alone. The day was warm and sunny, as was expected for an afternoon in late August. Needing my space, I found my feet leading me towards nearby gardens. I forced myself to slow down and take deep breaths and notice the dappled sunlight, the khaki green of the water in the reflection pond, and the bright orange fish under the surface. Mosquitoes flitted everywhere, but I ignored them and carried on, passing other insects that I thought might sting me, land on me, or otherwise make me uncomfortable. I made sure to note the damselflies and butterflies and flowers that were in bloom all the while pressing forward and away from all the chaos behind me and telling myself to just breathe.
        I needed to think and sit, so I found a bench in the shade farthest away from entrance to the gardens. I didn’t want to be found or bothered. I just wanted to breathe, maybe cry, and think. Just stop.
        I watched people go by and noted the various colors in the garden: shades of green, pink, orange, and blue. Everything was vibrant and warm and so calm. So very calm. I notice a woman pass me who seemed to be carrying something. From far away it looked like a baby but as she approached, I noticed it was just a lump of towels. She looked much older as she approached and I could see her braided hair was gray. She was long and thin, wearing bathing suit shorts and a bikini top.
        “Excuse me,” she said to me, “Can you help me? My bathing suit came untied and I have arthritis so I can’t tie it…”
        “Sure,” I said warmheartedly. Generally, I feel better after being nice to people and having felt pretty bad going into the garden, I thought a little kindness wouldn’t hurt.
        “Once upon a mattress,” she said noting my tee shirt. “Were you in it?”
        “No,” I answered as I tie a bow with the ribbons in back. “It’s my mom’s.”
        “Oh,” she said quietly before asking, “Are you a student at the University?”
        “Yes.”
        “Wonderful! It’s a very good institution. What’s your major?”
        “Music performance,” I answered, thinking that as long as I didn’t give her my name, a little information wouldn’t hurt.
        “So I might see you,” she said excitedly. “I go to every concert.”
        “Good,” I said smiling.
        “I love their symphony. Actually, there’s a lot of art around the city. The Fringe festival is this week—have you heard about it?”
        I shook my head.
        “All sorts of local artists come and perform. My favorite was this—well, this one performer started out on a farm milking cows and one day he told his dad he couldn’t do that the rest of his life and that he was going to be a clown. And he’s good at it. He has a routine…oh gosh I don’t remember what it’s called…well, anyway. It’s hilarious. And I saw this absolutely amazing singing group perform music written by a local composer. Oh, I’ve never heard anything so beautiful. And there was this mime—and I’ve seen Marcel Marceau when I lived in Austin. It was his last show, actually. But anyway, this mime was amazing. He mimed out the entire story of the Twelve Swans, which I don’t know very well, but you could follow along, anyway. You absolutely have to go.”
        “Sounds good,” I said.
        “But there’s also the art museum just down the street, which is great. I used to go there all the time with my daughter. She actually ended up going to Ball State, which was a huge challenge for her, but she loved it. She’s done with school now and engaged…I miss her so much. I call her up but…the last time we talked we ended up fighting. She went to get her hair done and I don’t know why she…I mean, it’s fine if that’s what she wants to do, but I don’t like being with all the chemicals and stuff. But I asked her why she was spending all the time getting her hair done when she could be doing tennis and…well, it was the wrong thing to say.
        “Excuse me,” she continued as she took off her sunglasses to rub her left eye. “I just had eye surgery this morning and my eye is really sore. I went swimming in the White River—do you know where that is?”
        I shook my head.
        “Its around that way. Oh, they had to remove twenty-five pieces of debris from my eye and…ugh…don’t go swimming in that river…I had five inches cut off from my hair because its so polluted, but anyway, my daughter was a very good tennis player. She played against the number one player in the state and won and her high school tennis team went from the number one spot when she was playing to number eleven once she left. I mean, she was really good…and I don’t know why she stopped. You know, I should call her up tonight and explain that I don’t mean to rule her life I just want her to do tennis because…”
        “She loves it.”
        “It gives her joy.”
        The woman paused while the sound of drums from the marching band at campus sounded through the fresh air.
        “I’ve been so lonely lately,” she continued, “that I considered renting my room out to University students who are really serious, you know? And can use a quiet place to study and work. I don’t know if you’d be interested—where would you look for that sort of thing?”
        “Well, there are bulletin boards around campus—”
        “That’s what I thought. I had a dance major come for an interview because she was interested, but she ended up living somewhere closer to campus.” She sighed. “Well, it was good talking to you; what’s your name?”
        I stood up and told her.
        “That’s a very pretty name. I’m Coleen and I hope to see you at the next concert.”
        “Ok, I hope to see you then,” I answered as she and I walked opposite ways.
        As I made my way back to campus, I watched the ground in front of me, thinking. I hadn’t gotten as much meditation as I wanted, but I felt less lost, scared and sad leaving the garden than I did going in. I realized that this woman just wanted to talk and wanted someone to listen because she had a lot of things to think about herself. While I was longing to go back home to my parents, she was longing for her daughter to come back home and live with her. I realized that this lost and lonely feeling I had was mutual. And through talking to me, she figured out how to make herself feel better and through listening, I felt better because I had a purpose; my day had purpose. I made someone feel better about herself and her life. I brought a little sunshine to her day which, proportionally, brought some into mine. I felt like I mattered and that my work would pay off because not everyone in the world is shallow and some just need a little love.
        Going back into the hectic, chaotic, and whirlwind campus for more orientation was draining and a little frustrating, but I felt like my day was worthwhile. Even though the weeks ahead will be busy and crazy and frustrating, I know I’ll make it through on my own, just like Colleen does every day of her life.

Author’s Note on post 335: This is based on something that happened to me today. I say based because, unfortunately, I don’t remember everything she said and I left some things that happened out of the story because they didn’t have relevance to the point I was making. I tried to make this a quick piece of prose with its merits and I think I succeeded.

Emotion Study

Hey! So, I haven’t been writing a lot, I’ll admit. I’ve gotten a writer’s block the size of a small truck, but I knew I had to get back into it. I decided to turn my impending move into a good description practice. There is no plot to this and no more will be written. If you have any feedback, please share it. (If you want to privately comment, email me.)

        I took a final step along the sidewalk and stopped before stumbling off a precipice. Below me was fog and above me, a scarlet gray abyss. I was inclined to call it the end of the world, but there was something so…full…about the area around me that I thought the end might better describe and emptier space. Don’t think that amidst this contemplation I was calm, however. My stomach made odd contractions and my eyes started burning with tears. A lump weighted heavily in my chest and my head started to pound. I couldn’t breath for those first moments while I caught my step and my body started to shake. As I stared at the light gray, I stopped shaking and started breathing while the tears disappeared, but my stomach was still wringing itself over the seemingly bottomless pit. The weight in my chest remained and grew heavier until it grew as large as the abyss in front of me.

(Post 334)

Visions of the Darkness

There is a ghost on the floor
playing with imagined liquid—
blood, water, or time-will-tell.
If he had a mouth, he’d smirk in perfection,
boisterousness might play in the pits he calls eyes.
Never looking at you—only looking through you.
Whispers of something floating in disguise.
The Faceless Man he’s been known to be called
and he’d smile at your horror and quizzical expression
as you reached for where the drip
was coming out of the wall,
but finding, really, there was nothing there at all.

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Author’s Note on post 333: Something quick to prove that my mind does indeed still work. Inspired by this.

Graduation Party Paparazzi

I went to a graduation party yesterday. We’re pretty much having them all summer so good-bye isn’t really good-bye. But, I was in charge of taking pictures and I took some artsy shots that I liked, so I thought I’d put them up here. I’m not a fan of my friend’s camera, but I did the best I could.

Larger size –> click on photo

More information about pictures–>click on “Photography” page

Info on prints –> click here

Numbered Memories (2)

        “So…seven. Seven was the pairs of pointe shoes I went through before I stopped dancing. At first I wanted to be a ballerina for a living, but I had some bad experiences with teachers and dancers and decided the pressure to be skinny, flexible, and daring was too much. I liked who I was and I felt like I was being pressed into a mold so that I could survive the ‘Professional World.’ It was too much trouble so I became an author instead. Go figure.
        “Six was the maximum number of eggs my cousin could juggle at one time. He was amazing at sleight of hand and juggling and acrobatics. I think he joined the circus, literally, but I haven’t heard from him in a long time. He had a tough childhood, but he kept contact with my brother for several years after he ran away from home and went to acrobatics school. He lied about his age and just…well, it’s cliché, but he kept traveling with Barnum and Bailey’s until we last heard from him.
        “Five was the number of wishing stones I had. My dad would take my brother and I to the beach fairly often in the summer and he and I would look for small pretty rocks and then take them home. We’d put them in a pile in the back of the garage. But occasionally we would find nice flat rocks that were good for skipping. My dad told me they were magic rocks because they could fly on the water. We’d take these home and I’d put them in a shoe box under my bed. I only collected five before he died and we didn’t go to the beach anymore.
        “Four was the total number of vacations we took as a family of three. My mother never had enough money to splurge on traveling and it was her one regret. So, we’d pretend that we were going different places and dress up the house like a hotel. We’d do research on different tourist spots; good restaurants to eat—sometimes we’d even make food like they might serve in the places we visited. It didn’t take long for my brother to get sick of the idea and shut himself in his room whenever we ‘took a vacation,’ but my mom and I continued this tradition for a long time. My brother was often cynical, but I always enjoyed those times with mom.
        “Three…you know. I really can’t think of anything for three. Going over memories…it’s hard for me because I have so many of them. And I don’t remember the memory so much as the emotion. It’s really hard to come up with this stuff out of the blue.”
        “I know. We can stop here if you want.”
        “I’m inclined to agree. But I want to say that my mom was excellent and supportive and it must have been hard raising two children who ended up being clinically depressed, especially when an equally loving parent and partner dies during the difficult years. I had a crazy large family, but they all made sure we ended up all right. And we did. I did. A lot of my triumph and success has been a large part my mother and then my brother. I don’t talk about her much, but she did more for me than I can express.”
        “Is that what you want to say to your children?”
        “I hope to teach my children a lot more than I can express, but I’m going to wish them the best and hope they remember that happiness is in their making.”
        The phonograph clicked to solid silence and the needle glided back to its resting spot next to the record. A young woman in her early twenties picked the record up by the edges and gently slipped it into its sleeve.
        “Was that my great-great aunt?” she asked solidly to the man waiting at the window.
        The man nodded. “Yes. My great-great grandmother.”
        “And the man—”
        “Her soon-to-be husband.” The man at the window walked over to the phonograph and picked up the record. “I thought you should listen to this since you’re so interested in researching your past.”
        “You don’t need to sound so cynical,” the woman said, smiling. “But thank you so much for letting me listen. I had no idea…”
        “You can take this if you want,” the man said, extending forth his arm with the record. “You might get more use out of it.”
        “Don’t you want to listen to her voice?”
        “Not really,” the man shook his head. “I never knew her. It doesn’t mean that much to me. Do take care of it, however.”
        “Of course,” the woman said and thanked him before exiting the apartment door.
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Author’s Note on Post 332: It tried getting into a little bit of the human psyche here. That sounds a little too deep, but I wanted to "edge human experience" (whatever that means). With each increasing number I wanted each story to get more personal and the "coda" to kind of show a lasting legacy of the record. Stories are stories no matter when or why told.

I’m not sure how clear all of that was, but I needed to finish this story regardless. It was getting too heavy handed for me. And large.