The prompt: Do you have re-occurring dreams? What are they about?
~~~~~~~~~~
What if nothing exists and we're all in somebody's dream? Or what's worse, what if only that fat guy in the third row exists?
~ Woody Allen
Let’s cut right to the chase: I have weird dreams. Really weird dreams.
Of course, now that I’m faced with the necessity to write about them, I cannot remember the details of many of the more interesting ones. A little performance anxiety, if you will.
Many of my more vivid dreams involve the famous, infamous or celebrated: Howard “Dr. Johnny Fever” Hesseman, me and a black marble bathroom; John Cleese, me and a road rally; Tom Cruise, Katie Holmes and Lindsay Lohan in a threesome wedding; Al Gore, me and the Oval Office.
I also have a penchant for subliminally conjuring up old boyfriends and loves, usually completely out of the blue. There is usually some salacious activity involved with these little delights… and we’re going to simply leave it at that. I don’t subconsciously kiss and stuff and tell, thank you very much.
These subconscious delights are, for better or for worse, usually one-offs. Drat.
However, I do have one recurring dream that pops up at least a couple of times a year. It usually makes an appearance when I’m overly stressed or anxious.
I’m back in college – at UF. Cute co-ed me. I’m doing poorly in a class and want to drop it before the semester cut-off date. Problem is – I can’t find the building on campus where I need to go to drop the class. And time is running out. I frantically run all over campus, from building to building, looking for the right place to go. Never, ever find it.
I usually wake up from these dreams in a right state. Anxious, heart racing, worked up. Panicked even. I do dream vividly.
It’s interesting to me that my stress manifests itself in this way – transferring to an event/situation that happened over 20 years ago. I’m sure Freud would have something to say about this. I myself can’t figure out the nuances of it. But I do know, after all these years, that whenever this dream pops up, it’s time for a little self-assessment and care, because something’s amiss with me.
If only those delightful lascivious and slightly naughty dreams popped up with as much regularity…
Showing posts with label Sunday Spur. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sunday Spur. Show all posts
2.01.2009
1.25.2009
Sunday Spur: Tres
The prompt: Things you can do in three minutes
Have a quickie *lascivious eyebrow raise*
Give yourself a facial
Do a whole lotta crunches (engage your core!)
Read a magazine article
Put a coat of polish on your nails
Play a game of solitaire
Saute an onion
Load the dishwasher
Do a quick eBay search
Deep condition your hair
Pull weeds along your front walk
Have a mini-one-song dance party
Sign and mail a “just because” card to a friend
Read the comics in the newspaper
Cook an egg
Drink a cup of coffee
Iron a pair of pants
Eat a pot roast… or not
Boot up my Mac Airbook!!
Brew a cup of tea
Collect a bunch of shells on the beach
Moisturize!
Mark, tape and block a pair of lenses (thanks, Riss!)
Have a quickie *lascivious eyebrow raise*
Give yourself a facial
Do a whole lotta crunches (engage your core!)
Read a magazine article
Put a coat of polish on your nails
Play a game of solitaire
Saute an onion
Load the dishwasher
Do a quick eBay search
Deep condition your hair
Pull weeds along your front walk
Have a mini-one-song dance party
Sign and mail a “just because” card to a friend
Read the comics in the newspaper
Cook an egg
Drink a cup of coffee
Iron a pair of pants
Eat a pot roast… or not
Boot up my Mac Airbook!!
Brew a cup of tea
Collect a bunch of shells on the beach
Moisturize!
Mark, tape and block a pair of lenses (thanks, Riss!)
Watch a video on YouTube
Use a set of those Crest Whitestrip things
Stay tuned, as this list is fluuuuid...
1.18.2009
Sunday Spur: Deux
The prompt: As writers, we all love to read good books for inspiration. What book inspired you as a writer and why?
I cannot remember a time when I didn’t – or wasn’t – reading. Family lore says I taught myself to read using the “funny papers”, which is what I called the comics. Not sure if that’s true, but I do remember crawling next to my dad in his “chair” and looking at the newspaper along with him as he read.
I read all the standards a chick my age should read growing up – “From the Mixed Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler;” “James and the Giant Peach;” the Encyclopedia Brown series; the adventures of the Bobbsey Twins, Nancy Drew and Trixie Belden and my favorite book as a girl: Louisa May Alcott’s “Little Women.”
However, my theoretical library wasn’t limited to “age appropriate” material. Oh no. We had a set of supermarket encyclopedias that featured book synopses in the back – some of which had some serious adult content. Of course I cannot remember the titles now, but let’s just say that my parents’ pride in my interest in the encyclopedias was a little misplaced…
With the condensed version of “Tobacco Road” serving as my gateway drug, I worked my way up to more complete and interesting works. Patrick Dennis’ “Auntie Mame” and “Around the World with Auntie Mame” became favorites. “Gone with the Wind” was read over and over again. I would save my allowance to buy the most recent installment of John Jakes’ Kent Family Chronicles as soon as it was released. Our shopping center had a small bookstore with a fantastic used book section in the back (behind the dirty magazine section even… go figure) I would pour over the titles, turning my head sideways and walking down the rows until my aching neck could take no more. I would read the books – Collins, Krantz, Sheldon, Susann – as fast as I could, turn them back into the store for credit, and start the cycle again.
And of course, in addition to all this “personal” reading, I was doing an equal amount for language arts/ English classes in school. I came to love Hemingway’s Spartan style and precise use of words and Fitzgerald’s sumptuous storytelling. Steinbeck’s symbolism and themes.
I was a very well-read young teenager – in every sense of the word.
But the real influence on me wanting to become a writer came during my middle school years and from a most unlikely source: the Harlequin romance.
Yeah – you read that right.
Harlequin romances were my pleasure reading of choice as a young lass. The reading was easy, the stories compelling to me at the time, and there were a JILLION of them, which was perfect for a speedy reader like me.
It was those very qualities that made me think that I too could be a Harlequin romance writer. Never mind that I was 11 years old. Never been kissed. And in seventh grade.
I was going to be a romance novel writer. Picked out my pen name: Whitney L’Amour. My dad read a lot of Louis L’Amour and I thought that name was totally wasted on a guy who wrote Westerns. Ergo my taking it for my own use.
My hero: Van Doren (he must have been a distant relative to Mamie.) Strong, masculine. Virile. Oh yeah. Hairy chest. Tight pants.
My heroine: Cassie Wilson. A champion swimmer. I also watched a lot of classic MGM movies in the day – so think Esther Williams.
I didn’t get very far with this tale of star-crossed lovers, family fights, land battles and disco, as my attention was diverted by the school play and my latest crush and well, more books to read.
But the whistle had been whet. The pen poised. The fire lit.
I wanted to write. Liked to write. Needed to write. And over the years, I played at it, goofed with it, took it seriously, ignored it, thought about it, toyed with it and embraced it.
I no longer read romance novels. But I will forever think fondly upon them. For they were my first muse, she said with a smoldering look in her eye and a yearning in her heart… and elsewhere…
I cannot remember a time when I didn’t – or wasn’t – reading. Family lore says I taught myself to read using the “funny papers”, which is what I called the comics. Not sure if that’s true, but I do remember crawling next to my dad in his “chair” and looking at the newspaper along with him as he read.
I read all the standards a chick my age should read growing up – “From the Mixed Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler;” “James and the Giant Peach;” the Encyclopedia Brown series; the adventures of the Bobbsey Twins, Nancy Drew and Trixie Belden and my favorite book as a girl: Louisa May Alcott’s “Little Women.”
However, my theoretical library wasn’t limited to “age appropriate” material. Oh no. We had a set of supermarket encyclopedias that featured book synopses in the back – some of which had some serious adult content. Of course I cannot remember the titles now, but let’s just say that my parents’ pride in my interest in the encyclopedias was a little misplaced…
With the condensed version of “Tobacco Road” serving as my gateway drug, I worked my way up to more complete and interesting works. Patrick Dennis’ “Auntie Mame” and “Around the World with Auntie Mame” became favorites. “Gone with the Wind” was read over and over again. I would save my allowance to buy the most recent installment of John Jakes’ Kent Family Chronicles as soon as it was released. Our shopping center had a small bookstore with a fantastic used book section in the back (behind the dirty magazine section even… go figure) I would pour over the titles, turning my head sideways and walking down the rows until my aching neck could take no more. I would read the books – Collins, Krantz, Sheldon, Susann – as fast as I could, turn them back into the store for credit, and start the cycle again.
And of course, in addition to all this “personal” reading, I was doing an equal amount for language arts/ English classes in school. I came to love Hemingway’s Spartan style and precise use of words and Fitzgerald’s sumptuous storytelling. Steinbeck’s symbolism and themes.
I was a very well-read young teenager – in every sense of the word.
But the real influence on me wanting to become a writer came during my middle school years and from a most unlikely source: the Harlequin romance.
Yeah – you read that right.
Harlequin romances were my pleasure reading of choice as a young lass. The reading was easy, the stories compelling to me at the time, and there were a JILLION of them, which was perfect for a speedy reader like me.
It was those very qualities that made me think that I too could be a Harlequin romance writer. Never mind that I was 11 years old. Never been kissed. And in seventh grade.
I was going to be a romance novel writer. Picked out my pen name: Whitney L’Amour. My dad read a lot of Louis L’Amour and I thought that name was totally wasted on a guy who wrote Westerns. Ergo my taking it for my own use.
My hero: Van Doren (he must have been a distant relative to Mamie.) Strong, masculine. Virile. Oh yeah. Hairy chest. Tight pants.
My heroine: Cassie Wilson. A champion swimmer. I also watched a lot of classic MGM movies in the day – so think Esther Williams.
I didn’t get very far with this tale of star-crossed lovers, family fights, land battles and disco, as my attention was diverted by the school play and my latest crush and well, more books to read.
But the whistle had been whet. The pen poised. The fire lit.
I wanted to write. Liked to write. Needed to write. And over the years, I played at it, goofed with it, took it seriously, ignored it, thought about it, toyed with it and embraced it.
I no longer read romance novels. But I will forever think fondly upon them. For they were my first muse, she said with a smoldering look in her eye and a yearning in her heart… and elsewhere…
1.11.2009
Sunday Spur: Inaugural
I'm looking to improve my writing chops. All part of the process.
So I'm taking Sunday as a day to use some writing prompts with this blogging thing. Give me a chance to stretch a little and focus on something specific -- spur me on, so to speak. I think it will prove to be very interesting.
Here goes...
The Prompt:
Look around the room and pick an object. Write one paragraph describing the object in full detail and a second paragraph explaining where it came from.
~~~~~~~~~
It sits in an inauspicious place in my living room, keeping company with a densely scented candle and antiquated editions of Shakespeare and Blake. I have no idea how tall it is – without a measuring tool, I am hopelessly inept in the ways of determining size precisely.
It’s small. Round. Compact. But powerful and wise. It tells the story of another time, a time not measurably that long ago, but one that seems light years away. A time when the world itself was small, round and compact.
A time when places like French West Africa and British Guiana still existed. French Indochina. Burma. The U.S.S.R.
The colors are muted. Faded from time and touch. The oceans and seas are befittingly vast, a shade of aqua seen only in pure waters surrounding tropical islands. Countries are tinted in earth tones that once were probably more Technicolor than dusty. Type is small – reader glasses small. So much information compiled onto such an efficient space. Overwhelming in its scope yet intimate in the nuances it provides.
The base and support elements are metal – dark, dark metal. Not rusted, but aged. Well. Appropriate.
This is my grandfather’s globe. Eight inches high. Monumental in impact.
I didn’t know my grandfather – he died when my mother was only five years old. Somehow, I have become the keeper of the family treasures, including this globe. I imagine it sitting on his desk at home, a reference for his work as a Spanish professor at our local junior college. Or for his frequent trips to Cuba. I see my mother’s inquisitive fingerprints on it – there mostly for the thrill of spinning it round and round but also for searching and finding and seeking.
I’m also not sure about the exact age of the globe – it postdates 1936, as there’s a notation about the reaching of the North Pole, which happened in ’36. But it’s most likely around 70 years old, give or take. Wow.
And while I don’t know a lot about the globe – and don’t know a lot about my grandfather, having this item of his in my possession helps me to feel closer both to him and to his world.
Maybe it’s not so inauspicious after all.
So I'm taking Sunday as a day to use some writing prompts with this blogging thing. Give me a chance to stretch a little and focus on something specific -- spur me on, so to speak. I think it will prove to be very interesting.
Here goes...
The Prompt:
Look around the room and pick an object. Write one paragraph describing the object in full detail and a second paragraph explaining where it came from.
~~~~~~~~~
It sits in an inauspicious place in my living room, keeping company with a densely scented candle and antiquated editions of Shakespeare and Blake. I have no idea how tall it is – without a measuring tool, I am hopelessly inept in the ways of determining size precisely.
It’s small. Round. Compact. But powerful and wise. It tells the story of another time, a time not measurably that long ago, but one that seems light years away. A time when the world itself was small, round and compact.
A time when places like French West Africa and British Guiana still existed. French Indochina. Burma. The U.S.S.R.
The colors are muted. Faded from time and touch. The oceans and seas are befittingly vast, a shade of aqua seen only in pure waters surrounding tropical islands. Countries are tinted in earth tones that once were probably more Technicolor than dusty. Type is small – reader glasses small. So much information compiled onto such an efficient space. Overwhelming in its scope yet intimate in the nuances it provides.
The base and support elements are metal – dark, dark metal. Not rusted, but aged. Well. Appropriate.
This is my grandfather’s globe. Eight inches high. Monumental in impact.
I didn’t know my grandfather – he died when my mother was only five years old. Somehow, I have become the keeper of the family treasures, including this globe. I imagine it sitting on his desk at home, a reference for his work as a Spanish professor at our local junior college. Or for his frequent trips to Cuba. I see my mother’s inquisitive fingerprints on it – there mostly for the thrill of spinning it round and round but also for searching and finding and seeking.
I’m also not sure about the exact age of the globe – it postdates 1936, as there’s a notation about the reaching of the North Pole, which happened in ’36. But it’s most likely around 70 years old, give or take. Wow.
And while I don’t know a lot about the globe – and don’t know a lot about my grandfather, having this item of his in my possession helps me to feel closer both to him and to his world.
Maybe it’s not so inauspicious after all.
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