5/12/14

This is the second of three posts that were lost, so my memory is sketchy at best. Here’s what little I can remember of this dream:

I go into a store with a child. I need to buy stamps to mail a card, and I’m surprised to see a rack of cards inside the store, similar to the cards I’ve seen at work – but these are ones we haven’t yet received. The child finds a coloring book, one with a picture on one side and a blank piece of paper on the other. The goal is to draw the image on the blank page to the best of your ability. The child challenges me to a drawing contest; my sheet has an image of a sandwich with celery sticking out of it. I start to draw, but someone reaches over and writes a few sentences, which I also need to copy. The sentences, a conversation, include one person saying I love you, the other person repeating it, and the first person saying that they love the second person more, the second person saying that they love the first person more, and the first person saying that they love Lord of the Rings. I try to write down the words, but I either write them too big, or spell things wrong, or don’t write in a straight line – I just keep messing up, and by that time the child has finished, and I realize that I still haven’t bought stamps, and am going to be late.

12/18/11

I was going back to school – my old high school, that is – to get my diploma (though I have one in real life). I had just finished getting my Masters degree, or was at least about to get it, and I decided that I wanted to earn my diploma, as well. I rode my bike to the school, even though it was snowing, exceedingly cold outside, and my house is a good 5-6 miles away. I made it to the school just fine, but there was nowhere to tie up my bike, so I ended up bringing it inside. People seemed to be avoiding me, and I’m not exactly sure why. I made it to my first class, but I didn’t yet have a schedule and wasn’t sure how exactly I made it there – I was just suddenly in a classroom in the senior hallway. I sat in the middle-left of the room. Behind me sat one of the girls from my office, and near her sat “Stephanie Quinn” – I think she was a combination of two people who went to my high school, Stephanie and Quinn. Class started, and I realized that some of the students in the classroom had been students in classes I taught – one girl, Melissa, sat one seat ahead and one to the left of me, and obviously was not comfortable being a student with me. The teacher began class by yelling at some students for hugging, and rattled off a rule and rule number to say that such things were inappropriate and not allowed at the school. She really didn’t do much after that, and soon the class was out of hand, chatting and fooling around. The girl from my office was unhappy because she was overdressed, some of the students were having pictures taken by the teacher on a digital camera, and I finally asked what class I was in. The teacher told me it was “fishing,” and I repeated the word back to her a few times, confused. She told me that it really wasn’t a good name for the class, but she hadn’t known what to call a creative writing class, and hoped people would think it meant “fishing for ideas,” or something like that.

[End Dream]

The moral of the story is this: teaching has really weird effects on your dreams. I can’t tell you how many dreams I’ve had that involve me teaching at my old high school or middle school, or having to be a student with my old students. These are by far some of my least favorite dreams; I get enough of school and teaching in my waking life.

Writing, Christmas, and the Definition of Home

I was going to post that flash fiction – I still might, someday – but I’ve gone and lost my nerve. It’s honestly got nothing to do with religion or my life, but I had to write it last night.

That’s where I get my stories most of the time. I’ll be in the shower or somewhere else that’s rather awkward and definitely without pen and paper, and an idea will pounce on my mind. There, with soap in my hair, the words will flow like poetry from my silently working lips. I don’t speak them out loud – vocalization just makes them ugly and human – but instead sing them in my mind, repeating the best phrases over and over until I can type them out.

In front of my rapid fingers and glowing eyes, they’re beautiful, though never as much as they were in my mind. I’ve yet to honestly have an idea come out onto the page as lovely as they do when they’re music. It’s tragic; I might actually be a decent writer, but the words are too shy to show themselves to the world.

On a more positive note, I’ve been listening to Christmas music, from John Lennon’s “Happy Christmas (War is Over)” to Relient K’s “I Hate Christmas Parties” and Josh Groban’s rendition of “Silent Night.”

I’m also done with classes for the semester; I’ve handed in my last paper, filled out my final evaluation, and am even ahead of schedule for next semester. The only problem with all of this productivity – and, honestly, I don’t feel that I’ve even been that productive, certainly for no more than a few hours a day at most – is that now I’ve got nothing to do but sleep, blog, and play my new file on Final Fantasy VI. If my roommate weren’t as active as she is, I wouldn’t feel bad for taking a break, but as things stand, I feel like a lazy bum. It’s kind of uncomfortable.

Still, I’m hoping to be home again soon. Funny, I don’t have much of a reason to look forward to the break; I’m not a fan of being around my nuclear family, and my brother has taken my place in my grandparent’s house. Again, I find myself homeless.

This is a “phase,” I suppose, that I’ve been going through for the past few years. As a college student, I only live in a place for 9 months of the year, and that is campus property. I suppose that I’m renting it, but it isn’t regular, monthly rent, it’s all paid at once. It’s different. My parent’s house isn’t my home anymore, and I can’t really see this campus apartment as home; therefore, I am homeless. If, perhaps, I had something here worth being here for…

But that’s unfair to my previous colleges, and even to this one. I have people who are worth being here for, but I still feel like a bird ready to fly at a moment’s notice. I’m certainly not comfortable here; I suppose I’m still looking for home.