Dream Loop

This dream played over and over again one night. There was probably more to it, but this is all I could recall:

I'm at home with Cameron, who is some sort of agent, his partner, and his wife and kids.

A woman is at the door and she's holding a folded piece of blue notebook paper. She says nothing, but holds it forward. Don't know who answered the door, but the partner runs to the door and there's the sound of a small explosion and wisps of smoke drift into the entry.

Cameron asks how he managed to take care of it without being hurt and partner says he opened the paper towards the woman. They tell us “they” know where we are now and we have to watch for more of them.

The other wife and I aren't sure what they're talking about until another identical woman appears at the back door, holding another folded piece of paper. Partner goes to the door and tries the same tactic on this one, but it doesn't work. She keeps thrusting the paper at him, saying nothing and with an expressionless face. He grabs the paper and drops it to the floor. Backing away from her she approaches and steps on the paper. She “explodes” into vapor like the previous one.

Since they now know what the inside of the house is like, Cameron says to expect one inside. Partner's wife and I are terrified and gather kids and necessities. I tell the men that I'm taking everyone to the sub basement. We try to make it look like the area has been undisturbed and stack some boxes in front of the door to the small room below the basement. It opens inward so we climb over them to enter and shut the door. I take a mattress and put it in front of us to make it harder to use thermal imaging to find us, and put a towel in front of the crack under the door. The only light is from my laptop which plays a video to calm the kids. I brought with me the laptop, my cell phone and the skype phone.

I can hear gun shots and assorted loud noises upstairs. The door to the basement opens and I can hear someone coming down the stairs. They pause, and it's totally quiet. I've closed the computer and put it behind me. I can hear light footsteps moving about the basement, then they stop in front of the sub-basement door. Seems like an eternity, then the footsteps disappear back up the basement steps and into the house.

I try my cell phone, but there's no coverage. I have a weak internet signal and use the Skype phone to call the men's superior to get help. Am told it's on the way.

More gunshots and hard thumps on the basment ceiling, then quiet. Several minutes pass and then there are footsteps coming down the stairs again. We're terrified of who it might be.

Then I hear Cameron's voice saying it's over and we can come out.

Upstairs is trashed, with bullet holes in things and at least 10 burn scars on the floor and walls. No bodies. Both men are bloodied and wounded. By the look on their faces, I know it's only over for now. We'll have to leave soon, to another location.

Time vs. Darkness

One thing that hangs, elusive to our cries for it, is just out of reach.  "You've had enough," it taunts, knowing our addiction to it will not let us simply accept that fact.  Instead, we seek out those who seem to have mastered the art of commanding this tyrant.  We pay to hear the secrets they hold and do our best to mimic their paths.

Our own path has it's own plan.  "You are yourself, you crave what you already have, yet toss it aside like some insignificant gnat."  We all have the same twenty-four hours in a day.  But some seem to get so much more out of their twenty four-hours than we do.  Such a mystery.

Depression and fear are like sponges.  They take away so much and leave us with little.  Time gets wasted, worrying about what isn't, while forgetting about what is.  Our eyes get cloudy, making it hard to see.  What we have are blind ambitions, pulled from our assortment of wants and desires.  They can't see to lead the way where we can save time for the important things-the place we long to be, but have handed over our "spare" time to others who squander it away.

They live in us and drive us along our bumpy path.  This path happens to parallel the paths of others.  Those who needn't answer to the beastly drums of mental illness.  Those who have learned the wise ways and captured their time; using it as they wish and deaf to its constants jabbering, countdown;  ten...nine...eight...seven...another minute escapes our grasp...six...five...four...two...and soon it's gone...one...zero.

Looking back on that minute, we see the waist left behind by the depressive struggles to harness the time, but it laughs at our attempts.  "You've chosen your path, the one with the potholes and boulders to stumble over."

To change paths is to cast aside the demons that hold us tightly in their grasp.  "How?" we ask. How do we escape this dark place that has been our home for so long?  Baby steps.  Hmm...I've been told that about many things and am not so sure I trust it.  Babies fall.  Their unsteadiness reminds us of our own shortcomings.  Darkness deepens.  Somewhere in this muck is a way out and on to a light-filled, gentle path where time is our own.

 "Smile!" a voice from within the darkness commands.  How?  Just smile for no reason?  "Smile!" the voice is closer and louder than before.  The smell of a field of flowers fills this empty place.  Memories rise and to our astonishment, we smile.  We smile from the memories buried in our deepest, darkest place.

We hear children laughing.  It's like they are chasing each other in the park...the park on the sunshiny side, opposite our path.  Tears fill our eyes.  The laughter is from a birthday party...I think it was my eighth...warm sun...glistened through the trees...birds sang...then, "Happy Birthday to you...happy birthday to you...

So many friends back then and lots of magnificent imaginary kingdoms, and dressing up like a princess.  A princess in a long flowing gown.  We smile, bigger this time...time...we had more time than we knew what to do with then.  What was different?   The light!...the light that surrounded us when we played.  The light that danced with us when we played on the swings.  Laughter!  That's why the voice said to smile.  Laughter calms the turbulence inside...brings the light into perspective and makes us happy.

The Beast

Since the prior one was so short, here's another:

The cold oozed into the beast's gullet from the frigid air outside. People bundled in coats and gloves were drawn in and looked hungrily at the beast's flesh; dallying just a little more than usual to stall that blast of icy coldness a little longer. As the gaping mouth opened and closed, the atrium became its own freezer. Steam danced from their mouths as they came and left.

From inside, music blared above the noise of cash registers and techno alarms. It was like the beast was chomping its teeth, breathing deeply as the people were sucked into its gaping belly. Once there, they were assaulted by the noisy din of its cavernous belly; aching for more to fill the emptiness.

The drones who helped break down and re-build this nonsensical beast's insides, continue milling about the new-comers. They come searching for something. They all are searching, including the drones whose only purpose is to care for the beast.

The drones are tied together, mentally, when they are seeing to the beast. One tells a joke, they all laugh. Another tells the others that one of the new people is wandering through the curves of the beasts intestines. Without thinking, other drones join the wandering one and guide him to his destination..

Sometimes , when the beast yawns or breathes a sigh, the new ones leave. The beast doesn't appear to mind as others take their places. The ones from outside the clear walls bring offerings in exchange for some of the beast's inner flesh. They greedily snatch pieces and leave their offerings before being swept out with the exhale or the the freshness of the places outside. The drones watch as others who were once digging at the flesh of the beast have been drawn into the bellies of neighboring beasts.

Most seem happy to continue this ritualistic tearing down of the community of beasts. Some smaller beasts can't take it , whether it's the gnawing by the outside ones, or the silence in their lack of presence; either way, they slowly die, void of of any of the life that once occupied their insides.

Something New

Even now, as he plays an old Elton John tune for me , I remember how important it was that he regain his ability to play for me again. . The leg meant nothing near as much as the hands. When he plays, it's like a singular root that binds us and and connects us, is throbbing to the beat of the base. That connection flows through me more than the riding.

When he first played for me, my senses all turned to the sound he was creating- like when a sudden blast of a horn makes you turn your head to find out where it is coming from-everything inside me turned to focus in one instant.. It was water and life. I've never been touched like that by anyone. He reached into me and found something tiny inside me, a speck, it was something long dead,but forgotten. He brought life to it.

The riding was fun and exhilarating. The feeling of having him between me legs for hours at a time captivated me, but didn't hold me so gently in its hand like the music.

On Being Grown-up

This grew from seeing an old man in a small town we were riding past.  I saw him look around (I assumed to make sure no one was looking), then he hopped up on the curbing of an incomplete sidewalk, with a big smile on his face. 

Growing up happens on the outside, then slowly seeps into our souls. We know it is encroaching on us when we start hearing phrases like, “You’re too old for that toy,” or, “Stop behaving like a 3-year-old.”

As those phrases become more and more common, we begin to believe them; feeling shame for having these “childish” desires, they become subjugated to that part of our beings where other socially-taboo behaviors reside. Those are the actions that for no reason, other than “because,” are unacceptable for “people our age” to act out.

To feel the cool mud ooze up between your bare toes on a hot summer day, to blow bubbles in your milk, to pretend you are the armed forces commander, sending GI Joe out on a dangerous mission; These forms of play are pulled from our grasps by people concerned for our “mental well-being.”

Adults are supposed to act a certain way. Responsible and secure in their aging shell, they go about their grown-up duties. Or do they? Do we truly welcome the onslaught of what is expected of us as we pass through that magical boundary between childhood and adulthood? 18 or 21, depends on if you commit a crime or want to purchase alcohol; those few years provide a glimpse of what is to come.

Some try, to no avail, to walk against the persistent flow of time that leads to the “other side.” They are considered foolish for clinging to “childish” rituals and avoiding the heavy responsibilities of the adult masses that surround them.

Pushed along by the throngs of citizens who march in perfect step to the swinging pendulum, we steal moments, when no one is watching, to entertain our inner child; balancing along the curbing, instead of walking on the paved path, buying a popsicle from the ice-cream truck, or wearing a bubble hat in the tub.

So how do we balance the adult outside with the child inside? How do we address the stares and whispers behind our backs?

Perhaps with pity. Pity, that they deny themselves the joy of playing with their inner child, instead of celebrating its existence. Pity, that they have fallen prey to the whims of the masses and lost their young souls to the grinding machinery of the adult world. To be swallowed by such an oppressive force is truly sad, but must they remain lost?

They can teach themselves to play. They can open their hearts to the small voice that yearns to be heard. 

They can take baby steps toward fulfilling their inner desires, gradually evolving into a whole person, not just the facade known as “grown-up.”