Myaimistrue’s Neighborhood

If time flies when you're having fun, it hits the afterburners when you don't think you're having enough.
Jef Mallett, Frazz, 08-01-05

How is it that I wish for opposing things? I look forward to a future point in time, yet I could use more time in the day to get things done. I suppose I should alter my wish, in that I'd like to get things done more efficiently and yet still reach that point in the future faster.

What is that term for never satisfied? I am sure once I reach that point, I'll want time to come to a standstill, slow to a crawl, or perhaps just vanish into an alternate realm.

All I know is that I treasure every moment, but like a child waiting for christmas, I'm waiting for that new moment to treasure. I 've waited this long...I can wait longer I suppose. Isn't that the story of humanity? Time to take some cues from the Firstborn of Arda and appreciate what should matter most.

So how did I get on this tangent? It was all about trying to stay focused on the 200+ hair clips that need to be finished by July 11,2009!See what I get for wanting time to go faster? It DID and I forgot to wish for the ability to get things done faster as well...I'm usually very careful about using the word 'wish'. It's a powerful world, and a wish is never as simple as it seems, for there are so many ways it can be interpreted, ways for it to go wrong, and ways for it to expand beyond what was originally wished for. Are we ready for that?

There is so much that I need and want to get done, that extra time in the day would be wonderful. Then there are things I am looking forward to that I'd like for time to pass quickly. What then is the happy balance?

I know that I am prepared to deal with the path that lies ahead of me. For to me, no matter which way the path turns to I only see two possibillities (I refuse to acknowledge the third.) I would be satisfied with one possibility, yet the other that is hoped for I've held close to my heart for too long. Just as I was told recently..."Hope is what keeps me alive..." 

Warning…brain dump and a waltz down memory lane ahead.

 All my life (well to be fair, for as long as I can remember) I have known for a fact that creativity was an intrinsic part of my very being. I loved to imagine, dream and pretend. I explored my world with curiosity and an insatiable need for information and expression. When I wasn’t asking why, I was devouring books. ANY book that grabbed at my present interest was read from cover to cover, often more than twice.

I remember being frustrated at the inability to unlock the wonderful stories I would beg my parents to read to me over and over again, until they either remembered something that just had to be seen to, or flat out told me that enough was enough. My mother placed me in a Montessori setting early in my life out of necessity. I needed a channel for my curiosity as well as daycare while she was at work. Many people I know have no memory of their early childhood, but because of this setting, I can remember accidentally ironing my teacher’s hand at age 2 while she helped me iron a bit of waxed paper folded over crayon shavings to make a picture.

I also remember the day I realized that I could actually read ‘The Three Little Pigs’. I am told that I was about 3 years old at the time. I remember reading the entire book in my room with the brown shag carpeting and cream lace curtains before I ran down the wood paneled hallway to the kitchen. I had my already worn little “Golden Book” clutched tightly to my chest as I happily announced “ I CAN READ! LISTEN!” 

Once I solved the mystery of understanding what the letters said, I read everything I could. I eagerly devoured whatever I could get my hands on. Each gift giving occasion I was sure to receive a book. I read  ‘How to Care For…” books by Tetra on everything from Parakeets to Hermit Crabs. I pored over Dr. Axelrod’s tome on Tropical Fish Keeping, as I set up my first aquarium at the age of 5 with a little help from Grandpa. Of course, the filtration system the hobbyist had then is considered archaic compared to the fancy set-ups we have now. I had outgrown my Halloween pail full of tadpoles scooped up from the creek and was fascinated by the metal framed tank in our kitchen and the algae eater that would continuously swim up the filter tube and end up in the filtration box that hung on the back of the tank. I would rifle through one of the drawers in Nana’s Hoosier Cupboard and read the various pamphlets and instruction manuals from the different household tools and appliances that were kept there. I bet they had no idea that I had a good idea of how to operate Grandpa’s table saw and Nana’s electric carving knife.

Early on, I was drawn to folklore, mythology and fantasy. I was inspired by Disney’s versions of Snow White, Cinderella, and Sleeping Beauty, and there was also a well worn copy of Disney’s Robin Hood on a record album that I am surprised survived its first year of existence. (I can still sing most of the songs and recite much of the dialogue to this day.) But there were the animated versions of ‘The Hobbit’ and ‘The Lord of The Rings’ that would appear on television every once in awhile that had me glued to the TV no matter how scary some of the scenes were. I might have a nightmare that evening but it was worth it!

At the age of 6, I began to skulk down the dark hallway murmuring ‘My pressssshhhioussss!’ while clutching a plastic gold ring I had pried off of a wedding favor of Jordan almonds wrapped in pastel netting. I wonder what my Mom thought when she encountered me hiding in the darkened bathroom. I would screech ‘You can’t have the precious, Bilbo Baggins!’ before darting past her.  And sometimes, I would wear a satin nightgown and drape a lace tablecloth over my head while walking around the house with a pie plate asking people if they would look into my mirror and see ‘what is, what was and what could be’. Before these movies, she would read me bits and pieces from the various Tolkien books that she kept on her shelf, next to Shakespeare and various art history books, the very same volumes that I now count among my treasures. The animations on TV sparked my need to learn more about Frodo and Galadriel. Why were Orcs so nasty? Why did ring wraiths scare the crap out of me? Where was Rivendell, and how come the elf’s name in the movie was Legolas? I thought Glorfindel met Aragorn and the hobbits? One Christmas Santa gave me the ‘movie’ book of the animated ‘The Lord Of The Rings’ and I began to take Mom’s books to school with me so that Mr. Rob and Ms. Vicky could help me learn to read and understand the big words that I had not yet mastered.

It was an avalanche from the beginning. As soon as I realized that I could read just about anything I wanted to, while many of my peers were still reading primers, I immersed myself in other worlds at almost every opportunity, often paying little attention to the gradual dimming of light as well as the rest of my surroundings. The library was a slice of heaven to me. I discovered Andrew Lang's "Coloured" Fairy Books, each one housed in a different colored binding, and read each one that I could get my hands on. I would read World Mythology, Limericks by Lear, sonnets and plays by Shakespeare ,while Sheherazade became my idol. I dreamt of becoming a great storyteller like her, beguiling my audience with fantastic tales of princesses, sultans and djinn.

In the 4^th grade, we moved to Sacramento, and I was fortuitously seated next to Joey (Joseph Stayner). He too, loved to read and at the time of ‘Choose Your Own Adventure’ books, he introduced me to the world of Science Fiction. He would lend me his copies of Edgar Rice Burroughs novels, and I was instantly transported to Mars. We would spend rainy day recesses talking about other worlds and dreaming up our own, even writing down a few stories. He was a fantastic writer even then, and to this day I wonder what he is up to, and if he has written his masterpiece yet. (I hope he decides to ‘Google’ his name one day and stumbles upon this blog. I’ve been reunited with 2 friends this way, so there is hope.)

I never really delved too much into the realm of creative writing after that. Aside from thoroughly enjoying the assignments in high school, and the classes I took in college (such as ‘The Gothic Novel’, ‘World Mythology’ and various Composition classes), I did not pen much in the way of anything of my own creation. My artistic muse was still hogging up my creativity and my writing muse did not have a ‘voice’ of her own.

For the greater part of my childhood and adolescence, my dominant muse had an artistic bent. I devoted much of my creativity to media such as paint, pencil, pen, paper and adhesives. I even spent a good deal of time with photography. I credit a teacher I only remember as ‘Mr. Rob’ who taught me to transfer what I saw in my mind to a physical thing that others could see, and to appreciate the work of many different artists so that I could draw inspiration and skill through observation and experimentation. I also credit him with prodding my literary muse and fascination with manipulating words into another form of art. It was another early teacher I only knew as ‘Ms. Vicky’ who taught me to ‘eee-NUN-see-ate!’ and to take a simple thing and make it colorful by simply using a different word to describe it.

When all is said and done, I credit my Dad for teaching me that underneath the actual words was the actual ‘voice’ of a story. He taught me that even the most mundane or simple sentence could take on a whole new meaning by simply changing the tone in which it was read or spoken. He patiently read me ‘Pat The Bunny’ over and over again while I learned to give the words feeling and interest. He would make up silly voices, and change his tone each time he read it. It was never the same story twice, and it remains one of my most treasured childhood memories. Because of my Dad, I learned that each time a book was opened, something new was waiting to be discovered, even if you knew each word by heart. He taught me that each character had depth and personality and the ability to touch each reader if only the proper voice could be discovered. When I sit down to write, I inevitably think about the simple children’s book ‘Pat The Bunny’, and I giggle as I remember how he would read it in a silly voice. It took many years for me to actually realize this lesson and finally find my own writing ‘voice’. (Thank you Dad!)

It’s a rather surprising moment when you first begin to hear your writing ‘voice’ whisper ideas and inspiration to you. For me it was downright startling when I actually recognized it for what it was. Sure, I’ve written a poem here and there, penned a love letter or two outside of class assignments, but until recently, I have never really creatively written something with substance. That is, until my writing muse awoke and decided to tap dance upon my imagination.

After my son was born, I stayed at home to care for him. I began a blog and journaled my day to day mishaps, experiences, milestones and thoughts in an effort to record them. Gradually I began to write about anything that happened to gab my attention, and once again took up creative writing. I wrote about holidays, my thoughts and observations on any given subject from movies to letters I wished I could deliver to the reckless driver who nearly wiped out my car. I would be inspired by the lyrics to a song and write a short story around the lyrics. Looking back at my archives, I see a definite progression to my writing.

Around the time my son turned 2, I began to tell him a never-ending bedtime story a la Arabian Nights, each evening as he drifted off to sleep. It occurred to me, that I should write it down, so he could read it someday. I then got inspired to get it bound somehow and decorate it, or illustrate it and the whole nine yards. One can be very ambitious in their imagination. That is one of the wonderful aspects of imagination. You can go absolutely wild without limitations.

Anyhow, I was traveling through Yosemite Valley over a year ago, on my way to Mammoth Lakes for a delivery. I have always loved Yosemite. I would spend more time there if I were within a reasonable driving distance. Postcards and pictures fail to accurately convey their magnificence and beauty. Think of it this way. Look at some of Ansel Adams incredible work, and multiply that by the thousands. It is that incredible. As we were driving through, all I could think about was wonderful words describing the vistas, flora and fauna. My writing muse was reveling in descriptive phrases. I began to madly scribble on every bit of paper I could find in my purse. Several scenes in the story and much of my world’s landscape are inspired by Yosemite.

As time went by, my train of thought was barreling full steam, and I began to think of the story I was already telling my son. Characters began to form in the primordial soup my muse was brewing, and a whole world began to form. Every single fairy story, folk tale and mythos I had ever read influenced my creation. Bits of the personalities of every person I have ever met found their way into my characters. The floodgates were opened, and that particular ‘story’ alone now has 3 chapters and almost 50 pages of notes regarding character descriptions, places, events and even a creation mythos for its own little world.  Over the past few years I began another story (which started out as a simple song wraparound) and dove into my first fan-fiction. It could be a giant bunch of mediocre blather for all I know, but I’ve had fun writing it. I harbor hope of one day seeing it in published print somehow. It WILL be published one day.

It is the best form of stress relief I have come across. I find inspiration wherever I go, and the silliest things will make me stop what I am doing and scribble on little pieces of paper. So where was I going with all this in the first place? Who knows? I’ve forgotten. Just remember it is never too late to begin something new, and when your muse calls, you must answer. I think my original intent was to write about finding ones writing ‘voice’.

Now, can someone please wake my muse in charge of helping me find time and inspiration to finish my story? Please? It’s starting to bottle up and I don’t want to be admitted to the psyche ward of the nearest hospital muttering about dryads, warriors and gaesas. I hear Metallica’s  “Sanitarium” echoing through my brain. They don’t have sanitariums or Insane Asylums anymore do they? Do they??

Wherever I may roam…

Once upon a time, not so very long ago...

I awoke in the gloaming hour of the evening with a sheet of paper pressed to my cheek. With a yawn, I retrieved the pen that had fallen to the floor and smoothed out the page. A few of the words were faded, and I suspected that a cursory peek into a mirror would reveal those very letters tattooed upon my cheek.

Raindrops tapped out a cadence on the roof as I sat at my desk staring into the droplets that pattered against the window. With a sigh I pushed aside the stack of papers covered with ebony scratches that I struggled to organize into coherent thought. Notes and random bits of verse littered the margins while many sentences were crossed out. Some were covered altogether in violent swirls of ink.

With a groan I tossed my pen down, and ran my fingers through my hair in exasperation. " Drat my easily distracted Imp of a Muse!" I muttered aloud. "Teasing me with inspiration just beyond the reach of my imagination! If only he were corporeal. I'd love to..."

A low whisper that was almost a growl tickled my ear. "If only I were corporeal, you would love to what, My Lady?" The worlds were tinged with laughter.

I squeaked as I leapt to my feet, scattering paper and pen as I did so. My mug of tea clattered noisily to the floor. I muttered curses under my breath, but did nothing to retrieve the mug as I looked about the darkened room. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary I convinced myself that I was still groggy with sleep.

  I turned my attention to the broken mug on the floor, carefully picking up the three equal pieces. As I placed them on a nearby table my peripheral vision caught a glimpse of forest green on my shoulder.

I squeezed my eyelids shut tightly in disbelief.  Surely I was still dreaming. There appeared to be a pair of brown leather boots attached to the bits of forest green. After a few moments, I opened my eyes and slowly turned my head to find a small being on my shoulder.

It was difficult to focus on him without straining my eyes, so I hurried to the hallway and peered into the gilt framed mirror that hung there. He sat quite comfortably on my shoulder and appeared corporeal one moment and vaporous the next. Forest green pants were tucked into soft brown boots and either a short sword or large dagger was secured to his hip; I could not clearly see the weapon. His dark grey doublet was embroidered with a lighter grey thread that wound its way up the seams like a silvery vine. Jet-black hair spilled over his shoulders and down his back. The sides were pulled back from his face and an intricately wrought circlet settled itself just above his brows, while two dark ribbons of hair spilled over his temples.

His grey eyes twinkled as he folded his arms across his chest. "Well? Aren't you going to say something? I've been trying to capture your attention for some time now. But, since you've finally summoned me, my task is easier."

"Summoned?" My response was little more than a whisper. What a fool I was for speaking such words aloud! I could have summoned an ifrit or demon. As it was, I was not entirely sure whether to believe this Imp who claimed to be my muse. I gathered up my senses and asked him why he was trying to capture my attention. "You have not been trying very hard. I've been struggling for weeks if you are indeed who you say you are."

He chuckled and stopped shifting. His corporeal form was quite impressive despite his small stature. "I am who I am. And I thank you for your summons. Now tell me, what is it you wish to do to me?" His smirk was disconcerting.

"Had I the stomach for it, I would wring your neck." I grumbled.

He laughed so hard I feared that he would fall off. "But you don't, so I am safe. Besides, I know you well. You would do nothing to jeopardize inspiration."

He finished laughing and eyed me seriously. "Now, you wish to know why I seek your attention?"

I nodded dumbly.

"The reasons are simple. I've a plethora of ideas floating around, and as your muse, I believe these ideas are the most suited to you. These, My Lady, are ideas rife with fantastic worlds, enchantment, humor, angst, sadness, wit, and idealism. I need you to transform these ideas into something tangible. Words!" He leaned towards my ear and lowered his voice to a murmur. "Weave my ideas into tales! All I ask is that you accord me some time for once. Listen to what I would share with you."

"Time? I haven't that luxury." I mumbled softly. I turned my face away from him so quickly locks of dark hair flicked him neatly off of my shoulder. ";Better for you to leave me to my lack of confidence. Find a vessel better suited to your fanciful whims."

Unperturbed at his sudden and ignominious removal from my shoulder, the imp leapt neatly to the table and sat on a pile of books. He stroked his bare chin thoughtfully.

"Why?"he asked pointedly."Why should I, when I am positive I have chosen correctly? I am never wrong." With a chuckle he quickly added, "Well, almost never. I have since learned that patience and prudence go hand in hand. Besides, it does not work that way"

I eyed him dubiously with arched brow and folded arms. "What makes you so confident? There is always a first time for failure you know."

"Why are you so stubborn?" he replied. "You have ignored me for the better part of two decades in favor of HER. She who must never be ignored."The last sentence he nearly spat out and I began to wonder if he were about to sulk.

"You are so dramatic. By the way, don't pout. It is very unbecoming."

"Who's pouting? It's true. Have you any idea how bored I have been all these years? I thank the stars daily for your various journals, otherwise she would have been insufferable and I would have wasted away to a shadow. As it is" he gestured to himself furiously, "this is bad enough. I've been reduced from an elven lord to a mere sprite."

And yet you are large enough to try my patience. I thought."An elven lord?" I asked aloud.

The imp grew to the size of a small child before my eyes as he drew himself up haughtily with a smirk. He was now seated at the edge of the table with his legs dangling over the side. "Of course. How else could I draw your attention away from Her?" He smiled wider at my flushed cheeks. "It was the only logical shape for me to choose. I've tried the shapes of ex-fiends, past jobs and enchanted frogs. I've tried the shapes of dogs, relatives, holidays, mythological creatures and even a dashing pirate captain. I am having the most fun with this one, and I intend to keep it."

He pretended to brush off his nails where his lapel would be before he blew them off. "Not a bad choice, if I do say so myself. It has been quite effective really. Now, about putting my ideas down into words. What say you to an accord of sorts? Pay attention to my prodding for a while and do some creative writing. I promise to try and behave. I'm wasting away to nothing, and your journal entries have been disappointing. Dare I say it? Boring even."

With a derisive snort, I rolled my eyes and threw my hands in the air.";Even figments of my imagination are critics! I suppose this is the part where I say "Fine, YOU come up with better ideas?"

With a satisfied grin he sat back and folded his arms. "I knew you would see it my way."

"What? I didn’t…I mean. Oh, for the love of…Fine.” I sighed in exasperation. “Say I listen to you. Who is to say that you won’t disappear in the middle of a fantastic bit of writing?”

Silence.

“Well? What have you to say for yourself?” I pointed towards the piles of paper that fought for space on my table. “There are THREE different major ideas struggling to be written there. That does not even count my journals! YOU,” I pointed a finger at him, “ have some explaining to do.”

In the blink of an eye, he drew himself up to what I guessed to be his full height instead of reverting to an Imp like I had expected him to. With a smile that produced a dimple in his cheek, he bowed low before me, causing me to shift my feet in discomfort.

“What is there to explain, My Lady? I just threw a few ideas out there for inspiration. Can I help it if my creative genius prompted you to attempt all of them? It is up to you to weave the words into a literary tapestry. I chose you to be the vessel for my ideas because I like your style. Besides, do you know how tiresome it is to listen to Her brag about how she inspired you to create this, or draw that? How convenient that she glosses over the fact that all the journaling you do is inspired by Yours Truly.” His smile momentarily disappeared into a furrowed brow and a frown.

I sunk into my chair and closed my eyes. “You keep referring to ‘Her’.” I said as I massaged my temples with my fingertips. “Don’t tell me. There are more of you?”

“Oh, Jewel of Wisdom, you have no idea. Prospero himself had fewer sprites to attend him. She herself has a troupe of underlings. Artistically, you have dabbled into more areas of visual expression than even She can keep track of on her own.”

My eyes shot open and I drew my palms down my cheeks so that they cradled my chin. “Prospero? As in: ‘The Tempest’, Prospero?”

He nodded solemnly.

If my memory served me correctly, Prospero’s Island was fairly crawling with sprites besides Ariel. I shivered involuntarily at the thought of a host of unseen spirits swirling around me as I worked.

Had I known about them would have been one thing. Being told after the fact was another. How unfair that they never made themselves known to me. I idly wondered what would happen now that I knew of their existence. What was I thinking? I was having a conversation with a figment of my imagination. Of course they did not exist! I mentally shook myself and tried to make sense of what must surely be a hallucination.

He dropped to one knee before me with his right hand pressed to his left shoulder. I could feel my face flush (not for the first time since our ‘conversation’ began) as he offered me a crimson-feathered quill with his left. I was trying to decide if it was unease or irritation I was feeling when he finally spoke.

“My Lady, be it on my honor that I offer you the solemn vow that I shall see you through the completion of each idea that I present to you. Although I cannot promise that such completion shall take place in a time frame entirely suitable to your wishes, I am confident that you shall be pleased with the results.

A gaes. Oh the implications of his vow! My eyes glittered just thinking about the possibility of completed stories.

I tilted my head slightly forward in a nod of acquiescence. “I accept your vow.”

He grinned broadly in return, the dimple returning to his cheek. “I had no doubt that you would.”

“There is one small something that I want to know…”

He peered at me expectantly. “And that would be?”

I grinned cheekily at him. “You like Her don’t you? You like her LOTS.”

He treated me to another formal bow and a smirk. “As it has always been through the ages, writing has been inspired by artists, while the arts have been inspired by the poets, composers and bards. I admire Her greatly, and despite my complaints, we have worked hand in hand since the dawn of time. Without her, how could I inspire you to put into words descriptions and feeling strong enough to paint a mental picture in the minds of those who read them? And likewise, what good is the visual artistry she inspires, if one cannot describe them with words worthy of their beauty? Are not some pages of verse decorated with images? Are not some works of art adorned with bits of writing?”

I smiled and admitted to myself that I liked him very much. After all, having an Elven Lord for a literary muse couldn’t be all that bad now, could it? I frowned at all the possible ways it could go badly as a horde of clichéd ideas began to scare me.

"The second you start in on anything clichéd, silly and insane, don’t think for a moment that I won’t attempt to squash you!” I pointed a finger at him accusingly. “If I don’t catch it immediately, I have friends who won’t hesitate to harangue me about it.”

“Is that a challenge?” he grinned. “Of course I will try my best to avoid anything tasteless or overdone, but you have just given me fodder for future amusement.”

"I shall have to accept that. I look forward to gaining some headway on these.” I eyed the piles of paper longingly. “I want to know how they end.”

“Soon Impatience, soon.” He chuckled as he began to fade away in a haze of light.

“To Aslan, all times are soon.” I muttered as I once again lay my head on my table, sleep was overtaking me quickly. I had decided my arms to be a very convenient pillow.

“Quoting her favorite Authors to the end!” a disembodied voice laughed somewhere above me. “Sleep soundly, and dream vividly. I shall visit again soon, though I shall never be far away from your imagination.”

I smiled as I slipped into slumber. My dreams were filled with dryads, enchanted weapons, mist covered glens and giant custards.

My dreamscape changes from time to time. Recently, I have found myself walking a narrow corridor, up some stone steps towards the dawn. I do not know how I am so sure of this; that my favorite hour awaits me if I can only reach the doors. No sconces line the walls, no candles or other illumination lights my way. I can see for a short distance in front of me, and if I glance over my shoulder, a soft blue light softens the darkness. I can only assume that I am the source of light, as it moves when I do, and I cast no shadow.

I run my fingers along the rock wall as I ascend, my fingertips travelling along carven images and designs. Behind me there is some danger or some darkness beyond the literal interpretation of the word. I feel no fear though, no sense of urgency that I should hasten my escape from below the earth. I continue to calmly ascend the stone stairs until I reach two great wood and iron doors that open at my slightest touch.

As I step through the portal, I do  not look behind me, even though I hear the two doors shut after my passing.I happily continue into the gloaming, letting the mists curl around me as I walk. I follow a path that I think is covered in either a short grass or thick moss. Tendrils of some type of vine and various blooms peek and poke along the path at times, but there is always the mists. Never is there a time where I can look down and see the path clearly.

Eventually I stop and turn to consider the place I had just emerged from. It is a large edifice that at first appeared to be a small mountain or hill. I struggle to concentrate on a three tiered building with protruding eaves at each level as the mists seem to dissapate somewhat. The building is reminiscent of a pyramid or temple with the uppermost level being the smallest, and there is no clear distinction as to where the lowest level begins and the earth ends. In the center of the lowest level are the twin doors that I had emerged from. They are as tall as the first level of the building, and appear to be made of dark wood and iron. That are solid and without windows. I marvel at the ease in which they had opened for I had only to touch them gently with my palms, and they seemed to open of their own accord. Moss and heavy vines adorn the walls and the eaves causing me to mull over their existance here as I beleive the climate to be unfavorable for such tropical looking plants. I soon forget my contemplations as the doors open once more.

Here this dream ended and I awoke wondering about who or what opened the door, where i was coming from, and what did this dream symbolize? Was it a memory or an interpretaion? Or was there any meaning at all? I can't shake the feeling that all of the dreams that I remember vividly are interwoven with each other.

I never understood this ritual of following around a groundhog to see how much longer winter would be here. (*Adds that to list of things to web surf for.*) I have a ton of questions about this!
For example:

• Who thought to ask a groundhog when spring would get here?
• And how did the groundhog communicate with this someone?
• When this person ran back to the local village to share his news, was he suspected of witchcraft, deemed to be insane, or laughed out of town as the village idiot?
• Or was he touted the village scholar for being able to talk to the animals?
• Was he Dr. Doolittle? Clinically insane? The village prankster?
• And whose brilliant idea was it to proclaim this a holiday?
• Was it one of Hallmarks failures? I can't remember the last time I received a card, chocolates, toys or a visit from the Great Groundhog. Nor have I ever had a pin that said "Kiss me! I'm a Groundhog!" ,carved a Groundhog or decorated one with ornaments and lights.

But there you have it. It is Groundhog's day, and according to the 'Official' groundhog, there will be 6 more weeks of winter. I suppose that would make a difference to those living in a harsher climate than California.

So in honor of Groundhog's Day, and the impending 6 weeks left of winter, I will work on cleaning up my blog. The sidebar is cluttered, and the footer is harboring an infestation of 'jumble'. But thanks to my short attention span and procrastination habits, you as a reader may not reap the benefit of such cleansing for a while.

ADDENDUM!(6:07pm)

OK, because I am a huge mythology and folklore fiend, I had to find the origin of this so called 'Holiday'. Apparently it is older than Hallmark. If you are remotely interested, bored or curious, click the link below.

Behind the Groundhog. Festival, Holiday or Freakshow?

What's your favorite song from a Disney movie?

My favorite...boy what a tough question. I think it would be a toss up between 'Jack's Lament' and 'What's this?'; both from 'The Nightmare Before Christmas'. I can be found humming it often during the day. Between The Boy and I, we know all the lyrics in the movie...and probably all the lines!

(continued..again, these dreams are are either reoccuring, or I have written them down as soon as I awake)

I consider my sojourns along the path of dreams chaotic as of late. What usually is vivid and colorful has become shrouded in mists, the color muted in my dream world. Though I do not stumble, my steps are unguided and aimless. I have become a wanderer in my own realm and I struggle to find my way, so I listen.

I listen to the mists swirling around my head, each fine droplet crashing and roaring like the falls of the Bruinen; each step thunderous as pebbles and foliage meet the soles of my bare feet, and I feel no pain. Sometimes I hear voices calling to me from deep within the fog, and sometimes I hear footsteps echoing my own.

Sometimes a wild laugh taunts me, her voice just out of sight and reach. Frustrated, I spin wildly this way and that, following the silvery laughter as it leads me along paths that I have traveled countless times, though I have no real idea where they lead. I concentrate on the voice until I can hear it no more, and the others begin to murmur.

Eventually I collapse on the ground in resignation, letting my cheek rest upon the ground. One arm is outstretched above my head, the other held close to my chest with my palm resting on the ground near my heart. I never know how long I lie there just listening, letting my fingers trace circles upon the smooth white marble I am lying on before they wander to the pendant always at my throat.

Inexplicably, my chest begins to tighten and my stomach begins to feel odd; waves of emotions that I cannot identify begin to crash over me and I turn to bury my face in my arms as rivulets of tears begin to pour across my cheeks before spilling onto the floor beneath me.

I curl into a ball, clutching my stomach as my chest burns and my scalp tingles with a heat that makes me think of flames. My skin appears to glow with the redness of an ember until I sit up and scream; pouring my very soul into the keeing wail that shatters the silence. Soon, the mists converge upon me once again, and I fall forward onto the palms of my hands. The marble feels cool to the touch and soothes my tender flesh.

My breaths begin to come in ragged gasps as I struggle to stop the barrage of sobs that threaten to take hold of me. My emotions still swirl chaotically around me, and I have the urge to reach out and collect them all; to put them in order. Instead I bury my face in my hands and concentrate upon the simple task of breathing.

Soon, someone kneels before me and draws me close to his chest as he wraps his cloak around my bare shoulders. Behind him stands a great lady. Although my face is still buried in my hands, I can feel her prescence. I feel warm breath against my forehead as arms tighten around me. A melodic voice dances across my mind, and above the chaos of my thoughts are the words " The way is clear, if you would see it with your heart."

...to be continued...

As seen on www.deviantart.com . Consider it an illustration for my musings..

This picture was taken from horseback in Alum Rock Park in San Jose,CA way back in 1990. I wasn't sure then why I stopped the horse for this shot, but it called to me.

I've dreamed this place. Hundreds of times in this lifetime. This manipulation of it actually made me choke back emotion.

Photo taken with a Nikon EM (cant remember f-stop shutter speed or much else)/ Black and White Film, developed and processed by me, by hand from shot, to film to print.

Dreamscape_by_TheLoremistress

I began to write this in my journal at the beginning of last summer when it seemed as if the entire state was on fire. This dream has returned so often as of late I decided to come back to it.Perhaps one day I'll make sense of it...

My dreamscapes have become my reality as of late. Things that I see, things that happen and things that just are seem to exist both in my dreamworld and in what I have known as my reality.

I have awakened to a burnt orange sun for the past fortnight. Some mornings it is tinged with a rosy blush as it's light strggles through the blanket of ash and smoke. Each day I attempt to avoid the comparison of my dreams to my daily travels south during the dawn hours.

There is a well worn path in my dreamworld that I have known for as long as I can remember. I cannot reckon how many times I have traveled that dream path, although I can tell you that it has not changed since I first encountered the dream as a toddler. As I have gotten older I notice some new detail with each dream, and that the dream presents itself during a time of duress or a major life event. However,the journey remains the same, as if I am recalling a memory with each step and each breath.

In this dream it is always the same red-orange sun, whose brilliance is dimmed by dark plumes of ash and smoke. I am travelling with a large group of people, although I do not know where we are going or why. My nearest companion is always a mother figure. Sometimes it is my mother or my Lola. Sometimes it is simply and unnamed figure and more often than not it has been my Nana. We are travelling within the middle of the group yet not so near to anyone that I can make out their features, nor even their manner of dress at times. Sometimes I know they are wearing cloaks and sometimes what seems like a more form fitting garment. I am always clutching an object, though most times I do not know exactly what I hold. Sometimes I am holding fast to a book, and I feel that it carries some importance.

Inevitably I stumble, until I am kneeling on the ground, a wave of despair and abandonment as the mother figure I am travelling with is pulled away from me as the group surges onward. She looks over shoulder and hesitates momentarily until two male figures appear. Once they were firefighters, but almost always it is a pair of cloaked warriors; one is always bareheaded, and the other sometimes wears a helmet that calls to mind Romans, Hawai'ian warriors or how the firstborn of Arda are often depicted

I never heard the firefighters speak to me, or if they have I cannot remember. I only saw them once, and I was still a young child. In that dream, one picked me up and simply began to continue on with me cradled in his arms. I believe this was one of the first few times I had this dream.

 It was not until I was about twenty that I can recall the warriors ever speaking to me. With each encounter, the one wielding a spear would kneel before me and reach forward to help me to my feet. The other would always be standing as if at 'watch' over us, bow and arrow at the ready. More recently I have noticed that a bright sword hung at their sides. Even though they are sheathed, a soft glow emanates from below the hilt as if light is unable to be contained in the sheaths. I can not say with conviction that they say the exact same words in each dream, but the message is always the same. The standing warrior urges us to continue, 'We must leave this place. It is time to go.' The warrior kneeling before me lifts me easily to my feet, even as I clutch the book closer," You are safe with us My Lady. It is true, we must continue." 

I have little time to protest or even puzzle this, as my dream always fades into another at this point. I am not sure of where I am coming from, nor where I am headed. Are we running from something? War? Natural disaster? I am travelling this dream path with alarming frequency these past few months, yet this time, nothing is changing. I cannot recall any new detail, and it frustrates me.

...to be continued...