I can not believe how angry I am over a TV show. I had trouble sleeping last night, and when I woke up this morning I had this nagging unhappy feeling. I was like, what is this? So I mentally went through the negatives of yesterday, hmm..doctor still suggesting I might need blood pressure medication and wants me to get an MRI I can't afford (not pleasant, but I'm employing strategies to try and avoid both, so I don't think that's it)....cat threw-up on the floor (yeah well what's new)...and then my mind arrived at the X Factor, the elimination of Drew (yep that's it), the cause of the feeling.

    I had already found the show to be annoying (not in the beginning weeks but once we arrived at the judge enhanced stage performances), I don't like the overkill production, and I haven't enjoyed the judges banter, not their direct comments and not their back and forth with each other. But I kept watching the show anyway, because I liked the contestants. And I still do, like all of them, that is something the show got right- giving every contestant a back story- letting us get a sense of each one of them, so that we would care. And of course I have had my favorites: Josh, Melanie, and Drew. I fully expected them to be the final three. And though I am embarrassed to admit it, yes I voted.

    Drew, she was my favorite. I don't understand why the judges didn't save her. Or at least send it to a deadlock so the person with the lowest votes would go home. I would be sad if it turned out she had the lowest viewer votes and was sent home, but if I knew that then at least I would still be able to watch the show. I would be sad but think oh I guess people didn't realize they needed to vote for her, or maybe everyone else doesn't enjoy that unique tone to her voice as much as I do. And that would be that. But that isn't what happened. Of course Simon tried to save her, but the other three just tossed this shimmering sparkly girl aside. Ugh, I am so angry with the judges, and with the show, that I can't tolerate the idea of watching it anymore. I would like to support some of the other contestants, but whenever I think of the show I just feel sick. I can't stand the idea of watching and listening to those judges anymore.

Personal prescription: eat more watermelon, less salt; do those weird eye and head exercises to improve balance and combat dizziness; don't watch the X-Factor.

(not sure what to do about the darn cat, I suppose I do have to keep feeding him.)

  This is what I have decided about NaNoWriMo, National Novel Writing Month, I'm not doing it, but not totally not doing it. I've committed myself to 10,000 words by Nov. 30th. That is a lot less than the 50,000 NaNo goal, but I think it is right for me. I wont feel like I am just skipping it, and I'll make some progress on a new project, but I'll also have time to work on editing Echo, and to look after my family and household, and to try and avoid getting dizzy, and to be dizzy.
    I'm at 3,412.  I do cheat though. I use previous notes and questions I ask myself, and count them in my wordcount. As in- I wonder if  Sardinia would be a good location? What sort of jobs are they looking for? It should start in Spring or Fall at twilight. I hear insects buzzing, feel warm night air, a slight breeze; under his skin he is on fire.- And, I tend to use and, and then, a lot. Which doesn't bother me at all, except that I wish I could write better. Be a stronger writer not so much in the rough draft but at some point.

                                                                   Happy Halloween

 I still can't believe the snow. I'm glad the kids in our area trick or treated on Friday.
Last weekend was filled with planting bulbs. This weekend I was dashing about outside with my son digging up and bringing inside his tropical and desert plants. The kitchen and garage are now greenly stuffed.

     NaNoWriMo is whispering to me. But I need to be strong and tell it, "Not this year dear, I have a headache." The trouble with NaNo is, it turns November into a marathon of researching and writing. And when December first strikes I'm exhausted and my house is a mess. And instead of feeling any sort of festiveness, I feel the holidays ever encroaching like a dark beast waiting around the corner.  My slow motion get away attempts only leading to the inevitable basement scene. Or is that not where characters tend to meet their demise?
   This year I'd like to not start out already behind. I want to feel Thanksgiving, not manage it around my word count for the day. I want to hum Christmas carols and think of putting up lights as joyful, not as another chore on a long list of things to do. I wonder if that's possible.

    It would be great though to work on some story ideas I have, to develop Dark Park/ Stone Song, Wisteria Manor,  Hidden Candles, Whale and Penguin, or Shield of Innocence, into full fledged outlines. It would be great to turn an idea into a story. I like listing the titles, it kindles within, I like knowing they are there waiting, that maybe they can become something. And there is no push forward like NaNoWriMo.

    However I still haven't been able to take what I have done for past NaNos and turn them into finished stories. I just finished my read through of Echo today (took me 6 months, because I didn't read it during the summer). And though I littered the margins with notes to myself I haven't actually done the work of improving it yet. And the attempt will be a long and confusing process. I will need to do a lot more reading about editing, and a lot of careful reading of the works of others to help me learn.

    Come spring do I want four stories in rough draft form or do I want to have two stories in rough draft and one story done, fully finished. Of course the answer would be to have one story completely done. But the thing is, that I don't know how to do that, so three months, six months, a year or two more, who knows how long that could take me (forever..never?). The rough draft thing, I know that when I set it as a priority over everything else in my life that I can accomplish one of those in a month. And that does bring me a sense of accomplishment, even though I am not sure if I am truly moving forward.

    The final element in my decision making process, is the one that annoys me the most. These past two weeks I've had trouble with dizziness. Reading and work such as writing, painting, and sculpting usually make it worse. I've abandoned a painting, and a sculpture project for the time being. God I miss dancing around in the mornings while I brush my teeth. I never realized what a bouncy person I am. Oh to do a little hip dip, a bit of sway, to rock my head back and forth, to bound up the stairs singing, and not feel like the world was moving twice as fast in the opposite direction, to not incur the wrath of nausea at the slightest provocation.

    Strangely I've still been able to do yard work and wash dishes and the like. Sometimes I feel plenty bad afterward. But I'm pleased that I've been able to do my regular stuff by making some adjustments, like not moving my head much (keeping my face facing the same way as my body), not moving side ways, moving slowly, etc. I haven't been exercising though. Walking can quickly turn into a bad experience. Whether it be in the kitchen or outside, if the dizzy stuff strikes it feels like I am moving over an undulating landscape. But maybe I shouldn't even bother considering this in my decision, hopefully this will stay in October. Like I said I've been doing better. Better enough to convince myself today not to think of writing on the computer as a risky thing to do. Oh and I've decided that I have good balance since I haven't fallen, so that is something, not as good as not being dizzy, but some kind of consolation.

  I think I've convinced myself not to do NaNo though I do feel the pull, and I will certainly visit their website tomorrow. But more importantly I've whined a bit about being dizzy, which might seem a bad thing, but usually when I complain about a thing like that here, it goes away.

    Trying to psych myself up for weeding in the rain. Apparently I am not to plant in the rain, as it will ruin the soil structure. I don't like to weed. The fact that there are plants to be planted is the only reason weeding has entered my mind. My neighbor has cast of some hostas from her beds, and kindly given them to me. Dug up from her yard of order and beauty and dumped into mine; they sit huddled together along my deck, and await their uncertain futures.
    I guess after I weed, I can set the hostas on top of the soil where they will be planted, maybe that will make us feel better. Or maybe they will think they have been given to a crazy lady who doesn't know their roots are supposed to be in the ground. And they will hear no reassuring whisperings from the plants at the top and bottom of the bank concerning my gardening...sporadic and erratic..would be words of choice. Aah well I'm sure the plants around front would say nicer things about me.
    My hope is that these hostas will help me pull this slopey shady space together.
Well I guess it is time to stop staring into the backyard and working the area with my eyes, and get out there and begin working the space with my hands.

Family Portrait

I am a butterfly hunter, prt 2

  - me now, a year later
 Uneven progress this past year, as I tried to learn, but often felt too stupid to, so questioned the point of trying, the value in any of it, why write? and thus regularly ended up in the bog of why bother.

    Sometimes I look at this story through the lens of what others might think of it. And it falls apart, and I fall apart. I say it is saccharine schlock and poorly written schlock. And I am hounded and faithless for a while. Then suddenly the clamoring voices quiet, scattered away by some unknown force.  And I sense again the faint music. Like it has come and sought me out. And I lean closer to the echo, to hear it stripped away from my cumbersome words. Free from my pen as I fumble toward it. To know what it is meant to be. And I am taken again. Wings flutter, and I follow, lamenting only my inability to transmute purely. That the conduit has a soft heart but awkward hands (maybe mine's an awkward mind). Perhaps this one, this first one, this hardest one, is just for me. Maybe I have to struggle to learn to write, to rise to my best ability, to become better, to tell this story for no one else, but me.  And that, that is enough.
    It has to be.

    Enough because I need to fully know the story, or it wouldn't have come, and stayed and waited so long, asking again and again, year in, year out, know me. And I wont be free till I have given it my best. And not today's best either, one that involves becoming more, a best beyond what I know how to do today. It asks, it requires, more.


     I have no interest in further questioning the act, that would be a waste of time. I have arrived at the answer (again and again). It is who I am, it has meaning to me. I am a butterfly hunter (and a dishwasher, and a mom, etc.,). So having validated the dream, the urge to pursue if only for an audience of one, as enough to warrant time and effort. I must now surrender all my excuses. As I'm also naturally a dreamer (a day dreamy dreamer), and to just be a dreamer is no longer enough. There must always be action, muddy boots, and callused hands. My arms should hurt from swinging the net. I must keep close enough to warrant a swing. My eyes trained to seek and pick out her wings from amongst the dense foliage. I need a map, to track, to record. I hope to avoid much pointless wandering. This is the year of strategy.

This is the year I ask, what am I willing to give?
Not what do I want, I know that.
But what am I willing to do to get there.
And because it has been so hard to gather energy and muster forward, when I felt that even if I did manage to make it good, no one would be interested in publishing it (that I would reach a wall), I have decided on e-publishing as and end goal. I have needed an end goal. To know I was headed somewhere. It is a different dream. Not one of physically holding a book in my hands, my name on it, my story. To see it in a bookstore, to see it in a library. To have others believe in it, and promote it. Goodbye to the hope of making it big.
No. Now I just want to go through and edit it (re-write, rewrite, rewrite.), and make it the best that I can. I want to finish it. And to send it out apart from me. I don't expect her to fly far. I hope that she will be seen by a handful of people. If by no one, that would make me sad, but a few people, who I can imagine she would hold some value for, that would make me happy.
So now that the end is no longer a wall of no, but a window, I have no excuse not to go.
Not to do everything I can to get there.

      Since this year's writing conference I have mostly been focusing on strategy. On developing one, and I have already turned my first idea on its head. I had focused on trying to learn grammar this past year, since I know I am weak in this area.  I felt if I could build competency in this, I would build confidence, and be able to truly move forward.
Nope. It hasn't happened.
I've improved slightly, but mostly I have felt more doubt and stumbled more. Insecurity causing incapacitation.
So for progress's sake, grammar will wait. Instead I am focusing on content, on story, on story telling. There is much to learn in this area, and I understand what I read about it. The ideas don't confuse me and elude my grasp.
Though often my first response to an idea is, that idea is stupid, artificial, I wont be doing that. But I give it time to sink in, time for stubbornness to meet sway. In fact now I know this is part of my learning process. First I read it, second totally discount it, third decide to apply it ever so slightly. Like a tentative tip of tongue tasting something expected to be bitter. And then finally discover, that it has value, but that I will work it in in ways and proportions that make sense to me.
So I am not afraid in this (as afraid). I know I will make progress. And after I have done all I can with learning how to make the story stronger, more compelling, (and for God's sake for me to stop taking the conflict and tension out of the story, when I am supposed to be making it more acute) then I will turn my focus on grammar. Actually I am hoping, perhaps foolishly so, that some of those sorts of mistakes will be naturally worked out. That as the story becomes stronger, some of the grammatical problems will get knocked out of it in the process.
    So that's this year's plan. Make it more interesting, increase the tension, feel the characters, make it with words, visually alive. I read over the story while waiting to pick up my son at school. And there is one benefit in having waited so long, it does feel new to me. And I am able to see things more clearly. I'm not afraid of my own little red pen, strike it out! This doesn't work, that doesn't work. And it doesn't hurt me to say it, to do it, it feels empowering, because I know. There isn't the lost confusion (at the moment) of- is this better? is that? ugh I don't know. So whenever I know things need to be reworked, and why, and have a clue as to how, I am happy. Really happy.
    Wish me good work. My mood will be highly variable, so I'll have to hold to something deeper than that.

( don't know what the problem is, I have tried to publish this with photos, starting two months ago, never ever works for some reason, so I'm trying without photos. My son wont help me as he is busy baking a cake.) Hah! Giving up was the ticket. :)  (well that and then trying again after publish.) Son is busy gloating feeling assured his cake will be better than the last one I made, years ago, we called it the cow patty, and gave it as a gift to the trash can, which was unable to refuse the refuse. Since I can't bake I've been called to wash the dishes.)

I am a Butterfly Hunter

 set out in search of lost, of unknown, butterflies...


Back from this years writing conference, internally I am a jumble, as usual.  Here is part of a post I wrote last year at this time (after the writer's conference) but never posted. It is about how I can't imagine anyone ever agreeing to publish anything I write, as there wouldn't be a market for it. And how much harder that makes all the struggles I continually encounter with trying to learn the craft of writing, and of hoping for the art of it.
why write?
so here is that post-

     What is on my mind at the moment is the kind of stories that I write.  I feel out of sync with the world.  Seems everyone else is talking about and writing: glamor, gossip, griping action, lust, molestation, incest, abuse, drugs, rape, war, bullying, affairs, murder, intrigue, espionage, explosions, all that good stuff, that isn't stuff that I write about.  And for the most part isn't stuff that I like reading about. My work is softer, more sentimental. It doesn't bang, it whispers. I know there are a lot of other kinds of stories out there too, and that even in the stories with that harder stuff those things mostly aren't the point of the stories, they just happen in them. But when they talk about the market and the intended audience, and who your reader would be, it doesn't seem like there would be anyone for me. For my stories. (My stuff isn't all dancing bunnies in sunshine. Or I would focus on writing for young children. There is a foe in death, loss is a villain for me. But my world is pastel.)

  So I am trying to work this through, thinking okay, I am going to spend the rest of my life struggling to learn how to sing this little song, this little song I am always overhearing. And my joy will have to lie solely in getting it right; finding the tune, the cadence, and being able to carry it; in resonating with it, but not in ever sharing the song with someone else. Because there isn't anyone else who will ever be interested in hearing it. That's a major bummer. Because while writing is a personal journey, mostly a solitary action, there is a pull to connect with others through the page. A story journey wants to be traveled by more than one. You feel it longing to be known. That is what it asks of you, to be revealed.

    Perhaps I will spend my whole life obsessed with capturing this elusive butterfly, extraordinarily beautiful to me; that beckons me to traverse rough terrain into unknown kingdoms, where I often get lost. When I started tracking it (almost 12 years ago), I didn't know how long it would take; I knew it would take time and effort, but as I've followed it deeper into the jungle I've come to realize it could take years more, decades; that I might die without ever having captured it. But still I've held steady to my hope of netting it, of that moment of attaining, of fully seeing and knowing it exists; when it has been made real because it always was real.  In my hands, in me. Possessing it, having it possess me; fluttering wings against my chest.
    It is not the cost of pursuit that mangles me now. Because I had always considered it a worthy endeavor.  What twists and tears at my resolve, is that the accomplishment, the wondrous moment I have imagined, dreamed of, gilded with magic, the capture of that exotic butterfly, will be meaningless to anyone but me. My prize, my magical ethereal manifestation, if ever attained, will just be a shoulder shrug, and a, "I don't get it."  "Why did she bother." to other people. "Who the heck cares about that butterfly. It's not interesting, and certainly not pretty.  It is different I suppose..but so what? There is nothing worthwhile in that"

    So that is the space that I've fallen into, the one where I lose all faith, feel the pursuit is stupid and pointless. Why bother?  No one would care, even if I managed to do this thing, no one would be interested.  But the thing is no matter how disheartening thinking that way can be, ultimately it always shifts, as I remember: I am a butterfly hunter. That is what I do.  Not because others are sending me out on a mission. Not because anyone other than me has an interest in my capturing any butterfly, let alone this one.  I follow butterflies because it is the way my soul was weaved.  And I chase this particular butterfly, because it is the one that I've seen in my dreams; it is the one that sings to me in whispers, close enough that I can almost hear. The vibration of which I can feel humming within, like a little piece of it, a torn fragment of wing, echoes the same song from inside me. So to sit motionless in a pit, net cast aside, body sunken into the mud, would just be stupid.

end of prt. 1

I went to a writers conference Friday and Thursday. I would like to do a post, but my laptop computer keeps shutting off (something wrong with the cord connecting it to the outlet I assume), and I don't want to loss what I am working on midway through.

I'm not however too concerned over the possibility of losing any of the content of this posting to say I hope I can post soon post :)  And I even managed to get in a photo!  I think as long as the cord remains at just the right angle....perfectly still....

       My thoughts and prayers are with Japan and her people.

    The white birds are back!  It looked like hundreds, light glinting off their wing, shimmering against a blue sky as they flew in wide circles. Gliding in a peaceful spiral down to land in the field opposite the street I live on. Just birds I know, snow geese, or perhaps the whistling swan, nothing exotic, and nothing unusual about seeing them here. But I had written a flock of white birds into my story years ago, before I knew there were any around here, before I had ever seen them.  So for me, the sight of them is as if a page from my story has come to life, has come to visit me.  It electrifies my soul. It gives me inspiration and courage. A whisper with a thousand wings behind it, 'keep going.' So yes, just birds landing in a field. Ordinary... but also magic, like the birds in the story where ordinary, but the moment contained magic. And I'll take my encouragement and joy where I can. Though I do feel silly for how excited and happy the sight of them makes it, I don't resist or hesitate, I dive right in.

    In a week or two they will be gone; their migration taking them northward. Even if I were to strip them of their symbolic meaning for me, they would still carry the herald of Spring with them.

    I'm so grateful for March. I recall those colorful cutouts my elementary teachers put on their classroom walls. I loved the lion and the lamb, and the teachers saying, "March comes in like I lion and goes out like a lamb." This was soon followed on the walls by a parade of tulips, daffodils, yellow chicks, and bunnies. 
    March still has cold days, and often brings snow, but there will be some warmer days when you can smell spring in the air.  One of peonies is pushing its red tips through the hard dirt. Some of my tulips and daffys are stretching their long green fingertips up through the dirt testing the air to see if it time to come out. I don't know if they are excited to be above ground, to feel the sunlight. But I am excited to see them. I am never in the mood for planting in late fall, but come early spring, I am so glad that I spent hours kneeling in the dirt, digging holes to tuck in little rock and onion shaped things.

  This month also brought with it an end to our being sick.  After two weeks it is finally unusual for one of us to break into a series of hacking coughs. We missed Valentine's day. The three of us were together, but on the sofa, under blankets. Instead of cards, flowers, and sharing a box of chocolate, we had cough drops, boxes of tissues, and a small plastic bucket lined with a grocery store bag, for used tissues, and in case anyone needed to throw-up. My son used it for that several times. We also kept a pump dispenser of hand sanitizer on the end table. Ah fun times.

   I am overtaken with impatience for Spring, for flowers, dirty hands, and buckets of dirt. But this is important time. I need to work on improving my writing. And also my house cleaning was a bit neglected while we were sick. So it isn't time for rushing outdoors with a shovel. No, that time really isn't until May. Now I need to transplant piles of clothing to more suitable locations, water the kitchen floor, divide paragraphs, and weed out unruly sentences.

For Jean, I miss you Nana. 

I wasn't yet born when these photos where taken. I knew her as my grandmother. I knew of the pain and sadness that had touched her life, but I also knew the joy of the spirit that dwells in these photos, vast, timeless, wonderful.

 

This video doesn't quite match what I am trying to express, I've never seen this movie. But I love this version of this song.  Whenever I hear it, my eyes well, and I think of my Nana.  I assume it is a romantic song about couples and such, and I have never had a tumultuous relationship like that of Verlaine's and Rimbaud. But somehow she claims it, whispering, "Think of me, what I have meant to you, what I mean to you." And the sentiment spills over into thoughts of all those I love, with gratitude that I have known them. Thankful for every day, for every moment I get to have, and that I can carry with me, remembering. Always.

Thank you. I couldn't have asked for anything more, except more time.

You're Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go

I’ve seen love go by my door
It’s never been this close before
Never been so easy or so slow
Been shooting in the dark too long
When somethin’s not right it’s wrong
Yer gonna make me lonesome when you go

Dragon clouds so high above
I’ve only known careless love
It’s always hit me from below
This time around it’s more correct
Right on target, so direct
Yer gonna make me lonesome when you go

Purple clover, Queen Anne’s Lace
Crimson hair across your face
You could make me cry if you don’t know
Can’t remember what I was thinkin’ of
You might be spoilin’ me too much, love
Yer gonna make me lonesome when you go

Flowers on the hillside, bloomin’ crazy
Crickets talkin’ back and forth in rhyme
Blue river runnin’ slow and lazy
I could stay with you forever and never realize the time

Situations have ended sad
Relationships have all been bad
Mine’ve been like Verlaine’s and Rimbaud
But there’s no way I can compare
All those scenes to this affair
Yer gonna make me lonesome when you go

Yer gonna make me wonder what I’m doin’
Stayin’ far behind without you
Yer gonna make me wonder what I’m sayin’
Yer gonna make me give myself a good talkin’ to

I’ll look for you in old Honolulu
San Francisco, Ashtabula
Yer gonna have to leave me now, I know
But I’ll see you in the sky above
In the tall grass, in the ones I love
Yer gonna make me lonesome when you go

A Bob Dylan song. My favorite version is Madeleine Peyroux's cover.

    I have inadvertently joined a critique group, and I am terrified.  I keep asking myself, how did this happen? How did I get myself into this? I went to a Saturday morning writers group meeting to hear about self-publishing (electronic). And I happened to mention to the person next to me that I needed to improve my writing, she mentioned a meeting after the meeting for people interested in critique groups. So I thought I would attend and just see what was available. Purely window shopping.  But the person running the meeting was quite determined to match everyone up. I considered fleeing (still am considering fleeing), but didn't; as it would seem an impolite response. I hoped the fact that no one matched up well with me, would save me in the end, no match by genre or time availability.  But he decided that the last three standing equaled a group. And the two were appallingly agreeable in bending to my early day schedule though I tried to convince them not to be.
    I got so anxious thinking about it for the past two weeks, that I told myself I didn't have to do it, I just wouldn't go.  There is my general social anxiety, which would make this stressful under even the most positive circumstances. Then there is the fact that it is just three of us, not at all enough people to hide among. And add to that, that they are both male, which places me much farther outside of my element. And then of course there is the writing, the exposure of it's weakness, to be open, vulnerable in my inabilities. I don't want to do that.  It doesn't sound at all like something I would sign up for.  Especially considering how hard struck I was at my conference critique last year. I am still recovering. And my writing, I have decided it is not better enough to endure that again. I am not ready, I know I'm not ready, and I see no point in repeating that experience currently. (Good enough would be better than better enough in that sentence, but I am surprisingly stubborn, and resistant to such insights.)
    But in the end it is me with the damn page, asking myself, what do you want?  What do you hope to accomplish? How do you expect to get there from here?  And alone, doesn't seem like a complete answer.  I know I need help, other eyes, other opinions. If these two people are willing to help me, how can I not ask myself to show up. If I believe in myself, in my stories at all, I shouldn't run and hide from the opportunity to improve.
    So here I am, trying to tie myself down, and rewrite the worst parts of the first chapter before I send it to them. They've sent theirs'. I am amazed at how hard it is for me. It shouldn't be. I feel sick, I feel sad, I feel uncomfortable, I feel stupid. I'm not at all hungry, but I keep thinking, I need to take a break and eat something (if I do that every time, go from fight or flight, to feed, I'm going to get really enormous). But clearly instead of that I took a break and wrote this post. Now I just need to pry myself loose from here, a frightened cat determinedly dug into the mesh of this blog with its claws, and get back to work. Yes, back to fighting tigers, and swallowing alligators, locked in a fierce struggle with pen and paper. I feel silly, that I should find it so hard...
go go go go go...off you go

   Feel much better. I did look up dream interpretation of such things and nothing seemed to apply.  Mostly now I am having scramble, jumble, tossed dreams, meaning this that and the other thing, and no attempt possible at a meaning, which is fine with me. 
    The dream I had the night after the nightmare a little shimmery blue fish turned into a baseball playing, poetry reciting boy. This transformation happened when I stopped at a strip mall to get him a bowl of water (having assumed the fish I found in my car, walking around with his fins, needed water), and it turned out the owner of the shop was his mom.  He had been reincarnated. He remained a boy in the dream (at the exact age he had been when he died) and was returned to his mom to live the life together they would have had. Plus... 
   I liked that dream a lot.  I think beyond the icky-ness of my experiencing the nightmares themselves, what really bothered me, was what they said about me.  What sort of person dreams about those things? Is that in me? Is that me? It made me feel dark.  But that fear, that concern is lessening, I am thinking about it in other ways. The dreams were never about the act, the dreams occur later on, they were about the aftermath, about sadness, confusion, responsibility, fear, in two of them complicity through silence because of family loyalties. So anyway, I think I was getting too stuck on the details of them, and worrying what they meant, letting them haunt me.  The fish dream was a lovely contrast. And I did not find myself drawn to pick it apart and try to figure out what it was telling me, or said about me.  It was just a nice dream, just like those others, were just bad dreams.
    

just a self-help, dejunking post

   I'm so tired of having nightmares.  I've averaged about one a week, for 6 weeks now.  Murder.   TV perhaps, I don't watch CSI, but I do watch the Mentalist, but not before I go to bed.  I watch it at 8 am or 9 int he morning, when I work out.  And during this time period, most of my shows hadn't been on.  Twice the last thing I had watched was King of the Hill with my son.
    Real life of course, the news, but recent tragedies, are just that recent. And don't correlate. And though I do take notice and mourn such senseless losses, I haven't been paying close attention because of the dreams. I feel bad about that, like the least I could do is...well anyway,

    If if keeps happening I'm going to need a strategy.  I'm already intending to get a notebook, special for it, seems wrong to put such stuff in one of my cutesy notebooks. On paper maybe I can work out the psychology of it, or whatever. And I think the mere act of getting the notebook and setting it beside my bed, will keep the nightmares from coming back. So that the purchase will be pointless and I will feel silly for having bought it for such a purpose.

   Last night I was a man in his 20's, a family friend also a male in his twenties, had just killed someone.  A blond woman also in her 20's, she was attractive, real sweet, and kind to him. He happened to be mentally disabled.  It wasn't exactly intentional, he liked her and didn't want her dead, but this wasn't the first time it had happened. Not even this week. I think the other one was some older guy, I didn't know much about him, just that there was another one (around). And I was telling him (the murderer) about being careful and not (loving people too hard), and he got really angry and started beating on me. So...so I told him I would help him, help him hide what had happened.  The dream shifts, and there I am shovel in hand, standing in a field surrounded by trees, digging a hole, or rather a burial plot, two of them side by side. And then he appeared at the other hole and started digging.

And I woke up.
5:40 A.M. for a second I was disappointed to be awake, my alarm doesn't go off until 6, but it was much better to leave that dream.

No thank you to more of that.

    I'm trying to think of it as maybe representing other stuff, I can I guess, say loving people too hard, could be a heads up to me, to not make my son feel smothered by being overprotective. But if that was the point of this dream, my subconscious is going about it all the wrong way, as dreaming about such things, tends to make me more sentimental with my family, and more protective.
    And I can't manage to apply anything at all to the other dreams.  When I get the notebook I'll write down the feelings generated, maybe it is less literal, and more about that.
?

And hopefully, and prayerfully, that was the last one.