"Hypnopomp" is a cool sounding word and something I'd like to incorporate into my daily vernacular, as in, "I had quite the hypnopomp this morning!"
To be honest, I do experience the hypnopompic state rather often (more often than hypnagogia, though the context I am using implies they are opposite and apparently, they are not -- it has to do with brain activity.. ANYWAY). The most frustrating thing about these experiences is grasping something in a dream -- a key, a chain, the hand of my soul mate -- waking, feeling so fervently the thing IN MY HAND only to watch it dissipate and vanish before my very eyes.
Why?! WHY!!! God DAMN YOU! Why must you play these games with me, you stupid, broken brain of mine!
Back in November of 2013, I was living up north (SLC area) and I had to drive down to Cedar for a funeral. The deceased is insignificant to my story but very significant to my life. I could not miss this funeral, despite the huge storm I would have to drive through.
The trip started out okay enough, but as I headed south, the skies grew more ominous and dark. It was near Beaver where the blizzard hit me the hardest, blacking out the sky as if it were the middle of the night. The roads were icy (my car was icy!) and treacherous, but I continued on. I remember hitting the summit and coming up the 'ol raspberries dimly lit though right in front of me. An officer was pulled off to the side as far as he could go and was motioning with his mag light to slow down, proceed with caution. A little while further up the road, there was the cause of the commotion: a state transport van standing on its nose, straight up in the air. It was as if someone had simply placed it there. The blizzard carried on, unaware of or apathetic to the horrific moment. The moment slowed as I passed by, my gaze fixated on the wreckage. Clumps of snow fell elegantly and softly downward as another officer, flashlight in hand, peered into the black, empty windows, in a scene that would terrify anyone who happened upon it.
The interior of my car was warm, but I still felt cold.
I looked up to the night sky, blanketed by thick cloud coverage, and asked myself... What more could this trip bring me?
There was a faint glimmer on the horizon and I wondered what fantastic beast of machinery could possibly be producing that level of light (out here). As I continued onward, the glimmer grew like a wildfire with my forward motion, there, on the horizon. It was around Parowan when I came around the bend that I realized what I was looking at: daylight.
Confused and bewildered, I look at the clock on my dash. It was barely past 4 pm. It. Was. STILL daytime!
The sky was clear, minus a few clouds here and there, by the time I reached my destination. It had rained in town, leaving Cedar smelling fresh and looking beautiful. A couple other mourners at the funeral complained about having to drive up from Vegas and the rain over Blackridge they hit on the way. "Mofos," I calmly stated, "I drove through the dark in the middle of the day AND in the middle of that dark, I drove through a nightmare!"
Next time maybe we could talk about dogs.
Saturday, March 10, 2018
Monday, February 12, 2018
can we come for a visit?
Whenever I see "V" as a middle initial, my first thought is the first and last names are dueling.
Roe V. Wade
Oh wait, that's not a name..
I have this fantasy of mailing postcards to random addresses across the country. If I could access some sort of database of everyone's name and address in the entire United States, I could literally just scroll through them and stop. There, that person: Charlene Wattsmen at 70 Bowman St. South Windsor, CT 06074. Done.
[I just made that up. How weird would it be if she were an actual person and that was an actual address?]
The postcards would all be pictures I created. Maybe they would be drawings. Maybe photographs. Maybe they would be my power bills cut up and glued back together. Ooooo.. I could shred up some dried leaves into a fine, fine dust, then mix in some sort of glue or liquid adhesive, press the mixture onto wax paper on a cookie sheet, let dry, cut up. Yes. I am "crafty" like that. I am willing to put that level of dedication into this project. I even have some stamps and an ink pad so I could totally add a flower or ghost figure to the "card" once completed.
Every Sunday I read the post secrets on the website by the same name. Every Sunday, I think about what my secret would be. What would I write about? Whom would I write about? Who might see it..?
A long time ago -- like over a decade ago -- I sent a postcard with a secret to post secret. I wrote my name, repeated over and over into a pattern, and used it as the background for my card. That way, I told myself, if I saw it in one of the books they publish or on the website, I would know it was mine (you know, in case it was years later and I had forgotten about it). About 12 years later, I saw it on the website. It took me 4 months to realize it was mine. I showed my sister, "Look! This sounds just like me! How weird!" She said, "Is it you?" It took me 4 months of mental debate to come to the conclusion it was mine. At least, I am pretty sure that was my postcard.
For the fantasy, I would send out a postcard to every state, or maybe a few just in case some got lost or thrown away. Sometimes I think I would put a return address on them with a sort of invitation:
"You have been randomly selected to participate in this interactive art project! Please returned a postcard representative of your state to the following address [insert PO Box I would obtain here]."
I envision taking all the postcards and cutting them into the shape of the state they come from, then putting them together like a puzzle. That would make a pretty cool map, don't you think?
When I was young (like after my teenage years, but before I was legally old enough to drink) my girlffriend and I read about a town in Texas in a National Geographic. I forget the name of the town or why there was a story about it in the magazine, but I do remember the population was extremely low -- like 35 people.
I said to my girlfriend, "We should send them a postcard!"
"How? We don't have an address..." Mind you, this was before the internet was as widely available as it is today -- that or we were just poor.
The solution was obvious, "Dude look. The title of the article is the zip code of the town. The population is so low, we could really just send it to the town itself and let the mailman figure out who to give it to."
About a month later, after we had moved on to some other hair-brained idea, a boring white postcard came in the mail. It was from a saloon in Texas and read, "Got your message! Come on down!" Later that week, we took a road trip to Washington.
Roe V. Wade
Oh wait, that's not a name..
I have this fantasy of mailing postcards to random addresses across the country. If I could access some sort of database of everyone's name and address in the entire United States, I could literally just scroll through them and stop. There, that person: Charlene Wattsmen at 70 Bowman St. South Windsor, CT 06074. Done.
[I just made that up. How weird would it be if she were an actual person and that was an actual address?]
The postcards would all be pictures I created. Maybe they would be drawings. Maybe photographs. Maybe they would be my power bills cut up and glued back together. Ooooo.. I could shred up some dried leaves into a fine, fine dust, then mix in some sort of glue or liquid adhesive, press the mixture onto wax paper on a cookie sheet, let dry, cut up. Yes. I am "crafty" like that. I am willing to put that level of dedication into this project. I even have some stamps and an ink pad so I could totally add a flower or ghost figure to the "card" once completed.
Every Sunday I read the post secrets on the website by the same name. Every Sunday, I think about what my secret would be. What would I write about? Whom would I write about? Who might see it..?
A long time ago -- like over a decade ago -- I sent a postcard with a secret to post secret. I wrote my name, repeated over and over into a pattern, and used it as the background for my card. That way, I told myself, if I saw it in one of the books they publish or on the website, I would know it was mine (you know, in case it was years later and I had forgotten about it). About 12 years later, I saw it on the website. It took me 4 months to realize it was mine. I showed my sister, "Look! This sounds just like me! How weird!" She said, "Is it you?" It took me 4 months of mental debate to come to the conclusion it was mine. At least, I am pretty sure that was my postcard.
For the fantasy, I would send out a postcard to every state, or maybe a few just in case some got lost or thrown away. Sometimes I think I would put a return address on them with a sort of invitation:
"You have been randomly selected to participate in this interactive art project! Please returned a postcard representative of your state to the following address [insert PO Box I would obtain here]."
I envision taking all the postcards and cutting them into the shape of the state they come from, then putting them together like a puzzle. That would make a pretty cool map, don't you think?
When I was young (like after my teenage years, but before I was legally old enough to drink) my girlffriend and I read about a town in Texas in a National Geographic. I forget the name of the town or why there was a story about it in the magazine, but I do remember the population was extremely low -- like 35 people.
I said to my girlfriend, "We should send them a postcard!"
"How? We don't have an address..." Mind you, this was before the internet was as widely available as it is today -- that or we were just poor.
The solution was obvious, "Dude look. The title of the article is the zip code of the town. The population is so low, we could really just send it to the town itself and let the mailman figure out who to give it to."
About a month later, after we had moved on to some other hair-brained idea, a boring white postcard came in the mail. It was from a saloon in Texas and read, "Got your message! Come on down!" Later that week, we took a road trip to Washington.
Monday, January 15, 2018
wabi sabi
We used to gather 'round every Friday night at Garts parking lot. That's where all the cool kids met, don't you know. That's where the hook-ups went down.
I lived right around the corner, so it was not uncommon for me to show-up wrapped in a blanket and park my ass in the back of a pick-up. Other times, my attendance would merely be to meet someone and leave.
An older guy came around a few times. He seemed out of place -- probably looking for jailbait. He and I struck up a conversation but he didn't like what I had to say: "You really need to get your teeth fixed. That lisp is annoying."
I was taken aback. Had I a lisp?! How long has this been going on for?! And why has no one told me! 5 years of speech therapy wasted.. My parents would be so disappointed.
"Oh well.. yeah, you have a lisp." One of the guys within my age group comforted, "But it's really cute and part of what makes you unique. You don't need to do anything about your teeth."
It was a nice sentiment but didn't change the fact of my newly discovered flaw. I never truly sought perfection, but I did want to be an effective communicator. Regardless, I was determined to rid myself of this small embarrassment of my speaking skills!
Just the other day, I passed the lot where Garts existed however many years ago. I remember when they tore up the very spot we all gathered, to make room fir a new office building. Hollywood Video and Graywhale CD were long gone at that point, too. I don't expect any of you to remember the time I won that Formula One trickboard from Graywhale, broadcasted live on the local college station -- Thunder 91 back then. I traded that trickboard in for a Sector 9 longboard -- was never any good on the half pipe, but loved surfing the pavement. The icons of my yester-youth have all but vanished, completely living in memory now.
I never heard anything about me having a lisp since -- unprovoked, that is. If I ask, they stop, listen, and find it. I have since stopped asking. Who wants to go around asking for proof they are flawed? I'm no Clark Kent! I'm the alter ego daydreaming about what a life as a super hero would be.
I post random, meaningless thoughts on craigslist every night. What's your super power?
These days, I am more often asked about my 'accent.'
"Where are you from?" they question."That's an interesting accent."
"I'm from here. I just have a different way of speaking due to my speech impediment." It is true. I consciously change my sentence structure to avoid words I cannot pronounce. I never did do anything with my teeth. The sweet friend at Garts parking lot was right -- it's better this way.
Wabi sabi: the beauty of imperfection.
I lived right around the corner, so it was not uncommon for me to show-up wrapped in a blanket and park my ass in the back of a pick-up. Other times, my attendance would merely be to meet someone and leave.
An older guy came around a few times. He seemed out of place -- probably looking for jailbait. He and I struck up a conversation but he didn't like what I had to say: "You really need to get your teeth fixed. That lisp is annoying."
I was taken aback. Had I a lisp?! How long has this been going on for?! And why has no one told me! 5 years of speech therapy wasted.. My parents would be so disappointed.
"Oh well.. yeah, you have a lisp." One of the guys within my age group comforted, "But it's really cute and part of what makes you unique. You don't need to do anything about your teeth."
It was a nice sentiment but didn't change the fact of my newly discovered flaw. I never truly sought perfection, but I did want to be an effective communicator. Regardless, I was determined to rid myself of this small embarrassment of my speaking skills!
Just the other day, I passed the lot where Garts existed however many years ago. I remember when they tore up the very spot we all gathered, to make room fir a new office building. Hollywood Video and Graywhale CD were long gone at that point, too. I don't expect any of you to remember the time I won that Formula One trickboard from Graywhale, broadcasted live on the local college station -- Thunder 91 back then. I traded that trickboard in for a Sector 9 longboard -- was never any good on the half pipe, but loved surfing the pavement. The icons of my yester-youth have all but vanished, completely living in memory now.
I never heard anything about me having a lisp since -- unprovoked, that is. If I ask, they stop, listen, and find it. I have since stopped asking. Who wants to go around asking for proof they are flawed? I'm no Clark Kent! I'm the alter ego daydreaming about what a life as a super hero would be.
I post random, meaningless thoughts on craigslist every night. What's your super power?
These days, I am more often asked about my 'accent.'
"Where are you from?" they question."That's an interesting accent."
"I'm from here. I just have a different way of speaking due to my speech impediment." It is true. I consciously change my sentence structure to avoid words I cannot pronounce. I never did do anything with my teeth. The sweet friend at Garts parking lot was right -- it's better this way.
Wabi sabi: the beauty of imperfection.
Sunday, October 8, 2017
missing connections
Driving the streets past midnight, you may be wondering where I am going. It is, after all, what I am wondering about you. In my earlier years, I would have been walking by myself, with a friend, or maybe a few. You and I could have easily been walking together. Maybe we were. Maybe we will be.
I remember being stopped by the popo way too many times for coincidence. Every night they would tell the same story: "We have had reports of cars being broken into in this neighborhood."
"Wow. I had no idea this area had such a high crime rate, officer."
I used to wear patchoui. I had to go to the courthouse for some reason -- prove to the state I had insurance or some other ridiculous infraction. The officer at the front snarled at me, "YOU smell like MARI-JU-ANA." Huh. That's odd. "Well.. You sir, smell like donuts." I don't think he liked that much.
Are we braver in our ignorance of youth? I like to think I get younger as I grow older. I look forward to the days where I get to sit on my front porch and wave my cane at random teenagers as they casually stroll by, "Keep your filthy feet off my lawn!" I always invision myself looking like the old man Johnny Knoxville dresses up as in The Stupid Boy Show (otherwise known as Jackass) which is only funny because I'm a chick. What the hell. I can dream, can't I?
Where are all my single ladies at? Am I the only one willing to wade the depths of craigslist? You know there be gold in these here damn hills! Maybe I will just keep it all for myself (I might be selfish like that..)
I remember being stopped by the popo way too many times for coincidence. Every night they would tell the same story: "We have had reports of cars being broken into in this neighborhood."
"Wow. I had no idea this area had such a high crime rate, officer."
I used to wear patchoui. I had to go to the courthouse for some reason -- prove to the state I had insurance or some other ridiculous infraction. The officer at the front snarled at me, "YOU smell like MARI-JU-ANA." Huh. That's odd. "Well.. You sir, smell like donuts." I don't think he liked that much.
Are we braver in our ignorance of youth? I like to think I get younger as I grow older. I look forward to the days where I get to sit on my front porch and wave my cane at random teenagers as they casually stroll by, "Keep your filthy feet off my lawn!" I always invision myself looking like the old man Johnny Knoxville dresses up as in The Stupid Boy Show (otherwise known as Jackass) which is only funny because I'm a chick. What the hell. I can dream, can't I?
Where are all my single ladies at? Am I the only one willing to wade the depths of craigslist? You know there be gold in these here damn hills! Maybe I will just keep it all for myself (I might be selfish like that..)
Wednesday, October 4, 2017
the moon festival
I used to hitchhike a lot. Mostly it was just around town, a few blocks here and there, just because I could. Every once in a while, it was across the city. One time it was all the way to Salt Lake.
We were picked up by a guy visiting from China. Actually, he initially passed us by, got off on the next exit, turned back around just to come pick us up. Apparently, he was compelled to do so because that day happened to be The Moon Festival in his culture. The Moon Festival, from what I recall, was a great celebration for Buddhists. They ate special delicacies and spent the day celebrating the relationships they had in their current life as well as previous lives. It is believed, he told us, that on the day of The Moon Festival, you would meet the people who meant most to you in your last life. He picked us up because, he said, his soul recognized us. He shared mooncakes with us (I have not eaten one since) and took us the entire distance from where he found us to our destination.
When I obtained my own mode of transportation, I too would pick up hitchhikers (pay it forward? Pay it backward? Something like that). I picked up Jesus Christ right outside of Cedar City as I was headed to St. George. Actually, I was headed to Hurricane, but he needed a ride to the very south exit in St. George, so I took him all the way down, then headed back up to Hurricane.
On the ride, he did not tell me his name, nor did I mine. He was ragged, but with kind eyes and a strong, yet sweet voice. We talked about life and acts of kindness -- the usual conversation one might expect to have with the man. Upon reaching his destination, I have to admit, I was sad to see my new, unnamed friend go. After stepping out, he leaned back through the window and asked for my name so he could thank me properly, and when I told him, he gave it back to me and said, "You have a genuine heart and soul. These will carry you far in life. I am lucky to have met you. Thank you for that." His words filled me with warmth and I waved goodbye.
He turned to go and I called after him, "Hey! You never told me your name!"
"I go by many names," he responded, "But you can call me JC."
The Moon Festival will fall on October 4th for 2017.
We were picked up by a guy visiting from China. Actually, he initially passed us by, got off on the next exit, turned back around just to come pick us up. Apparently, he was compelled to do so because that day happened to be The Moon Festival in his culture. The Moon Festival, from what I recall, was a great celebration for Buddhists. They ate special delicacies and spent the day celebrating the relationships they had in their current life as well as previous lives. It is believed, he told us, that on the day of The Moon Festival, you would meet the people who meant most to you in your last life. He picked us up because, he said, his soul recognized us. He shared mooncakes with us (I have not eaten one since) and took us the entire distance from where he found us to our destination.
When I obtained my own mode of transportation, I too would pick up hitchhikers (pay it forward? Pay it backward? Something like that). I picked up Jesus Christ right outside of Cedar City as I was headed to St. George. Actually, I was headed to Hurricane, but he needed a ride to the very south exit in St. George, so I took him all the way down, then headed back up to Hurricane.
On the ride, he did not tell me his name, nor did I mine. He was ragged, but with kind eyes and a strong, yet sweet voice. We talked about life and acts of kindness -- the usual conversation one might expect to have with the man. Upon reaching his destination, I have to admit, I was sad to see my new, unnamed friend go. After stepping out, he leaned back through the window and asked for my name so he could thank me properly, and when I told him, he gave it back to me and said, "You have a genuine heart and soul. These will carry you far in life. I am lucky to have met you. Thank you for that." His words filled me with warmth and I waved goodbye.
He turned to go and I called after him, "Hey! You never told me your name!"
"I go by many names," he responded, "But you can call me JC."
The Moon Festival will fall on October 4th for 2017.
Thursday, September 21, 2017
challenges and make believe
I never lost touch with my inner child. In fact, I could go so far as to say my imagination and sense of wonder grows with me. The older I get, the more fantastic the world becomes.
And why not? If I am to take a walk through an empty field, why not it be a grand adventure, pushing the limits of strength and endurance if only for 10 minutes and merely in my head? Should I care about the looks thrown at me for adding my own obscure sound effects? Well, I don't.
"Are you growling?" I was asked one time. Yes, yes I was. The project at hand was proving more difficult than I had anticipated so obviously, I pretended I were a bear because bears have no such obligations or concerns.
"I require honey, damnit!" Side note: when you use a mock-serious tone and throw in a damnit or two for good measure (extra points if you can fit "god" in there), your chances of being rewarded with the thing you are requesting are significantly higher than they otherwise might be.
----
You were bored with nothing planned, casually skimming through your local craigslist of missed connections. Would that attractive blonde you saw earlier at the supermarket post a request for you to contact her? Quickly, you try to recall what you wore that day and the conversation you might have had with her -- just in case she noticed you and was also a visitor to the forum.
I was disappointed in the lack of strangers longing to venture into the possibilities. I posted a short tangent regarding my thoughts to which I would later second-guess myself -- should I have posted that to the rants & raves? Hmmm..
And for a moment, our minds met in the spaces between the lines of text. It was destiny.
And why not? If I am to take a walk through an empty field, why not it be a grand adventure, pushing the limits of strength and endurance if only for 10 minutes and merely in my head? Should I care about the looks thrown at me for adding my own obscure sound effects? Well, I don't.
"Are you growling?" I was asked one time. Yes, yes I was. The project at hand was proving more difficult than I had anticipated so obviously, I pretended I were a bear because bears have no such obligations or concerns.
"I require honey, damnit!" Side note: when you use a mock-serious tone and throw in a damnit or two for good measure (extra points if you can fit "god" in there), your chances of being rewarded with the thing you are requesting are significantly higher than they otherwise might be.
----
You were bored with nothing planned, casually skimming through your local craigslist of missed connections. Would that attractive blonde you saw earlier at the supermarket post a request for you to contact her? Quickly, you try to recall what you wore that day and the conversation you might have had with her -- just in case she noticed you and was also a visitor to the forum.
I was disappointed in the lack of strangers longing to venture into the possibilities. I posted a short tangent regarding my thoughts to which I would later second-guess myself -- should I have posted that to the rants & raves? Hmmm..
And for a moment, our minds met in the spaces between the lines of text. It was destiny.
Friday, September 1, 2017
two piece puzzle
You claimed to have seen me, but now I know you never did. You thought you had and even convinced me.. For a while. But it wasn't me you saw; it wasn't what I did or didn't do but could have done, given the spotlight. It wasn't my voice, or thoughts, or expressions you fawned over and admired with such dedication, I was inspired. No, you never saw me. You only saw yourself reflected through my eyes. It was beautiful because I was beautiful.
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