The Now Card

From my dream came the understanding I needed to enable me to push some struggles aside.

I’d conceived that only Now is real. There is no other time. You can ‘travel’ to another time but it’s Now, then. When you ‘travel’ like this – I’m uncomfortable saying ‘travel’ because that implies a physical movement, but I use it here for convenience while working out what term best suits – you’re shifting awareness of Now, not ‘traveling’ anywhere.

Semantics? Perhaps to some, but with important consequences. There’s only true awareness of Now, with an understood and accepted version of past events. These are what was passed on as history. Whether they’re true is another matter.

The future is a concept of what will probably happen, given the various arrows of time engaged. Some of those arrows are more strongly attached and fixed. Still, the future isn’t not necessarily what will be experienced. Except, we do not know; our expectations shifted without our awareness so the future that we experience is naturally what was expected. This is partially a biological and neurological survival mechanism.

To help me cope with the story telling, I conceived of a pack of cards to describe the scenes of ‘Now’ that emerge from Chi-particle looping and entanglements. Cards of ‘Now’ are being shuffled and dealt; these are then experienced. Fine, that was working out well. But I kept trying to adhere to a logical and chronological story-telling process. Yet the cards didn’t support that. I was struggling to reconcile the two aspects. They seemed diametrically opposed. Through my dream, I discovered that I’d carried my card analogy too far.

I’d thought of the looping Chi-particles and the resulting Nows as a deck of cards. They were shuffled and dealt. I saw this as players being around a poker table. Each card was dealt sequentially, around the table. That’s how the story would be told.

That was so flawed. The cards of Now being dealt do not have this order, consistency, predictability or tidiness. Instead of people sitting around being dealt hands of poker, one is being dealt poker, another is receiving a gin rummy hand, a third is playing hearts, a fourth is dealing solitaire, and so on. Each is both player and dealer. In the next hand, the person playing poker is now playing spades, and so on, but they’re struggling with that shift. Some vividly know they were playing poker and expected to continue playing poker. They don’t understand why they’re now playing solitaire.

That is a large part of how the entanglements emerge. We have beliefs of who we are, what happened, and what will happen next. The entanglements skewer every aspect. This creates a complex matrix of possibilities and story arcs. It’s difficult keeping them straight and then telling them in such a way, without elaborate explanation to the reader, so the reader grasps what is happening while the characters can’t grasp fully grasp it — although emerging grasps of what’s happening are part of the story.

Okay, time to write like crazy, at least one more time.

Sunday

She emerged from the bedroom right as he finished making his coffee. He was always the early riser, but he required far less sleep than her.

Smiling widely, she took a deep breath. “Oh, what a great smell.” As he glanced at his hands, mug of coffee in the left, and a plate of waffles with butter and syrup on the right, she clarified, “Not the waffles. I don’t smell them at all. I just smell coffee. It smells wonderful.”

His response wasn’t deep. He was already working on his yard and garden in his mind. Although the temperature was only fifty-one at this early hour, a strong sun, unfettered in its warmth or sunshine by seasons or clouds, was rising. He was eager to get out there and get dirty.

The point for him was that she seemed okay, and in good spirits, something important in later introspection. Eating and finishing his coffee, he went outside and completed hours of yard work, interrupted only with a few breaks to pee, drink water and wipe away sweat. He loved this part of his week, shaping the yard, trimming the bushes, weeding, pouring more decorative bark and spreading it out. The end results pleased him with tangible, visible evidence that his efforts achieved something, a result that eluded him in most other activities in life.

Going into the house, he made lunch and then went looking for her to talk about the yard and thoughts that had come to him while he was out there. He found her asleep in a recliner with a throw covering her. Although the house thermostat reported the temperature was seventy-one, she had a space heater on by her feet. The room was frighteningly hot to him.

“Hey,” he said, not sure how loud to speak or what to say.

Her eyes fluttered open. Her mouth was slack. Drool glistened out of one corner and down her chin. She remained in her pajamas. “Are you alright?” he asked.

She closed her eyes. “I’m cold.”

“Can I do anything? Get you anything? Water? Juice, or tea?”

She shook her head once in the barest movement possible.

“Are you sick?”

Opening her eyes a little, she looked at him and nodded.

“What is it?”

“Tired,” she whispered, closing her eyes.

Frowning, he returned to the kitchen and cleaned his lunch dishes, worrying about what was happening to her. He wanted to make sense of her condition. He’d heard the vacuum cleaner running while he was working outside. He’d looked through the window once and saw her dusting in the living room. It didn’t make sense. Several medications were prescribed for her to cope with her auto-immune disease. Perhaps one of these were suddenly affecting her. That was the hopeful aspect. Worse was that the disease had taken the drastic negative turn they’d always feared.

He heard her shamble down the hall. The bathroom door closed. Bath water began running. He listened, thinking about her and the situation, and then sat at the breakfast table and wondered, what would he do if she was gone?

***

Written in a dream, remembered in the morning.

Inspirational Quote # 631

I like this Mailer quote on so many levels. The process I’ve developed includes this preparation phase. I once wrote that I like walking before I write because it helps me with the intellectual shift of dealing with life to writing by incorporating a physical process. I liken it to stretching before working out, or warming up before a ball game. In the end, I think it helps my subconscious prepare me with the material, focus and energy to write.

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Entangled Writing Dreams

I don’t know how to describe last night’s dreams. Many and layered, I would awake from them, think about them, and drift back into the dream, or begin a new one.

I dreamed mostly about writing. I would dream I was writing. I dreamed I saw my books on shelves in stores. I dreamed I was signing autographs. I dreamed I was holding one of my books. Of course, I was pleased, proud and delighted to experience these dreams, even as I knew they were dreams.

Then I would dream I was writing again. Some of the dreams were staples of my blog posts of catfinitions. Other times, I dreamed about novels being conceived and pondered, and the novel in progress. I wrote scenes in my dreams, awoke and thought about the scenes, and returned to dreaming and writing. At one point, I awakened from a dream with an insight into something I’d thought of before, regarding ‘the cards’, and the sequencing of them. I hadn’t been comfortable with my execution of this as originally conceived, but here it was, explained in full in my dream. “I’ll need to think about this tomorrow,” I promised myself, because I didn’t want to awaken myself by thinking.

Then, in a break from dream writing, I dreamed I was singing in Spanish. A crowd of people were gathered to hear me. I don’t know what the song was, and was surprised in the dream when I realized it was me singing Spanish, because I don’t speak nor understand Spanish. I didn’t resemble myself in the dream so much as Fernando Alonso, the twice Formula 1 World Driving Champion from Spain. He and I look nothing alike but I knew in my dream that it was me.

In the morning, feeding cats, looking out windows and mentally perusing my dreams, I saw some of it as helpful for the novel in progress and other writing being contemplated. More, though, was wishful, optimism crystallized in dreams.

***

After writing the post and thinking more, I became curious about singing in a language I didn’t know in a dream, and so I did a search. This article was found, to add another twist to the dream.

After reading the article and watching the video, a connection to what I was writing in my novel leaped into my understanding. In it, with all of its entanglements, was the entanglement of a brain coping with something irrational and attempting to apply a veneer of logical explanation. This is done by appropriating others’ memories of the history they’d learned to apply an intelligent setting, from their perspective. In the way that it all works in my novel’s setting, something that works well for one person is borrowed and applied by others as being true, and becomes the basis for the reality of ‘now’ shared to create our impression of our lives.

Fun stuff, and a h/t to my dream brain and Psychology Today for boasting my insights into my writing.

Today’s Theme Music

Today’s Monday! Something peppier is required, something with a beat, something to move me through the hours of sunshine, from the chilly morning into the warm afternoon.

Responding to the request, my mind streamed a few songs. I settled on this hit by the Romantics. From nineteen eighty, here is, ‘What I Like About You’. 

Catscade

Catscade (definition): a procession of cats.

In use: “A catscade of talking felines of all sizes answered the sound of a can opening.”

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