Category: walking

The Place Dream

I was attempting to firm up my understanding. Little was coming.

In my twenties, I’d made it to the place, but didn’t know the place’s purpose. Located on a busy street, the place was an innocuous building with rooms and offices. It could have been a school or business. Others of my age were there, and a staff gave vague instructions. Reticent and withdrawn as I always am, I found an office, sat down and waited.

This rough sequence repeated a few times. People warmed to me, and I, to they, through the sequence, but I still had no idea what the place was, or my role. But a taller, bigger, gregarious person decided he liked me, and started letting me go with him when he did things. He seemed to have a greater position than most.

At each day’s end, we would leave the building and then board one of two buses. I didn’t know the difference between the two buses or which I should ride. Everyone else seemed to know. I would ask, but I never understood the answer. I tried to stay with my big buddy. Riding a bus, I would look around, mostly interested in the other bus, to see if it went somewhere different.

When the bus stopped, they’d call something out, and I’d know to get off. When I did, I’d be back at the place.

I grew comfortable with the routine, although I didn’t understand it. Not understanding it, though comfortable, I kept looking for more information. I asked others questions about what we were supposed to be doing. Smiles were mostly given in answers, sometimes with vague statements like, “Oh, you’ll know,” or, “You’ll find out.”

Came a time when a female supervisor came in and spoke with us as my buddy and I sat in an office. I don’t know what was being discussed; it seemed like a foreign language.  As she spoke, she gave me a small silver container and a package of matches. The small silver container, the size of a tea candle, had silver, waxy material in it, but no wick. Confused about whether it was a candle and I was supposed to lit it, or that it was something for my consumption, I puzzled over it and the matches as the woman spoke.

Others came in, looking for me. They had news about what my big friend was planning to do. I went to his office. He wasn’t there. Two objects were there. I studied them. They were red and white missiles on rails. I understood what they were. Rumors were circulating that he intended to launch them in test, to see if they would work correctly and explode. Worrying that he might be planning to do that in his office, I sought him out.

We talked. He explained with a dry chuckle that he was awaiting a test location. No, it would be safe. No one else would be there. He was trying to reassure me but he wasn’t answering all of my questions.

The woman came in and gave me another silver container and matches. The match book was closed, but one match was stuck out, as though it was there to be used. I remained unsure. I feared that if I lit it, the silver stuff would explode.

It was time to leave. I went out with the rest to catch a bus. I didn’t see my big friend. Everyone else boarded a bus while I debated about which to take.

The buses left without me. After a moment of concern, I shrugged it off and started walking. I knew where the buses were going and could walk there.

I passed the buses as I walked. People on the bus came to the windows. I heard them saying, “Look, he’s walking faster than the bus.” It was true. As they said that, everyone came to the buses’ windows to see me passing the bus. That inspired me to walk faster, determined to beat them to the destination.

The road narrowed and grew dark, the first time that it was dark in the entire dream. I found I was walking upside down. “Look,” the people on the bus said, “he’s walking upside-down. He’s walking on the ceiling.” They sounded amazed and envious.

The ceiling became dirty and thick with roots. It was like I was underground, with the road and the buses beneath me. I fell off the ceiling, but picked myself up and continued walking, right-side-up. Then, I was walking on the ceiling again. I was determined that would not stop me. I learned that whenever I discovered I was walking on the ceiling, I could rotate it, and it would be the proper orientation and surface.

I continued walking. I beat the buses to the place. Dirty and sweaty, I went inside. Sitting at a desk, I listened to the woman talking. She brought me the silver thing and the matches.

I tasted the silver thing to see if it was edible, and awoke.

 

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Destination

Have you ever been out walking, and then suddenly stopped and looked around, and asked yourself, “Where am I going?”, and your mind answers, “Do you mean metaphorically?”

Yes, I have.

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Fitbit Incongruencies

My miles remained up, at forty-five for last week, but my total floors were down by thirty, to eighty-seven, and my steps were down by over ten thousand, to ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred, ninety-two.  No change to my resting heart-rate, at fifty-six.

Putting together how the steps could be down by ten thousand while my miles are down by less than two, I realize it’s because I did more arm exercises. I had chosen to focus on those. I’m also focusing on exercises to improve my hamstrings, abductors, and adductor muscles. By my observation, they don’t count much toward my goals because of the way the Fitbit registers exercise movement. I’m going to research that to see how I can change it.

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Fitbit Dip

Yeah, last week, I dipped. Fell to my third lowest miles total, forty.

I knew it would be a down week. Let me post the reasons:

  1. Cold and rainy, and I was being wimpy.
  2. Hurt my left ankle, and I was feeling gimpy.
  3. Was a little weary of the routine, it’d became a stale scene.
  4. And was looking for a change, and treating my life with disdain.

It’s all part of the funk of life, you know?

This week isn’t greatly better. I’m averaging a little over six miles a day, so I’ll be at least forty-two miles, maybe forty-three, but I’m not making a strong effort.

Flip this thing over, though, and the reduced effort to walk was put into writing. I like that. My life is a zero-sum game. Whenever effort is removed from one place, it’s put into another. Last night, I was thinking, I need to read more….

Time to adjust the balances anon.

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The Fitbit Gait

I managed to walk eight miles on Wednesday. I was feeling pretty good about that. I generally do five on Sunday, six on four of the other days, and seven on two days. I find that walking in smaller periods, say, twenty to forty minutes at a time, helps me achieve my goals, so I that’s my plan. Eight miles was an impromptu reach.

That effort changed in my final hour. Somewhere in that time, my left Achilles tendon began expressing second thoughts. I pushed through it. Eventually, when you get old enough, some part of your body has second thoughts about going on. Although they manage to make themselves a vocal minority, I can usually push through. Seeing that they’re not stopping me, they then shut up.

Ah, not this tendon. No. It remained as vocal as a starving cat.

The tendon stiffened overnight. Yesterday was painful, especially up hills and steps. Only five and a half miles were achieved, and a flight less than the ten flights that were my goal.

The tendon remains troubling today. I’ve learned through testing that it’ll stiffen up when I sit for extended period, but flexing it when I first stand loosens it. Then, as I walk, it grows a little looser, although it remains a painful process. With a little grit, I can manage a slower imitation of my usual gait, but sometimes, when I’m first struggling with it, I’m moving like John Wayne in “True Grit,” pilgrim.

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Today’s Theme Music

Do you have daily theme music, or music that highlights an activity?

My daily theme music is often a reflection of a momentary lapse of reason, or a thought in the nick of time. Themes vary through the day, though, mirroring moods and events. Sometimes I find myself with the themes from the television series “Mission Impossible” or “Sanford and Son” in my head.

The smoke levels dropped today. The A.Q.I. remains listed as unhealthy, but it seems much clearer and more comfortable. The air temp was a comfortable seventy-six F under partly cloudy skies. That allowed me to walk in comfort.

I wrote in my head as I walked around town (actually designing the Epitomy, the starship serving as base in “Black Dust”). Bonnie Tyler’s song, “Holding Out For A Hero,” accompanied my thoughts. The song was in a movie you might have seen, “Footloose,” in nineteen eighty-four, but it’s been used for multiple campaigns. Bonnie puts a lot into singing the song, which was written by the talented Dean Pritchford.

I could use a hero this year, not just in my novels, but in life. Maybe I just place an ad: “Wanted: principled individual to save the world.”

 

 

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The Air, the Fitbit, the Writing, the Dreams

Our outdoor air sucks. Need more?

Smoke from wildfires is filling our air. The Air Quality Index leaped to one hundred fifteen last night. DANGEROUS. It hasn’t been hot, only into the nineties. We open the house at night to cool it off, and then close the blinds and windows during the day. Opening the windows last night sent us into coughing fits as wet smoke smells wafted in. Eventually, we donned masks.

Today isn’t as bad. The A.Q.I. is in the fifties, and officially, moderate. Visibility remains down. It’s like a white-out beyond a a few hundred feet.

All this wildfire smoke has reduced my Fitbit activities. Walking is way down, to five miles a day average. It’s not as critical as many other issues resulting from wildfires. None of the fires are directly affecting our community. We feel for all those being evacuated in those areas, and appreciate the firefighters’ efforts. If this stuff is terrible for me, a guy in his early sixties who considers himself in good health, those with emphysema and other respiratory issues must be deeply suffering.

I took to the Orson Scott Card method for visualizing and organizing the novel in progress. O.S.C. talked about just drawing places, like a city, and then adding details. With each detail and area added or defined, entertain questions about why those areas and details exist. I’ve done this exercise before, with excellent results. I wasn’t disappointed this time.

I had been editing the novel’s first draft. Halfway through that process, I perceived a problem. A new ‘greater arc’ was required as the solution. I could be wrong, but this is how I decided to address the issue. It’s essentially an epic. I like epics. Bigger is better.

This was decided over a four day period. Then, after deciding it was necessary, I went on a reading sprint. I finished reading two novels, and read two others, in five days. I also read fiction stories and news articles online. This reading stimulated my writing juices and invigorated my writing dreams. I found myself re-committed to who I was, and what I was doing. It’s a matter of taking a deep breath, turning on the computer, and putting the ass in chair, and the fingers on a keyboard.

This new arc takes place on a planet where technology fails. An outpost is established using outdated technology. Suddenly, it’s like living in a frontier castle. I loved that difference in direction from my usual challenges of visualizing the far future and other intelligent races.

I drew the outpost on my computer, and brainstormed about how the lack of technology affects them, and solutions and work-arounds. The team living in the outpost are hunting for people, but can’t use their suits or vehicles. They fall back to horses. Having horses adds more problems and dimensions.

So do the powerful windstorms endured on the planet. That’s why the outpost becomes a castle; something stout enough to survive the windstorms are necessary. That’s the iceberg view of all the scenes, problems, and challenges realized. I don’t want to give away more. Drawing and brainstorming in this manner was a catalyst to my imagination. I scrambled to capture ideas an create an event timeline. It resulted in *shudder* an outline. 

As an organic writer, the outline overwhelmed me. Suddenly, there it all was, this part of the novel mapped out in all its complications and key events. I could imagine, see, and hear them. Writing them was required. It’s daunting for an organic pantser. I decided I would scramble to write key scenes and moments, and patch them together with bridge and pivot scenes, and build the story in layers, much like I used to do when oil painting, or writing a business case, or analyzing data.

I think that whatever opened my creative floodgates also turned the dream valves to full open. I had six remembered dreams last night. Friends from my past were featured. My wife also made an appearance. Of course, maybe it was the eclipse opening the dream and creativity gates. Who can say?

Trying to capture details this morning diverted personal resources already earmarked for other activities. I resorted to dream summaries. The dreams were wild. Once again, my muses were prominently featured. They were attempting to guide and assist me in different manners. Sorting the chaos was a fascinating exercise.

Having your muses show up in my dreams injects high confidence levels. I felt empowered and emboldened when I awaken. Yet, being me, the confidence evaporates to more normal levels by midday. Having your muses and some higher beings populate your dreams and offer encouragement has a good thing. I’m certainly not going to kick them out.

Time to write like crazy, at least one more time. How about you, writers? Have you seen increased creativity? Maybe it is the eclipse.

Or maybe it’s the coffee.

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Lesson Learned

He’d discovered a small stone in his sandal during his evening walk. He tried dislodging it through contortions that involved kicking. He knew he could remove the sandal and get rid of the stone. He didn’t do that. Instead, as the stone inflicted a more painful moment on a toe, he complained, “Is there anything worse than a stone in your shoe?”

“Maybe,” he replied to himself. “A hair in your soup?”

“That’s not worse.”

“Okay. A shot in the head. Getting stabbed in the heart.”

“I get your point.”

“Acid thrown on your face. Your throat slit. Being set on fire.”

“That’s enough.”

“Starving to death. Dying of thirst. Suffocating. Drowning.”

“Enough!”

He fell silent. That would teach him to talk to himself.

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