Driving With Dad Dream
Another slice of the nocturnal mind’s workings to share.
To begin, I’m with my father. Each of us are similar to our real life appearances but I think we both were a little younger.
I’m getting an award. I don’t know what it’s for. Dad wants to attend. He tells me, “We’ll go together. We’ll drive there.”
He gestures toward a car. A silver behemoth, it may have been manufactured in the 1930s and features a long wheelbase — think of a large SUV here — running boards, an upright radiator, and spindly, narrow wheels and tires. Its condition is show-car perfect.
“What is that?” I ask. I see from looking around that he has other, more modern cars but still several decades old. All are well cared for. A graceful, polished gray model’s dazzling shine catches my eye from one.
In answer, he says, “You drive. We better get going. It doesn’t have a high top speed.”
I am floored. At that moment, two sisters arrive. They want to go with us.
Dad is against that. Telling them so, he finishes, “But I want you there. Take one of my other cars.”
A large steel garage door which was previously unnoticed grinds open. Behind it are modern sports and luxury cars. “Take one of those cars,” Dad says.
My sisters are already clamboring into a new red Mazda Miata. I say, “Why can’t we take one of those?”
Dad responds with non-sequitors. I interrupt him. “If you want to ride with me, why don’t we take one of those cars?” I see a BMW in the garage. “Like that blue BMW. Why don’t we take it?”
Evasive as before, Dad basically declares, “I want to take this car.”
We climb into his old car. I ask, “Is this a Bugatti?”
Dad doesn’t respond. Firing up the old machine, I keep looking for clues about what it is.
That’s where the dream ends.
I tote this dream down as another manifestation of unspoken worries and doubts about my life and where it’s at. Pretty standard stuff. Retired from corporate and military careers, I’ve staked a lot of time and hope on writing fiction. I’m driven to write, but will it go anywhere beyond my computer? Or, as the dream suggests to me, am I interested in trying another vehicle?
As I pass over the post again, though, the driving theme raises new questions. Writing = driving. Whether I want to or not, I need to go on. Some of my choices seem taken away from me by some deeper driving force within me.
Looking at it another way, though, I can point out, it’s a silver car I’m being forced into, a classic which is in good condition, and I’m driving off to collect an award. Looking at it that way, my subconscious is encouraging me to go with what I’m doing.
It’s amusing how these dream elements can be addressed. Even if I find success beyond writing for myself, I think that I’ll always be wrestling with the drive and need to write, and my doubts. Just part of my imposter syndrome surfacing again.
The Writing Moment
It was mid-Saturday morning.
I’d arrived in my favorite coffee locale for my writing session. Vintage soulful music with a jazzy edge was playing on the overhead speaker system. The baristas were busy with drive-through business. Only one other person shared the tables with me, a young woman in a far corner who displayed predatory interest in her cell phone. I’d seen her there before, never with anyone else, and always engaged in her cell. As usual, she was dressed in a sloppy style of what looked like pink and gray pajamas. Her solitude, isolation, and deep focus on her phone piqued my writer side. Oddly, I’d never caught her name from the baristas when her order was called.
I’d pulled my laptop out and had it set up. My mind was already in writing mode. I’m halfway through the first revision of a novel-in-progress with a weird working title, Yum. With my nephew’s wedding and the travel to Pittsburgh and other activities it entailed done, I was eager to delve into the story I’d written. Its speculative nature readily engaged me, and I’m really pleased with what I have so far.
“M, your coffee is up.”
The speaker was the barista, Nate, a good-looking, dark-haired man who seems in his early twenties. I gt along with him quite well. He’s always in a good mood, and we’ll often talk about subjects outside of coffee, inclding smoke and politics.
I headed up to collect my cup and discovered it filled to the brim. Grinning at me, Nate said, “You said you wanted no room.”
I laughed. “Clever.” I reached for a straw.
“Want me to pour some out?” Nate asked while making coffee drinks.
Shaking my head, I gave him a severe look. “Pour out fresh coffee?” Its steamy smell filled my nose. “No, no, challenge accept.”
Inserting the straw into the hot beverage, I sucked some up so it wouldn’t slop any over when I walked. Nate watched and laughed.
“Good job,” he shouted as I took my drink and headed for my table.
“Damn straight,” I answered. If coffee was to be wasted today, it wouldn’t be at my hand.
Time to write like crazy, one more time.
The Writing Moment
I’ve just returned from vacation. We went east, from Oregon to Pittsburgh in Pennsylvania (PIP to my brain’s shorthand) primarily for a wedding (the #3 nephew in terms of age) but also to visit family, like Mom. This took about ten days out of our usual existence. While traveling and there, I planned to write, but it didn’t work out. First, my body and mind weren’t in agreement that I should get up early. Nor was my wife (something about sleeping in while on vacation). I didn’t want to sneak out, didn’t want to abandon her on vacation while she was with me for my side of the family.
Our schedule in PIP was erratic. Some writing and editing was managed around snatches of escape. Like, on the return flight. Sometimes while at Mom’s home; a few times in the hotels.
But Mom has limited mobility these days. She’s mostly confined to her house with her partner, Frank. And everyone has a lot of that stuff called life happening to them, so my sisters and their offspring can’t visit her often, and Mom gets lonely. My presence with my wife alleviated that. Naturally, once I realized it was so, I had to live up to Mom’s hopes. Definitely opinionated, she slips into conversational ruts, especially when venting about the men of her life, past and present, politics, and the ongoing feud between several sisters.
The gist of the sisters’ feud is one felt omitted in the vacation planning. Years ago, littlest sis — we’ll call her L –and her hubby ventured to the Outer Banks on vacation and included Mom and Frank. I think that was so because they lived in the same house. The four enjoyed it so much, they went the next year, and the next. Second little sister — coded G — heard about it and invited herself, spouse, and her at-home daughter, A. They went again the next year; then G also took her other daughter — J — and J’s family. Like ants finding some good stuff and spreading the word, more family invited themselves and descended on the vacation. Planning, communications, and coordination was done to include everyone who invited themselves. That’s one key to the mess: all the subsequent people outside of the first four invited themselves.
Well, the other sister — S, the oldest of the three youngest — always claimed she and her husband weren’t invited or even told about it. This has been a continuing problem in the three younger sisters’ life: who invented or included who in what party-holiday-vacation planning and participation. Finger pointing and accusations are the standard weapons in this battle. Now it’s reached the point that G and S are not speaking to one another, which goes back to early 2022. What exacerbates the situation is that S has NEVER included anyone else in any of her vacation planning. She doesn’t tell anyone where she is going or when, and will frequently keep it a secret after the event. While L’s Outer Banks vacations began around thirteen or fourteen years ago — Mom can tell you exactly when — S’s secret vacations began in at least 1991. So, boom, G responds to S. J’accuse!
This is what I heard about in 2022 when I went back to help Mom recover from her extended COVID and heart issues. My wife wasn’t with me in 2022, so SHE needed to be brought up to date about the battle this year, at least in Mom’s opinion.
It’s part of my excuse for why I managed little writing and editing. Listening to the feud saga, not just from Mom’s POV because L, G, and S also talked to my wife and I about it, was good insight into family dynamics as well as character arcs. I mean, people arcs. Observing these disagreements and how they escalate and dictate stories and relationships is terrific for my writer side.
I did try. Mom has small house. Built in 1942 by the previous owners — Mom is the house’s second owner — the rooms are small. The kitchen abuts the living room area. The living room is where Mom sets up for the day. I set up on a breakfast bar which Mom installed in the kitchen. From there, I can see and hear what’s going on in the living room.
One of Mom’s habits should be inserted her. She’s sort of a news junkie. When she comes down and sets up her living camp, she turns the television on and tunes it to MSNBC. As her hearing has declined, she keeps it LOUD. Meanwhile, in the kitchen is a radio which is tuned to a local talk radio station. It’s on at the same time. Yes, the television and radio are on at the same time, in different rooms, even when nobody is in them. Just for fun, when Mom goes into the bathroom on that level, she’ll often turn on a radio in there, too.
And while all of these are on, she’s talking with guests and getting on her phone. It’s madness, and disruptive as a quake to me. So I’ll slip into the kitchen to get a little writing in, only to be hailed from the living room to clarify some point. Is the scene developing? It’s another point in the frustrating challenge to write while in PIP.
Now I’m back in my coffee shop, returned to my place behind my walls of routines. I think part of the issues with writing when away this time was that I’ve created this writing structure as part of my temporal order of memory and episodic memories. Going for a walk alone or being in a coffee shop has long been my methodology for inviting the muses in and triggering the writing process. I think now, minus that standard structure, the muses and writing neurons just take time off.
I missed writing while I was away from it. I had to tell myself, just breathe. This will pass. And it has. Now, I resume writing, picking up right where I detoured, entertaining myself in the world of my creation. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time. Ah, it feels so good, like a coffee addict getting their first swallow.
