Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
I dreamed that I was in a small, well-lit bathroom over a white pedestal style porcelain sink. Watching myself from a side angle, I saw part of myself in a narrow mirror over the sink. I would go out and do something, and then return and wash my hands. My hand washing took on furious scrubbing. But as the process progressed and evolved, I learned that I had different hands. How I washed them would modify what I could do and change my personality. As I experimented with the hand washing, I was joined by people around the sink. All these were white men with white or gray hair and beards, and all were in dingy white togas. As I washed, they would comment on how I was washing my hands, which hands I was washing, and then predict the results of my hand washing. Their commentary agitated me; I thought I’d do better if I just washed my hands myself and learned the results. I eventually turned on them, telling them to leave me alone and to be quiet. They did eventually quiet but kept washing until, filled with resentment at their presence, I stopped.
I arrived home as a young man. Mom gave me a room. I was happy to see her and happy to be there. We were living on a train, and the room she gave me was an entire train car. Long and narrow, I had a bed, desk, dresser, bookcase, chair, and wardrobe. I set them up to provide separate sleeping and living areas, using the bookcase and vanity as a makeshift wall. As I set it up, my young sisters came in and visited. Sometimes they brought young neighbor boys that they were watching. Mom would also occasionally come by.
I stacked my books and organized my desk, made my narrow bed, and slid against one wall. One side of the train had windows, and I set my desk up under them so I could look outside.
Young people in a sixties era Chevy Impala convertible (after the fins were dropped) began driving by. Whenever they did, some of my things would get shifted, annoying me. This worsened; even as I cleaned and organized again, they drove by, knocking things over. They never reached in or anything, but I knew it was them, as they were laughing about it.
I decided I’d put a stop to that and devised a way by changing the room around. The new arrangement was less satisfying, but it was staying neat and still workable. However, one of the little neighbor boys my sisters were watching kept sneaking into my room and tearing things up. He was fair and blonde, giggling often, but crying whenever he was stopped or reprimanded. I kept putting him out, warning him not to do that, and warning others to keep him out, and then cleaning up again, and again, but he kept getting in there. Mom came to me and told me to be more patient and tolerant because he was a small child and had mental and emotional health issues. I complained to her but took her point and promised I would try.
The train with my room went on the move. That pleased me because I thought we’d moved away from the boy causing the problem. But he got in there again. I was bewildered. My sisters explained that he’d come with us. I felt that I had no choice but to close and lock my doors. After I did that, I discovered him sliding in under the door. It looked like he could completely flattened himself, becoming as pliable and flexible as a sheet of paper.
My exasperation and irritation spiked. How was I supposed to deal with that. I took hold of the boy to take him out of the room. He immediately screamed, writhing and crying in my grasp. Others came running in. I said that I hadn’t done anything to him, that he was overly sensitive, defending myself with the claim, I was just stopping him from ruining things again. My sisters took him out of my room.
Dream end.
The dream began with great vibes. Returning home, I was being feted as a hero. I’d just slayed a monster, apparently about the fortieth time that I’d done so. Appreciation for me, and my fame, were growing.
First, there was a question of what to eat. A pot roast was being offered; “What would you like with it, Michael?” an elderly woman asked.
“Well, I like those little potatoes browned with them, along with pearl onions and carrots,” I told her. “That was how Mom made it, how I made it, and how my wife made it.” The word was passed, this is what he wants, this is what he likes.
An invitation came to join a military organization. “You’re a hero,” a woman recruiter told me. “We need heroes. You’re a leader. We need leaders.” My, I was flattered. Yes, I agreed, with little hesitation.
Other recruiters and their recruits arrived. I met recruits brought in by my recruiter. I made friends with one man. He was big as an NFL quarter back, and muscular, but very friendly and easy-going.
More recruiters and recruits arrived. Six groups were formed. After dressing in military green uniforms, we filed into a temporary trailer being used as an office space. There were way too many people in the trailer within short order. They were going to do the swearing-in ceremony here. Alright, I thought, let’s get this done. But then, they started trying to do it simultaneously in different corners, with everyone trying to speak above everyone else. The recruiters had also made name plates. They revealed that they’d ‘manufactured’ them by removing door and desk plates and writing on the back of those. The recruiters that this was funny in a sad, pathetic way.
Growing irritated, I was having second thoughts about joining. Who would want to join such chaos? Not me. But I also thought I could take charge and create order out of the chaos. So, I began making suggestions to improve. Why don’t the six groups do their ceremony one at a time? Give each group a number. Do it sequentially.
The recruiters close to me liked that idea, but it had to be communicated with the other recruiters across the room. I told them, “Just tell everyone to be quiet. Use your command voice.”
As that was agreed, a recruiter shouted for quiet. My big friend walked off, head and shoulders above the room. My recruiter came to me and asked if I was friends with him. Yes, I answered. “Did he use to be a football player?” she asked. Yes, I affirmed, he was.
She nodded. The dream ended.
A friend asked my wife, “Is Michael always so affable?”
I laughed, of course. The friend was encountering social Michael. He’s affable, but he has a very short half-life.
To her credit, my wife said, “Mostly. He has his moods. He’s okay as long as I don’t disrupt his writing time. Then he turns into a bear, and it’s not Yogi or Boo-Boo.”
My writing day doesn’t begin until about eleven A.M. I walk before my writing session as part of my process. When I’m writing, I target scenes to measure progress, and not word count. I’m frequently able to think about where I left off, and then resume writing it in my mind as I walk. When I get in and sit down, I usually know what I want to write.
This doesn’t always work because the muses have their own plans. I try to be flexible, but it’s a struggle. I like having plans. Plans provide me with structure and illusions of control.
When the muses throw me off with their reveals, I often need to stop to see where they’re taking me. Since my writing time is precious, I’ll frequently go back and edit what I’ve written when that happens. That keeps me engaged in writing while giving my subconscious mind the opportunity to meet with the muses and hash it out. (There’s not actually any hashing out. The muses know where they want to take the story. It’s up to me to do as told. I like to say we’re hashing it out because it gives me the illusion of it being a collaborative effort.)
My writing session only lasts about two and a half hours. Plans are embedded around it, especially walking. Walking is my number one form of exercise, and it helps me process information.
My walking plans change by season. That’s not just spring, summer, autumn, and winter, but the embedded seasons of hot, fucking hot, cold, fucking cold, wet, and smoky.
We’re into the fucking hot season now, defined by jokes like, “Look, the temperature has dipped. It’s ninety-seven.” The forecasted highs range between ninety-nine and one hundred two for the next ten days.
For all the seasons, I break my walking down into bite sized goals. My overall walking goals remain about twenty thousand steps and ten flights. During the FH season, I try to make fifty-five hundred steps before I start writing at eleven. After I write, I then target ninety-one hundred steps. That gives me four miles by three P.M.
After that, plans are flexible and adjusted according to what else the day requires. I frequently end up walking about two and a half miles in the evening, leaving the house about eight forty-five and returning an hour later. Because we live in a hilly area, my flights go up to about sixty one these days. (I can do that during this season because we have more hours of daylight. This doesn’t work as well when it’s cold and dark, so I adjust.)
For all that, they are just plans. They rarely survive reality. In the end, I ride the wave of the day, seizing moments and narrowing my focus as needed.
Okay, today’s therapy is finished. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.
I awoke from this dream scoffing at my subconscious mind. Yes, I saw its point, delivered through a dream, but I wasn’t buying into it. Not yet, at least. Maybe after more thinking…and dreaming.
This dream found me in a large and busy city. My mother, wife, and sister-in-law (my wife’s sister) were with me. We were discussing my writing and selling books. While showing me what they’d done, the female triumvirate was telling me that they’d taken my books’ sections and created covers for each one. As I was looking at the foot-high high stack and what seemed like twenty books about three quarters of an inch thick each, they (I don’t know which, as they were rotating between explanation duties) said, “And then we combined them in one big book.” They showed me how they’d done that. The final cover was a blank, slightly shiny, tin piece.
Ummm. I wasn’t appreciative. “Why?” I said, trying to look for other words. It wasn’t the sort of help I’d been looking for, and I didn’t know why they’d done it.
‘They’ continued explaining, “That way, people can take them apart and pass the books around.”
“How will that help?” I asked. “They’ll just buy one book, take it apart, and pass pieces around.”
“They’ve already bought two,” one of them said as people going by paused to look at the book.
I was shaking my head about the whole thing as the dream agenda shifted, with a change of scenery. Now located at Mom’s house (not any house that she’s ever lived in, BTW), in the basement, I’d come up with something. I don’t even know what it is now that I’m awake. In the dream, I called it a grill sometimes and a screen sometimes. It looked like a bed’s headboard, but none of us ever called it that. The others in the dream referred to it as a grill. I’d made them and painted them, and then added a saying. I’d done two like this. When I showed it to Mom and the other two, they were pleased and excited, going overboard with their enthusiasm. Could I make more? Of course, and I would.
Then they left me alone. I busied myself with other things. Mom came down to check on me. “You’re not making more sayings, are you?” she said. “We want to be there when you make more sayings.”
It exasperated me because she was hijacking my process and results, even though I’d done it for her (from what I understand). Plus, I preferred working alone. Always have. I was a bit short with her in my response.
Off I went to do other things. When I returned, Mom proudly announced that they’d been helping. She led me along to show me the result. They’d painted grills that I’d already made. The results looked terrible. The paint was sloppy and incomplete, but had many runs and was too thick in many places.
I was horrified. Yet, I knew that expressing that would hurt her feelings. I said, “Well, thank you, but I think some of that has to be redone.”
She was saying, “I know,” but was meanwhile leading me to where my nieces and nephews were hard at work painting more grills. I felt helpless in the face of such a proud effort to help. My wife and sister-in-law came by, endorsing what was being done while I stood in the middle and wondered how I was going to regain control.
Michael Seidel, writer 