The Little Competition Dream

It seemed as if I was in a quasi-military unit again. A new guy, young, I arrived as a strange ceremony was underway.

I took it in at a glance: large wooden but modern yurt. High wooden ceiling. People in uniforms – could be military, marching bands, firefighters – in groups, waiting.

Two senior people took me aside. The taller one said, “Your timing is perfect. We’re going to have you do the judging.”

I was like, the judging? I said nothing.

They led me to a round wooden table. On it was a brown wooden basket. “Basically,” it was explained, “you find their flare and trinkets and count them up.”

They were doing activity as this was being explained. I watched, following, gleaning the essence. This was a competition. The groups had stuff. I had to find it but judge it not on its merits but on its quantity. This would not be hard.

I counted some stuff. Marked it. Initialed the little slip of white paper it was on.

My instructors laughed. “Don’t bother initialing it. That’ll slow you down.”

I was affronted. I wanted accountability. Precision. But said nothing.

One of the groups’ leaders, tall guy with a rambling reddish-brown beard, was watching and spoke up. “He’s doing the judging? Look how slow he’s going. This is going to take forever.”

The tall leader responded, “He’s just starting. He’ll speed up.”

Indeed, I was speeding up, and learning the challenge’s intricacies. For example, in one green uniform, they had hundreds of small pockets. In each was a little gold trinket. Each had to be found and counted.

That’s how it was with all of these uniforms. The teams found things and hid them. Everything was small, and it was up to me to find and count it. Pretty nuts, I thought.

A woman in uniform, waiting to hand over her garments for my inspection and counting said, “This is pretty important to people.”

I nodded; I could tell.

She continued, “They put a lot of work and thought into it.”

“I can see that,” I replied.

The small things were adding up and time was going faster. I found new places to stack it all, keeping it neat and orderly.

Dream endThe Little Competition Dream

I was in a quasi-military unit again. A new guy, young, I arrived as a strange ceremony was underway.

I took it in at a glance: large wooden but modern yurt. High wooden ceiling. People in uniforms – could be military, marching bands, firefighters – in groups, waiting.

Two senior people took me aside. The taller one said, “Your timing is perfect. We’re going to have you do the judging.”

I was like, the judging? I said nothing.

They led me to a round wooden table. On it was a basket. “Basically,” it was explained, “you find their flare and trinkets and count them up.”

They were doing activity as this was being explained. I watched, following, gleaning the essence. This was a competition. The groups had stuff. I had to find it but judge it not on its merits but on its quantity. This would not be hard.

I counted some stuff. Marked it. Initialed the little slip of white paper it was on.

My instructors laughed. “Don’t bother initialing it. That’ll slow you down.”

I was affronted. I wanted accountability. Precision. But said nothing.

One of the groups’ leaders were watching and spoke up. “He’s doing the judging? Look how slow he’s going. This is going to take forever.”

The tall leader responded, “He’s just starting. He’ll speed up.”

Indeed, I was speeding up, and learning the challenge’s intricacies. For example, in one green uniform, they had hundreds of small pockets. In each was a little gold trinket. Each had to be found and counted.

That’s how it was with all of these uniforms. The teams found things and hid them. Everything was small, and it was up to me to find and count it. Pretty nuts, I thought.

A woman in dark green serge uniform, waiting to hand over her garments for my inspection and counting said, “This is pretty important to people.”

I nodded; I could tell.

She continued, “They put a lot of work and thought into it.”

“I can see that,” I replied.

The small things were adding up and time was going faster. I found new places to stack it all, keeping it neat and orderly.

Dream end

The Writing Moment

Breathe in, breathe out.

Sip coffee. Sit. Stare.

Contemplate.

Finished the second pass of the novel in progress, Unfocused. Six zillion words.

Naw. Just felt like it. Only 101K. 485 pages in MS Word.

The usual wars go on in me: finished. Feels good. Is it any good?

What shall I do now?

By that last, I mean, do another editing/revision pass or work on submitting it somewhere.

Other concepts call. A Tribe Called Death is eager to be written. Multitudes.

So, I sit. Sip coffee. Stare.

Contemplate.

Wait for a sign from the coffee shop.

Four Microdreams

I had a series of flash microdreams last night.

In the first, I was editing/revising my manuscript, Unfocused. I awoke confused whether I’d been awake or asleep. Falling back asleep, I experienced the novel as a movie.

Another microdream slipped in. I reached for a green glass tumbler which had water in it. When I tasted it, it was coffee, but it stayed clear.

A man asked me to marry him. Then I thought it was me asking him. Then I thought, I’m both men.

Then I ate a chocolate chip muffin from a tray. Finishing it, I wanted more.

End

Bob and the House: Just Dreaming

My dream patterns have been disrupted. I dreamed but remembered little for several days. In fact, the only thing remembered for three days in a row was a friend’s appearance. Each night featured a snippet of Bob showing up.

In the first dream, I was busy with something, looked up, and saw Bob walking toward me. I said, “Hey, there’s Bob.” Bob walked past me without saying anything. I mused, “I wonder where Bob’s going.”

In the second and third dreams, each on separate nights, I saw Bob approaching. “Hey, there’s Bob.” Both these times ended up with Bob walking up to me but not speaking as the dream memory ended.

I told Bob about that last night. He responded, “Boy, I’d really like to explore that more.”

Meanwhile, I have a full and sharp memory of a dream from last night. I was at a house with my wife and familiars who may have been cousins. I think it was a wealthy aunt’s house. The resident was gorgeous, a place that celebrated wealth and luxury.

Yet, as I walked around, I noticed horrible details: toilets were full of urine and toilet paper. Showers were filthy with mold. They had a huge, beautiful driveway made of brick and cut stones, but a grimy black layer covered much of it.

Appalled, I began looking for cleaning supplies to address these things. Doing so, I opened cupboards, drawers, and closets. Supplies were found in chaotic piles. Separating pieces, I found rags, sponges, and cleaners.

My wife came by and asked, “What are you doing?” I explained, showing her the filthy toilets and showers, then took her out to the driveway.

As I talked about the driveway to my wife, I noticed a young woman cleaning part of the driveway with a pressure washer. Interrupting her work, I clarified what she was doing and then asked her to wash some of the black off another part. She responded, “I’m not supposed to work on that part.”

I said, “Can you do me a favor and wash it off a little so I can confirm what’s under it?”

She did, confirming what I thought. I showed my wife and remembered, “This part is really bad because they used to have an RV parked here. I’m going to get a power washer and clean it off.”

That’s where the dream ended.

The Writing Moment

I’m revising and editing the novel in progress, “Unfocused”. This pass is for understanding, coherency, continuity. More planned passes will address line edits and polishing. I do address egregious issues whenever I encounter them but improving mechanics and refinement isn’t my current focus.

It goes well but it’s not an even tide. Most chapters are broken into six to ten numbered sections. It fascinates me is how well I remember writing passages and yet they seem like foreign lands. Distinct memories of decisions and progressions are encountered. When I wrote the novel, I sometimes wasn’t satisfied with a chapter and decided to get out of my way, just get it all down, go on, and return to it during revisions. Chapters also exist where I worked them and worked them until they satisfied the writer of that day and I was content to move on.

How I addressed the chapters and sections show. Revision for one rushed chapter consumed an entire week, developing into a sequence of revising and editing. Sometimes several passes of a section were done in one day. More than once, I walked away to think and digest what was and wasn’t working and where changes were needed. Those breaks always helped.

Other days — yesterday, for instance — I swept through one entire chapter in one two-hour session and walked away pleased. It all varies.

Now, back to editing and revising “Unfocused”, 536 pages long, resuming at page 246.

Mundaz Wandering Thoughts

I was in the coffee shop — typing, revising, thinking, scrambling through the novel, noticing faults and fixing them. Progress was steady but heavy with challenge.

.Another customer approached my table. Regulars, she and I briefly spoke together a few times. Today she said, “Excuse me, but I love watching you at your table.”

Blinking, I gave her my attention.

She continued, “You become so deeply focused and oblivious to the rest of us, it just amazes me. I’m sorry to interrupt you but I really felt an itch to say something.”

I thanked her with a laugh. “Don’t worry. Interruptions can be helpful. Sometimes a little break is needed to help me think more clearly.”

We exchanged names, then she left the coffee shop, leaving me smiling.

Sometimes it feels good to be noticed as orders are called out, conversations rise and fall, and people come and go.

It feels…human.

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