I started writing in one of those composition books. I usually have three or four journals or sketchbooks going all at once, but never a composition book, not since my college Creative Writing class. This is where all the gritty stuff goes, the stuff that is not for show so it (naturally) must go on crappy lined paper, the stuff that I likely won't talk about with anyone because of its intensely private nature.
That, and I am an intensely private person. You may think Nooo but in actuality, I really don't disclose much about my innermost processes. Not unless I know you well. I attribute my ability to be warm while at the same time deflecting others' prods for information solely to my small arsenal of Libran qualities. A useful skill, it's turning out to be.
I guess you could say the composition book is where the "secrets" go, but I wouldn't call them secrets. I don't know what you'd call them.
Non-Conversational Items
Private Holy Tidbits
Things You Wouldn't Tell Your Grandma
But one thing that goes in this book is a dream log I've been keeping. For a psychology class once, the Boy kept a dream journal for an entire quarter, or semester or whatever it was. He read parts of it to me the other night and oh MAN was it awesome! So rich and full and beautiful... and inspiring.
A big part of keeping a dream journal is not the writing part but the remembering part. Many of my dreams flit away upon waking. Sometimes they come back to me in short flashes later on in the day, but are then gone as quickly as they arrived. As I have been learning, remembering dreams is not something you must try hard to do or something you must throw a lot of energy into. Rather, it is a matter of relaxing the mind, engaging in some mild meditation before bedtime and throughout your day, opening a place in your psyche where you can allow these dream "memories" to exist and manifest, and hopefully float into your full consciousness.
An excerpt --
August 1st
A red-headed woman, a little bit disheveled like she'd been sweating from a workout, or like she'd just awoken from a fitful sleep -- her cheeks are flushed bright pink -- I thought how she went a little overboard with the blush, then realize maybe that is her natural flushing color -- No, I determined -- definitely too much blush, but I still cannot stop staring at her while she speaks exuberantly about this thing and this other thing --
July 30th
I work more hours than anybody -- tallied on a sheet, written in big loopy numbers, in pencil, hours totaled at the bottom and I have more than anyone -- How can that be?
July 29th
<piece of an exerpt>
...I keep checking the back of my hair with a hand-held mirror and it's ugly and keeps falling out -- the pins won't stay -- the mirror goes back to the spot where it is stored but I keep picking it back up to check my hair, but I am never satisfied --
I read these to Will one night. We laughed, because many times dreams that feel intensely real later sound silly.
"I guess this is what I'm about -- grooming myself, working too much overtime, and being mesmerized by red heads," I laughed.
It's not that inaccurate, I'm afraid!
No comments:
Post a Comment