Monday Morning

I'm back! I bet you didn't even know I was gone. My daughter and I packed up for the weekend and went off to enjoy the solitude. While I would have been happier with brighter skies and warmer weather, overall it was a great weekend. I got my edits done, I reevaluated my present frame of mind and I discovered some pleasant news while weighing in. The sleeping accommodations left my back in a twist, but long soaks in the hot tub totally made up for that.

So it's Monday morning and I am about to embark on finishing the second draft of my novel. I've got the file open and I'm ready to charge at it later this evening, but first I have errands and a some freelance work to do. I will say that tentatively, on top of everything else I've got going on right now, that I would like to have this second draft completed by the last day in the first week of June. That is June 6th. I can do it. I've won NaNoWriMo once and JulNoWriMo once, and I've already got a pretty strong skeleton to build upon. So that is what is on my agenda.

I am also planning to start piecing together some of my poetry into a chapbook, so be on the lookout for more details to come there.

On top of all this exciting news, I am also preparing to move. Over the next few weeks I will be packing up my life into boxes and by the second week of June, I will be moving into a new place. Wish me luck.

So as I stand on this precipice of change, I leave you with this poetic thought I had:

Fearless
atop the world
looking down
up here
it all seems small
Breathe
sense of knowing
being, eclipsing
exhale
and fall.

I hope you enjoy your Monday, and it isn't too manic for you. Take some time to pop over and visit the awesome people in my blog roll, like James Melzer, J.C. Hutchins, Nicole Ireland, Matthew Wayne Selznick, and Ray Onativia just to name a few. You won't be disappointed, I promise!

For the Muse

My muse has been incredibly generous lately, providing me with gallons of inspiration to drink each day. I've got two short stories on the verge of completion, and I've been writing poetry like mad.

I have been so busy trying to get this manuscript completed so I can get it back to my author and things in my personal life have been rocky, but every night I manage to write a poem before bed, and sometimes I write one when I wake up. Since I don't have much time, I wanted to share a quick poem with you. I haven't forgotten about my faithful readers, and hope to find more time to blog soon.

Nectar

I drink you
like nectar
resting in the
cup of a flower
mouth to mouth
skin to skin
we dance around
obstacles, shedding
fabric like
a snake sheds
its skin
then wrap together
like crawling vines
reaching toward
the sun.

I'm off to cram in about 20 more pages of edits, then dreamland. I hope you're all having a fantastic week! I need to make my blog rounds, and I apologize if I haven't popped by to visit you lately. Life certainly has a way of interfering with play time.

Don't forget, tomorrow boasts the return of Thankful Thursday. See you there.

Busy Busy Busy...

As anticipated, this week has been incredibly busy. Not only am I juggling two short stories, getting started on some heavy edits for the June edition of eMuse and novel edits for a client, I also had to work all week and save my own personal universe from crumbling in upon itself. There's been a lot going on, needless to say, but despite the pressure, I feel resilient and strong. I've had a very helpful and awesome support system all along. It's been amazing. Thanks friends. :) You all rock.

The weather is finally shifting, and the disappearance of the cold, damp of winter/spring has gone at last. This has completely altered my physical health in a way that confirmed what I believed all along... the death-grip on my lungs all winter was some kind of indoor-allergy. I think it's something in this house. That's insane. When your house becomes your physical enemy and tries to drive you out with disease... hmm, I smell a short story.

With so much to do, and so little time, I'm off to the chocolate factory for a full tour... not really. I'm actually just going to hop in the shower, drop the squeenager off at the mall and sit outdoors with an iced coffee to do some editing. I may check back in later tonight after the wee one is asleep. (I'm keeping my four year old niece over night, YAY!)

I'll leave you with this morning's waking poem:

Dawdling Sun

Empty morning,
too much bed.
Wrapped in cold warmth
and the last fragments
of a quiet dream
still linger.

It's five.
The sun dawdles,
but soon
it will claw
away the last
remnants of
this darkness.
©2009 J. Hudock

Warrior Wednesday

notebook noir
Originally uploaded by theilr

I had a great day, and I'm just settling in now to get a bit more writing done before bed. I wanted to pop in and post a couple of poems to tide you over until tomorrow's Thankful Thursday post. :)

Morning

Tin roof rain drops
and wings like sheets
flap toward freedom
perched atop the pine
single branch sways
nothing but the rain
can cleanse me now
face to sky, arms to wind
warrior waiting
behind a peaceful mask
ready to pounce...
always watching.
© 2009 J. Hudock

Numbered

Every night's pain
echoes into silent
voices across the void...
She picks up her pen
and tries to capture
it in words, but
there is only the
way it makes her feel:
speechless, but full
replenished, but alone,
as if she's numbered
every one of her own days
and given them new meaning.
She's sure that
he would never understand,
so she closes her book
and goes to sleep.
© 2009 J. Hudock

Untitled

Let it all writhe
and tangle together
like a bed of snakes
tale to mouth
euroburos

Let it all burn
and smolder together
like a pile of ash
blackened soot
funeral pyre

Let it all fade
and wash away together
like a bed of sand
loose shells
watery grave

Let it all go
and dwindle into nothing
like a galaxy into a black hole
spinning rim round
the end
© 2009 J. Hudock

Have a good evening everyone.

April Showers... Bring May Flowers

Its raining in my backyard-Hooray
Originally uploaded by aussiegall

Sometimes it has to rain. I know that. After a long winter, however, the transition from frigid and icy to beautiful and green is not always smooth. There are a lot of grey and icky days, as the fingers of death uncoil from the spring maiden, allowing her to go forth and bring life back to the sluggish and tired earth. This morning, I woke up to the sound of pouring rain, (as usual, I started to sing Skin Row's "I Remember You... because I am from the 80s, and that is what I do). Before I climbed out of bed, I thought about how sad today was going to be. A lot of intense things are underway in my life right now, some incredibly frightening changes, and the rain and gloom felt perfect for my mood.

I got out of bed, didn't even get dressed, and put my shoes on so I could take Loki the wonderhusky outside for his morning business. It was warm. Not cold, as I had anticipated, and though it was damp, there was humidity to because of the heat. I looked out into the backyard and realized that all the dead and barren plant life had been brushed by the hand of spring. Everything was green. It gave me hope.

I've got a lot to do right now, so my blogs may be a little sporadic. I will try to keep at them daily, as I do enjoy the interaction and sharing with those who take time to read. Today, I leave you with a couple poems that encompass my frame of mind right now perfectly.

Matches

What would she say to me
if she were to live
beyond expectation?
Would she say, "Light the
match," and exhale
smoke in tiny fingers
that dance upon the
wrinkles in her skin?
"My pretty girl, so smart,"
but not smart enough
to outwit her own defeat,
her own indulgences. My
kingdom for a compliment,
my entire world to be
shattered like an old
barn house window.
"Make a wish," then
she blows out the match.
© 2009 J. Hudock


Burn Scar

Sucker punched by the moment,
left struggling for breath.
Long after the heart stops,
pale ghost of want
flounders on the floor--
no one hears it screaming.

Strangled disease ended torment
flat on the back of a dream.
Short pulses of of subtlety
shine like a beacon
pounding at the door of
something to believe in.

Small and curled like a ball
a fetus in a womb of web,
snap judgments tear through
white waves of silence.
Grounded forever more,
nothing but a burn scar.
© 2009 J. Hudock

What is this?
Sundown and the strange
suffocation braces my lungs.

I thought we were over this,
basking in the cure
and absolved from old punishments.

Imprisoned by notion,
barred within my fear...

I open up the cage
and with this final breath
I set you free.

Fly, fly away from me.
© 2009 J. Hudock

Even if it's raining wherever you are, go stand under the downpour,and think of yourself like a flower desperate for a drink. Grow--like a vine if you have to. Stretch your arms toward the sun, even if it's hidden behind clouds. It'll be shining again before you know it, and you'll be all the better from all that rain.


Oh, and before I forget, my friend, James Melzer will be revealing the cover art for his novel, The Zombie Chronicles: Escape, tonight on his personal website at 7:45PM EST. James will also be stopping by Projekt X Radio around 8PM EST to talk about the cover. Check it out! I've sneak peeked the cover, and it's AMAZING!!!

When It Rains... It Pours

Luck of summer rain
Originally uploaded by lepiaf.geo

You know how the old saying goes... when it rains, it pours, well this weekend was a virtual downpour of awesome things. I made a lot of jokes over the weekend about taking over the world piece by piece, but as the ideas kept paying off and the achievements weighing in in my corner, I decided to polish my Hatori Hanzo sword and just Kill Bill.

It started on Friday, which I had decided to dedicate to finishing the short story I've been working on. While I was proofing over what I had already written, this idea arrow struck like lightning. I needed to put together an eMuse contest, as I had mentioned one in passing a couple of times. It was time to act on it, but what could we do that would not only benefit our contributors and readers, but also a fellow writer? That was when the name J.C. Hutchins popped into my head. I've been reading an advanced copy of his upcoming novel, Personal Effects: Dark Art, to review after its release in our June issue, when I thought to myself, "Wow! We could give away copies of the book for an insane asylum related contest." I ran my idea by J.C. and he agreed that it was a great plan, so I drew up a plan, checked on our eMuse funds and dove in.

Later that evening I was talking to my good friend, James Melzer about review writing for eMuse, as he was going to cook up a review for me, when we got to talking about him doing something bigger. The result was integrating him into the zine as a regular columnist and his column, Behind the Mic was born. Not only is James working on publishing his first novel, The Zombie Chronicles: Escape with Permuted Press, but he also has great insight into new media. Needless to say, it's going to be amazing.

I also have another idea for a column that is still in the hush-hush stages, but to give you a little preview, it will be a he said/she said column on writing. We are still working out the details, but stay tuned for news on that.

So just when I thought that my weekend couldn't get any more spectacular than it already was, I went for a walk last night. Did some thinking. Relished in the good feelings that come with achievement and obvious movement in the right direction. I came home, and sat down at my computer planning to get a little writing done, and checked my email. I had an acceptance letter from the editor of , 42 Magazine. She wanted to buy one of the poems I sent to them back in early February. Needless to say, I danced like Snoopy all around the office, drank three beers and proceeded to squee all over anyone who would listen.

Good things. They come to those who wait, and it's so important to remember that just when you think nothing is going your way. Look for little signs that the universe is on your side. It's there, and it wants you to succeed and be happy just as much as you want those things for yourself. If you aren't sure, maybe it's time to think about what you want for yourself, and how badly you want it. A wise man I know is prone to saying that the world don't owe you, and that is definitely true, but you can still go out there, kick some butt and take names every single day. This is your life. Live it!

Changes Brewing on the Wind

Noche de luna llena - Full moon night
Originally uploaded by *L*u*z*a* return to nature

Well, after all of my whining about the difficult time I had working on my short story last week, I am proud to say that Sunday I finished draft two. I sent it off to a couple of friends I workshop with, and this afternoon I made third draft edits. I then folded it into a cyber envelope stamped TEAM AWESOME and sent it off to the secret project that requested the story to begin with.

Aside from feeling incredibly accomplished today, I was also quite flattered when my friend and colleague, Steve, told me that the story reminded him of Edgar Allan Poe. That is probably the most amazing compliment I have ever gotten as a writer. Thank you, Steve.

I am now working on a group of short stories for a concept I'd like to propose, but the project is very secret, so I can't share details at this time. I have one story finished, and a second one about 1/4 of the way done. I hope to have the first draft of that story finished before Friday. Wish me luck.

All of this has left me feeling incredibly good. Big changes are coming, and I'm excited about them. I leave you with this poem, and wishes for a wonderful wednesday!

Brewing On the Wind

Tangled clouds like webs of dust
blown from hiding under the bed
and the dragon's open mouth
smokey teeth glisten
preparing to chomp down
on the light of the moon.
Hallowed Mother, suffocate
beneath speeding
atmospheric veil.

There are changes brewing
on the wind--
I can smell them.
© 2009 J. Hudock

Before I'm Swallowed by Sleep

Massive Old Oak Tree - seen on Coon Creek docent hike, Montaña de Oro, 18sept2008 - Leader: Jerry Kirkhart
Originally uploaded by mikebaird

It's late. I just got home from a night out with a dear friend. I will leave you with this poem. When I was growing up, I was fortunate (mostly,) to have grown up in a rural neighborhood with a group of adventurous kids. I have many fond memoirs of those days, including those of my first "crush." While there was never any future for us, we did some fun and crazy things, and this poem is one of many in tribute to the boy that I knew then.

It Always Comes Back to This

left arm scarred
cinder-block burn
a scraped escape
one hiding place
to the next

two in a tree
bark-brushed thigh
a chance maneuver
and blood chills
under the wind

love's agonizing scrutiny
these left-overs
nothing but empty
shells litter the earth
spilled seed pods
scatter with the
same breath
that says goodbye.

Maybe your Saturday linger as long as you like, unless you have to work, in which case, I hope it flies.

Because it's Tuesday

Spring Lamb
Originally uploaded by Essjay is happy in NZ

I'm happy to say that I haven't been blogging as much frequently because I've actually been writing. That's always a positive thing. Right after finishing the draft on my short story Sunday, I actually started another short story. I've also been writing a lot of poetry, some of which I share here with you.

Whole

In the lion's jaws
this lamb lies still
bent neck, bleeding
all fear receding
as he lopes off
away from the pride
finding some dark
secluded place to hide
where he can lap at her wounds
until saliva mends the skin
and she is whole again.

© 2009 J. Hudock

The Sea

Waves rush in against the cliffs:
that is the crushing breathlessness of you.
Three gulls circle overhead, little spies
that carry pieces of me away in their cries.
I am nothing but the spray of rain on stone,
an essence of color, refracted light.
Breathe in all the mist that is left of me,
and carry me back out with you to sea.

© 2009 J. Hudock

Here's hoping your Wednesday is bliss.

A God Never Forgets...

Temple of Apollo @ Delphi
Originally uploaded by Giorgos~

Apollo Rejected

Slowly fan these flames
in attempt to blow them out
yet they burn on,
lapping thirstily at my skin
like tired dogs.

Apollo's fiery fury, and I blister,
consumed with passion
behind the wavering reality
evaporating with every breath-
to let go, would bring freedom,
but what immunity have I?

Scarred from the inside out
a molten reminder
of incomplete sacrifice-
A god never forgets!
© 2005 J. Hudock

Just a bit of poetry today... had a busy day, got some writing done, prepping to do a bit more before turning in. I hope you all had a fabulous Friday.

Reflections...

Every night before going to bed, I process all of the day's thoughts and events, and then I write a poem. I have had other things going on lately, so I thought I'd post a couple of the poems I wrote this last week:

Underwater:

bubbles of frustration
squeeze from my lungs
small alien beings
like clear jellyfish
rise toward the distant
flickering daylight
fingertips glow underwater
extraterrestrial, unsound
I can see through my own skin:
blue veined, peaceful,
and it takes me back
connects me to the source
intravenously sustained
floating in the womb...

-----

Reflected

the mirrored reflection of something so yesterday
and yet beyond tomorrow wavers in front of me;
grins, not devouring, but straight and white,
clean and new, with an undercurrent of memory
of that whole time when I gave myself away
to someone that never really wanted me,
but took parts anyway to make himself stronger.
Somewhere, out there, he's walking around
with more innocence than he deserves and
bits of heart that do him no good.
He wears sheepskin, but cannot hide his teeth.


Random, completely. No structure, no rhyme. I've felt a little random myself lately, distracted, but it happens to the best of us. Perhaps I'll make some time later to actually blog, but until then...

"My Ancestors Believed"

corbel 28: sheela na gig
Originally uploaded by Sacred Destinations

The ocean was a sly, hungry goddess
who seduced and swallowed husbands.
Rarely spit out again and never seen
they dove willingly into her warm folds,
swam in the depth and bliss of her love
only to be carried away from wives
and children to distant paradises.

Can paradise be unveiled before a
billowing cloud of bubbles and fish schools,
or is that all part of the illusion?
The lure that captured their attention
bobbed on the surface like glass baubles
the ones ancient druids used
to interpret and determine the future.

It is not open for discussion,
or interpretation. All manner
of female oppression becomes
central. In reality not one
of those fisherwives needed a man,
and the boundaries of fidelity hang
wide open, like the Sheela-Na-Gig.

©2003 ~J. Hudock

He Whispers to Me While I Sleep

Lord Byron on his Death-bed
Originally uploaded by Kien Nguyen Photography

Lord Byron... ever since I was about thirteen years old I had a bizarre obsession with him, and not just his work, but him as a person. It occasionally rivaled with my fascination for Shelley, but for some reason Byron always wins out. While both had equally depressing volumes to offer before their deaths, Byron always felt more dangerous to me. In fact, as I mentioned yesterday I always thought the name George Gordon would fantastic for some Romantic obsessed serial murder. I've even had a few really creative ideas on how to insert Byron into fiction over the years, things both dark and hilarious that cannot be shared until the ideas are more complete.

The short story I am working on right now reminds me of Byron in the most twisted way. I had even named the main character George at first, but then upon realizing the connection changed it to give myself some distance and to let the character grow into his own personality.

The strange obsession has brought about the Byronic cycles that sometimes haunt me in my sleep. In the morning, just before I open my eyes and while still suspended in that web of some dream, I hear a voice whispering familiar poetry to me. This morning that voice said:


"Our life is twofold; Sleep hath its own world,
A boundary between the things misnamed
Death and existence: Sleep hath its own world,
And a wide realm of wild reality,
And dreams in their development have breath,
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy;
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts,
They take a weight from off waking toils,
They do divide our being; they become
A portion of ourselves as of our time,
And look like heralds of eternity..."

Funny, but that is how I have always viewed dreams. A separate reality, a weight upon my waking thoughts that divides me into two beings. As a Gemini, that sense of duality has existed all of my life, and I walk a thin line between the dream world and the waking place most people consider every day life.

I'm sure that's all crazy to you... but I'm happy here. Wherever I am.

I Pick Up My Books, I Read Bukowski

I've been reading a lot of Bukowski again, lately. It comes and goes. Sometimes when you feel like you've descended into a new place dirtier and grimier than any other place you've ever been, it's best to have Bukowski in your pocket. He's like a tour guide through Hell.

Not that I'm in Hell, or anything like that. It's just a dark state of mind to sink into when you're carrying old Buk with you everywhere you go. I think that so much of his work can be likened to this time we're having now, this endless depression, where all the stakes are changing once again... There are experts saying we won't ever recover from this if we collapse... that unlike Soviet Russia we have all tasted too much wealth to ever recover if our economy falls apart.

Well here's the thing. I grew up in a house with two brothers and a sister. We were only four children, but during the eighteen years I lived at home with my family, my parents were always on the verge of losing everything they had. That was why mother stressed the importance of not only dreaming, but standing on the tips of your toes until they break to reach those dreams. So that is what I do. That is what I will do all the days of my life.

Believe it or not, I've been places, seen things I hope to never be exposed to again in this lifetime. The first year we lived together, my husband and I shared a house with three other roommates. We spent an entire winter without heat and we rarely had enough food to get us by. We literally lived off of rice and ramen noodles for days and days on end, until some miracle presented itself and we were able to buy food. We spent a week on a bus going out to Arizona, where we couldn't get jobs because we had no place to live, and despite having enough money for an entire year's worth of rent, we couldn't get a place to live because we had no jobs. I was pregnant at the time, and desperately afraid of the kind of life I would provide for my child. In Arizona less than a month, we felt like we had failed, so we headed back to our hometown, and wound up living in squalor for about a month with my husband's friend.

It was the most disgusting place I had ever lived in my life. I should have known it would be bad. The guy's car had always been a virtual nightmare-you know, the kind when half a bag of garbage came rolling out whenever you opened a door. You had to arrange the garbage to make yourself comfortable in the back seat. Imagine how his apartment looked. He had a cat. An old Tom he'd found inside a car or something, but never got him neutered. The cat walked around and pissed on everything. Furniture, clothes, blankets, food.... anything he could lift his leg on, he did. And the guy we lived with chewed tobacco, so all over the apartment were cups, bottles and cans filled with putrid brown ooze.

I cleaned the apartment from top to bottom because I was not raised that way. How anyone could live like that and think it was normal, I never understood. Even after I cleaned it, he worked very hard to mess it up again. I remember an instance shortly after I had sterilized the apartment from top to bottom that another guy who was staying with us woke up because he felt something crawling on him... it was a maggot. Talk about never wanting to close your eyes again.

Shortly thereafter, my parents found out what kind of conditions we were living in and came to the rescue. Sometimes I think it was a miracle that we had their help, but we sacrificed a lot of what we believed in by going to stay with them. It was a year and a half that we stayed with them, and in that eighteen months, spirits were crushed, dreams were lost and our small family was nearly torn apart. But we made it through. We finally moved out into our own apartment, and while it wasn't exactly the Ritz Carlton, we made it into a home, and there we stayed for nine years.

During that time we struggled to maintain that which we felt was important to both of us, while also trying to keep up with our financial obligations. In order to provide the best family atmosphere for our daughter, we worked opposite shifts, so someone was always home with her. It wasn't until she started school that I actually got a day job so we could all be home at nights together.

After September 11, 2001, I felt like I'd been hit with a reality check. I was twenty-six, and still hadn't gotten any closer to achieving any of the goals I had set for myself throughout the years. I had no success with publishing, and even worse, had no idea where to start. Within weeks of September 11, I had decided to go to college. And I did.

The thing is, the quality of our life improved dramatically during the time I was going to college. Our finances were looking good, we had gotten rid of past debts and had finally started to save enough money to buy a house. Eight months before graduating, we bought our house. I had the promise of a college education behind me to help me get a better job, and it looked like some of the things we wanted in life were finally going to pay off.

Then the housing market took a dive. Our very first winter here was difficult, as my husband struggled to maintain his job. It wasn't until June that he went back to work full time, but come December he was right back on the same boat. The next year he didn't go back to work full time until July, and by the time September hit in 2008, they were already back to working three day weeks. He's been laid off since the second week in January.

Sob story? Not really, but after everything we've been through it's a real motivator, let me tell you. Not to go out and work nine jobs to maintain material happiness, but to step up our game and start doing some of the things we hesitated on in the past out of fear. Fear of failure, fear of loss, fear of whatever.

I know that so many of my friends are in this same boat. So many of us struggle from day to day to make sure there is food on our table, while our big bosses go on elaborate trips around the world, deny their employees security, claiming that the economy is bad. How bad can it be when they are out living it up like celebrities while the rest of us worry from day to day whether or not we're even going to get our next pay check. My husband's employer has sent the salesmen group every year on a week long cruise to the Bahamas as a reward for work well done... Well guess what, the salesmen haven't sold anything in months, but they leave to go on their cruise at the end of next week.

I very rarely talk politics, and I certainly don't like to blog about them because differences of opinion often tear friendships apart, but this bailout garbage is like trying to stuff a wad of chewing gum into a dam already about to burst. The same people who have always had it easy get another leg up while the world crumbles underneath them, while we're left down here at the bottom wondering NOT where our cruise to the Bahamas or our full-sponsored trip to Pokerfest 2009 is, but whether or not we're going to lose our home or have enough money after paying our mortgage to feed our family. Our jobs, which were propositioned to us as full-time employment just a year ago, waver in the balance, thin as spiderwebs about to break.

The thing is, and I know you're wondering what the hell does any of this have to do with Bukowski, Charles Bukowski defied odds during the depression, World War II, after the War... He painted accurate portraits of the world around him that we can look back on today. If you are a writer, a poet, an artist or a musician of any kind, now is your time. Catalog these days. Paint portraits of the world as it falls apart and rebuilds itself again. There is more than enough inspiration right now to go around. Draw on the misery around you and turn it into something pure, something beautiful.

I know that this blog was probably one of the more depressing blogs I've penned this week, but don't miss the underlying thread of hope glimmering within the darkness. We write our own future, our own destiny, and right now, as it seems like sky is falling, there's a pen or a paintbrush or a guitar waiting for you to pick it up and show the world what you've seen.



The Aliens, by Charles Bukowski

you may not believe it
but there are people
who go through life with
very little
friction of distress.
they dress well, sleep well.
they are contented with
their family
life.
they are undisturbed
and often feel
very good.
and when they die
it is an easy death, usually in their
sleep.

you may not believe
it
but such people do
exist.

but i am not one of
them.
oh no, I am not one of them,
I am not even near
to being
one of
them.
but they
are there

and I am
here.

Into the Dreamscape

As long as I can remember, dreams have been one of my favored pastimes. Whether I was waking up from an intense escapade and hurriedly recording it in my dream journal, or sitting by the window as it rained daydreaming about some faraway place I'd rather be, my life has been a myriad of wonders thanks to how attentive I have been to my own dreams.

So fascinated with dreams have I been that it is a rare occasion for me to write anything longer than a short story without some kind of dream sequence in it. Main characters dreaming of the symbolic guidance they seek or slipping into a world dictated by dreaming itself... the dream world is a place in which anything can and usually does happen.

Whether you're Freudian in your dream beliefs or you've evolved with the studies over the last century, what we know about dreams and their actual function in our life is very little. Some theorists believe that dreams are the mind's way of processing events, thoughts and occurrences from the day before. Others think that dreams are important messages sent to us by the brain about things in our life that we might be overlooking, ie. health problems, struggles in relationships and so on. There are even people who believe that because dreams occur during an altered state of consciousness they are messages from the divine or the universe that occur in symbolic forms. People have told stories of the divine messages they've received, of how they dreamed of things before they happened, dreamed of people before they ever met...

The thing about dreams that makes them great fodder for stories is the interpretation of symbols. Universal symbols are easier to work with, and if you do a little research into basic dream symbols it's easy to incorporate a little dream mystery into your plot line. Deeper research into dream interpretation methods holds the potential to create a rich plot steeped in subtle symbols. The thing is, we all create our own symbols, based on our personal experiences, so the universal symbol for a bumblebee might not mean the same thing to someone who lives in the Tundra as it would for a person who lived on the equator.

Another great idea that has actually proven pretty productive for me over the years is writing down your dreams and drawing story ideas from the bizarre occurrences and symbols within. This morning I dreamed about robots that looked exactly like people (yeah, yeah, we all know I watch too much Battlestar Galactica while on the treadmill...) infiltrating a city school system to destroy the children. I was chosen, along with four other people to go back into a specific section of the school to secure the area. I had one person to back me up. As I walked into the school, my back up person behind me, there was a flash of light that revealed a person up ahead. I shot and hit the person, and we surged forward to detain them. It was Arnold Swarzeneggar... ironic because of his role in the Terminator series... Now I'm certainly not going to write Battlestar Galactica/Terminator Crossover Fanfiction, but there were several inspiring ideas in the overall span of the dream.

And what if you're not into writing fiction? Poetry! My personal notebooks are filled to the brim with dream-inspired poetry. Abstract and structured poems alike, the unstable territory of the dreamworld is an intense medium for channeling the profound.

I know there are probably quite a few people out there who are already shaking their heads while reading, ready to assure me rather matter-of-factly that they don't dream, but that's just not true. Everyone dreams, every night. As long as your body enters into REM sleep each night, you can guarantee that you have dreamed. Unfortunately a lot of people don't remember their dreams. If you happen to be one of those unfortunate people, you can work to change this by thinking differently about dreams. By deciding that you will remember your dreams, you increase your chances of waking up with the aftermath of nightly wanderings still fresh in your mind. The next step is to start writing them down. Keeping an active dream journal will guarantee that you not only increase the frequency of your dreams, but you become more likely to remember them.

In a world where they continually say there is nothing new under the sun, why not step out onto the dreamscape and take a gander. The sun may not even shine where you dream, so what on earth are they going to say about that?

I leave you with these final thoughts by Edgar Allan Poe:

"Dream"

Oh! that my young life were a lasting dream!
My spirit not awakening, till the beam
Of an Eternity should bring the morrow.
Yes! tho' that long dream were of hopeless sorrow,
'Twere better than the cold reality
Of waking life, to him whose heart must be,
And hath been still, upon the lovely earth,
A chaos of deep passion, from his birth.
But should it be- that dream eternally
Continuing- as dreams have been to me
In my young boyhood- should it thus be given,
'Twere folly still to hope for higher Heaven.
For I have revell'd, when the sun was bright
I' the summer sky, in dreams of living light
And loveliness,- have left my very heart
In climes of my imagining, apart
From mine own home, with beings that have been
Of mine own thought- what more could I have seen?
'Twas once- and only once- and the wild hour
From my remembrance shall not pass- some power
Or spell had bound me- 'twas the chilly wind
Came o'er me in the night, and left behind
Its image on my spirit- or the moon
Shone on my slumbers in her lofty noon
Too coldly- or the stars- howe'er it was
That dream was as that night-wind- let it pass.

I have been happy, tho' in a dream.
I have been happy- and I love the theme:
Dreams! in their vivid coloring of life,
As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife
Of semblance with reality, which brings
To the delirious eye, more lovely things
Of Paradise and Love- and all our own!
Than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.

"Wake Up," George Gordon said

For the last couple weeks I wake up every morning thinking about the Romantic Era and Lord Byron. It's as though the restless spirit of George Gordon hovers over me while I sleep whispering, "Away! we know that tears are vain, That death nor heeds nor hears distress: Will this unteach us to complain? Or make one mourner weep the less?" Why those words, I don't know. It just sounds like the treacherous beauty he might use on you if you're the first person to fall asleep at his birthday party or something. And of course, every time I wake up thinking about Lord Byron, I think of Gabriel Byrne, who once portrayed Byron in that crazy film Gothic. Yes, these are the insanities my mind plays upon. You probably had no idea... or maybe you knew all along.

Being winter, the wretched season of discontent, I have been trying to balance my thoughts between the beauty of the snowfall and the comfort of knowing I need not rush out if the weather is bad, but as Lady Death treads softly upon the earth in these, her final days, I cannot help the feelings of hopelessness that grab at me from time to time. The quick passage of time being one of the most pressing (and depressing...) thoughts, I try to fight it, but then waking up with my first thoughts on Byron's poetry is most certainly not a sign that I am winning any battle with bleak thoughts.

Poetry then. It's Byron's message. I know that beyond the macabre moanings of fear, doom and of course, death, there is another message. Write poetry. It's what I always do in the face of depression and adversity. I have done so since I was very young, and though I seem to write far less poetry than I did even five years ago, it is definitely something I miss and look forward to exploring again. I've even got the first few lines of something dark and brooding scribbled in my notebook.

The funny thing is, I have lost my touch when it comes to writing fiction or essays longhand. It used to be I could be found just about anywhere with a stack of paper or a notebook and pen scrawling out page after page of fiction, but after I got my first typewriter and then upgraded to a word processor, I never wanted to go back to writing on paper again unless it was poetry. There's something about writing poetry down though that compels me. The long thought process that pours into every word seems to flow more smoothly when it's done with a pen.

I did a lot of experimenting with Sestinas about three years ago. There's just something about the challenge of putting together a poem carefully constructed piece by piece. I am alway afraid that the words will sound forced, but then there is a strange, ethereal quality to the Sestina that really sticks with me. This is the first one I ever wrote, and I actually had it published in Strange Horizons back in 2006.

"Blood Moon Sestina"

You open up your arms, embrace the dark
night absorbed by the freshly fallen snow.
Face upturned as if waiting for a kiss,
you think he's your lover—it's just the moon.
The neon sign stains the streets like his blood.
You can't wash the memory from your hands

It's cold, but you refuse to hide your hands
in your pockets. "It isn't really dark,"
you say, but the snow white is stained with blood.
What crushes underfoot like old bones? Snow?
Shadows and clouds eat the face of the moon
and you're still out there waiting for that kiss.

Is it really that important, this kiss?
Every time you reach out to take my hands
I pull away, try to hide like the moon,
but there is no real safety in the dark.
The evidence is buried under snow.
Just like human skin, even snow can bleed.

It stains your shoes. "It's just a little blood,"
you say. Cold, blue lips parted for the kiss
you know won't come. Falling from the sky, snow
spirals toward the earth. "Catch it!" You hold hands
out. It could gnaw away at your darkness
and maybe absorb some light from the moon.

Like the face you thought was your love, the moon
peeks out, but hides again when it sees blood.
It's easier to lie inside the dark
about the lips you really meant to kiss.
They were not mine, but I still take your hand
and like angels we fall into the snow.

Beneath the blanket, we're buried in snow.
So deep, so far, not even a sharp moon
eye will find us. We are still holding hands
and I know you still want to try and kiss
me. All I can taste is the bitter blood
of a dying moon. Everything is dark.

And now the snow is melting into blood.
Old dying moon no one will ever kiss . .
it's on your hands now. Everything's gone dark.
Copyright © 2006 Jennifer Hudock


Time to start thinking about the six words I'd like to incorporate into my next Sestina. The words themselves will contribute heavily to the mood of the poem, so it can be a careful process, or an exciting free for all by just grabbing any six words and running with them. Maybe I'll write about Lord Byron, or Shelley maybe... the Romantic Era in general. Anything to capture the mood I'm in.

I leave you now with the words of Lord Byron:
"When We Two Parted"


When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted,
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this!

The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow;
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame:
I hear thy name spoken
And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o’er me—
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee
Who knew thee too well:
Long, long shall I rue thee
Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met:
In silence I grieve
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?—
With silence and tears.

George Gordon, Lord Byron (1788–1824)

Outside the Bubble, there are things...

Things you never might have imagined, like Willem Dafoe reading Lou Reed's version of Edgar Allan Poe's "The Raven" over Dr. Caligari...



It should be required that Willem Dafoe read more poetry and record it for lamos like me to listen to.