August 13, 2010
I actually started writing this when Serenity was an infant. I found it amazing that she was experiencing REM so early. Her dreams must have been amazing.
Eyelids closed in infant sleep;
rapid eye movement
as quick as your heartbeat:
What could you
be dreaming?
With eyes wide open you can't find,
can't even focus;
yet visions flash in your mind:
What could you
be dreaming?
Not old enough to even be young.
Heart not awakened
to the good or bad; right and wrong.
What could you
be dreaming?
Is your soul still connected
by a heavenly cord?
Your innocence unaffected.
What could you
be dreaming?
Showing posts with label dreams. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dreams. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Saturday, May 16, 2009
The Leaning Tree
January 200?
I wrote this one night while cooking at the Waffle House. I wanted to have something to enter in the Post & Courier and South Carolina Arts Commission sponsored South Carolina Fiction Project and the deadline was only 2 days away. I wasn't able to work on it again until the day of the deadline. I spent all day editing and re-writing, managing to get it posted 5 minutes before the post office closed. I didn't win.
The Leaning Tree
He rode out on Purpose, the gray-white mare he’d left on the farm three years ago when he went away to school. The sun had already been up for an hour, hidden by a ceiling of slate gray clouds. Probably going to snow. His breath hung in the still air like a ghost. The only sound, the muffled crunch of snow under the horse’s hooves. Everyone in the house was still asleep. Spent. Unprepared for the effort of the past few days; stress they thought they had prepared for.
The horse sauntered through the farmyard; past the rusting F150; past the bare clothesline, tiny icicles dripping off the sagging lines; past the dog pens, now empty; through the already open gate to the woods on the other side of the field.
The sweet scent of pine caressed his nostrils like a friendly cat. Purpose gingerly picked her way along the deeply rutted two-track cut by Dad's Ford, the John Deere, and mother nature. The road wound and forked through the forty acres of forest that surrounded the main house and farmyard. He and his three older brothers, all of them moved away from home and starting their own families, had hunted deer and ‘coon and rabbit with their dogs out here. Large mounds of snow-covered branches and roots were scattered in clearings on either side of the road. Dad had said something about selling some of the trees to help pay Mom’s hospital bills.
A year and a half ago he had learned about his mother’s cancer. His first year at State had been more intense than he'd expected, but he kept to the books. Being the first to go to college made him push harder. Now with Mom gone it just doesn’t seem to matter anymore. Maybe I should just quit. Save time and money. Come home and help Dad.
The two-track rolled out to an open field. Brown and broken stalks poked up through the snow. The bleached gray slat barn was supposed to protect the aging John Deere from the weather, but little mounds of snow sat on top of the huge tires and seat. He had made some weak promises to his father to fix the roof. Animal tracks criss-crossed the whitened field like impatient doodles. A hawk circled over the far end, the future looking bleak for some rabbit or squirrel.
The cornfield butted against the apple orchard. Harvested fruit (the farm’s main source of income for over two generations) was now applesauce or cider vinegar. Large empty crates, stacked rank and file, stood around the perimeter of the orchard; a makeshift fortress. Smaller crates cluttered the orchard floor; some stacked two and three high near the trunks, others strewn about carelessly under the unprotecting canopy of the leafless trees. As a boy, he had learned hard work picking up drops. And he had watched as Mexican migrant workers worked even harder to pick the red ripe fruit for their few dollars; all seemingly content.
Leaving the fruitless trees, the land slowly sloped up. A small ridge—open, unplowed, and left to its own. Dried up Queen Anne’s Lace stabbed the snow here and there. Clumps of dead grasses not flattened by the snow peeked out at the world. A single maple tree stood at the top of the ridge. Three main trunks rose to form a wide canopy. The trunk to his left had been recently struck by lightning, its deadened limbs bent to the earth.
He slid from the saddle to the ground and let the reins drop.
When I was a kid I used to pack up peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, potato chips, and pop to eat out here.
I smoked my first...and last...cigar by this tree. I thought I was so cool, until I coughed my lungs out and puked my guts up.
My back was against this rough bark when Darlene first kissed me. A few weeks later we discovered more than a kiss under this tree.
My hunting dog, Bones, is buried right over there.
Mostly, I just came out here to watch the clouds slide by and the breeze blow the grass.
Yeah, this is where I made my decision to go to school upstate. Stayed out here until it got dark. Mom was so proud that I was going to college. Any college.
And in the shelter of naked branches, he leaned back and wept. For as long as it took, he wept and sobbed. Puffy snowflakes floated down to frozen earth. Wiping his chapped cheeks, he took the reins of Purpose and walked her home.
I wrote this one night while cooking at the Waffle House. I wanted to have something to enter in the Post & Courier and South Carolina Arts Commission sponsored South Carolina Fiction Project and the deadline was only 2 days away. I wasn't able to work on it again until the day of the deadline. I spent all day editing and re-writing, managing to get it posted 5 minutes before the post office closed. I didn't win.
He rode out on Purpose, the gray-white mare he’d left on the farm three years ago when he went away to school. The sun had already been up for an hour, hidden by a ceiling of slate gray clouds. Probably going to snow. His breath hung in the still air like a ghost. The only sound, the muffled crunch of snow under the horse’s hooves. Everyone in the house was still asleep. Spent. Unprepared for the effort of the past few days; stress they thought they had prepared for.
The horse sauntered through the farmyard; past the rusting F150; past the bare clothesline, tiny icicles dripping off the sagging lines; past the dog pens, now empty; through the already open gate to the woods on the other side of the field.
The sweet scent of pine caressed his nostrils like a friendly cat. Purpose gingerly picked her way along the deeply rutted two-track cut by Dad's Ford, the John Deere, and mother nature. The road wound and forked through the forty acres of forest that surrounded the main house and farmyard. He and his three older brothers, all of them moved away from home and starting their own families, had hunted deer and ‘coon and rabbit with their dogs out here. Large mounds of snow-covered branches and roots were scattered in clearings on either side of the road. Dad had said something about selling some of the trees to help pay Mom’s hospital bills.
A year and a half ago he had learned about his mother’s cancer. His first year at State had been more intense than he'd expected, but he kept to the books. Being the first to go to college made him push harder. Now with Mom gone it just doesn’t seem to matter anymore. Maybe I should just quit. Save time and money. Come home and help Dad.
The two-track rolled out to an open field. Brown and broken stalks poked up through the snow. The bleached gray slat barn was supposed to protect the aging John Deere from the weather, but little mounds of snow sat on top of the huge tires and seat. He had made some weak promises to his father to fix the roof. Animal tracks criss-crossed the whitened field like impatient doodles. A hawk circled over the far end, the future looking bleak for some rabbit or squirrel.
The cornfield butted against the apple orchard. Harvested fruit (the farm’s main source of income for over two generations) was now applesauce or cider vinegar. Large empty crates, stacked rank and file, stood around the perimeter of the orchard; a makeshift fortress. Smaller crates cluttered the orchard floor; some stacked two and three high near the trunks, others strewn about carelessly under the unprotecting canopy of the leafless trees. As a boy, he had learned hard work picking up drops. And he had watched as Mexican migrant workers worked even harder to pick the red ripe fruit for their few dollars; all seemingly content.
Leaving the fruitless trees, the land slowly sloped up. A small ridge—open, unplowed, and left to its own. Dried up Queen Anne’s Lace stabbed the snow here and there. Clumps of dead grasses not flattened by the snow peeked out at the world. A single maple tree stood at the top of the ridge. Three main trunks rose to form a wide canopy. The trunk to his left had been recently struck by lightning, its deadened limbs bent to the earth.
He slid from the saddle to the ground and let the reins drop.
When I was a kid I used to pack up peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, potato chips, and pop to eat out here.
I smoked my first...and last...cigar by this tree. I thought I was so cool, until I coughed my lungs out and puked my guts up.
My back was against this rough bark when Darlene first kissed me. A few weeks later we discovered more than a kiss under this tree.
My hunting dog, Bones, is buried right over there.
Mostly, I just came out here to watch the clouds slide by and the breeze blow the grass.
Yeah, this is where I made my decision to go to school upstate. Stayed out here until it got dark. Mom was so proud that I was going to college. Any college.
And in the shelter of naked branches, he leaned back and wept. For as long as it took, he wept and sobbed. Puffy snowflakes floated down to frozen earth. Wiping his chapped cheeks, he took the reins of Purpose and walked her home.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Dare to Cross
August 28, 2001
This is a story about following your dreams—the cost and the payoff.
A dark silhouette stood at the edge of the English Channel at Shakespeare Beach, the White Cliffs of Dover behind and the sun just peeking over the horizon ahead. Matthew Johnson was tall for twelve. The guys on the Junior American Swim Team called him the Metal Giant because he was so much taller than everybody and he wore braces.
The salty surf splashed at his feet, daring him to go further. He would take the dare—when he was ready. His thoughts went to the hundreds of miles of training, to the many meets and marathons, and the endless fundraising. This was his dream. You bet he would take the dare.
His father, who pulled double duty as his coach, called from the escort boat. “Whenever you're ready son!”
Matthew wiped at the chalky white 'channel grease' smeared all over his body. Pulling his goggles down and adjusting his swim cap, he waded into the bone-chilling water. “66ยบ isn't so cold. I think Lake Superior was colder.”
Matthew waved his arms above his head. This was the signal to the official observer that he was beginning his cross. Matthew ran and dove into the water. The cold yanked at his breath. He spit out a bit of the briny ocean. His arms cut at the waves. The incoming tide pushed at him, but not as hard as Matthew thought it would. “Yeah, I can do this. I can definitely do this.”
# # #
Not much happened the first five hours. His body had started 'talking' to him, but he'd been through that before. He stayed 15 to 20 feet away from the boat, coming closer for his 30-minute feedings. His father would pass a cup of sports drink or hot broth to him using a long stick with a cup holder. Lunch was a carbo-bar and distilled water.
“How far?” he yelled up at his dad.
“Don't worry about that. Just swim.”
Easy for you to say, thought Matthew as he finished off the bar and plunged forward. He could see a shipping boat farther ahead seeming to block his passage. Ships are informed of the presence of channel swimmers and this one would be gone long before he got close. But the wake would not. Already he felt the first waves hit, forcing him back.
“Stupid boat!” A clump of oily seaweed slapped his mouth as he shouted. He wanted to puke.
# # #
2:00 pm. Over halfway across thick, dark clouds threatened the clear, blue sky. The wind was getting colder and the water was getting choppier.
“No, not now.”
Matthew looked over at the escort. His father was holding up the white-board they were using for quick messages. STORM. Matthew swam in closer to the boat.
“We might have to call it, son,” Mr. Johnson shouted over the rail.
“Please, Dad. Let's wait.”
“This could be bad.”
“Please.” He didn't want to be stopped now, not because of weather.
“Stay close.”
Matthew tread water near the boat as thunder rumbled past. A few heavy raindrops plummeted around him.
PLOP.
PLOP. PLOP.
Plop. Plop. Plop. Plop.
And it was gone.
# # #
8:15 pm. Matthew had been in the water a little over 14 1/2 hours. He was lucky he hadn't run into any jellyfish. The crew had spotted a group earlier and he swam around them. That added a half hour to his time.
It was getting dark. His dad had passed him a glow stick at the last feeding. He attached it to the back of his swim cap. It looked like a glowing alien finger sticking out of the back of his head.
“You're less than a mile and a half from shore,” yelled his dad.
His arms and legs were lead. His lips were swollen from the saltwater. Most of the channel grease was gone. He couldn't see very well in the dark, but he thought he could make out the shoreline as he bobbed up and down. A mile and a half. The moon seemed closer.
“OK,” he said weakly. “I'm going for it.”
With his goggled face toward France he dug his way through the surf. But the tides were changing and dragged him back with each stroke. “I'm not going to make it. I'm going to drown within sight of the beach.”
A light flashed over his head. Then again. And again. Looking up he could make out a dark silhouette at the edge of the cape and the light circling on top. The lighthouse. Cape Gris Nez, France. His landing point.
Adrenalin raced through him. With a renewed purpose he punched through the waves. The channel tides continued to pull at him, to drag him back and down. Matthew wasn't going down. His hand hit sand. The surf gave up and his stomach and knees scraped bottom. Crawling to shore, cold and tired, he cried. He had crossed. 16 hours, 39 minutes. He wasn't the fastest or the youngest, but he, Matthew Johnson, had crossed the English Channel.
Channel Trivia
The English Channel is approximately 22-24 miles across from Shakespeare Beach, Dover, England to Cape Gris Nez, France. Swimmers actually swim 30-40 miles because the tides push them from side to side. The water temperature is about 60°F. (Try sitting in a tub of ice water all day!)
The French call the Channel "La Manche" (the sleeve).
Channel grease is a mixture of Lanolin® and Vaseline®. Swimmers smear about two pounds of this gunk all over their body to help prevent hypothermia (Look it up!).
The first person to swim across the channel was Matthew Webb in August 1875. It took him 21 hours 45 minutes. He died a few years later attempting to swim under Niagara Falls. Actually, the first person to cross single-handed was Captain Paul Boyton in May 1875, but he wore an inflatable suit with a sail attached to his left boot while using a paddle.
Other records(as of 12/07):
Youngest Person: Thomas Gregory from the United Kingdom in 1988, 11 years 11 months, in 11 hours 54 minutes. (Since 1994 the rules forbid solo attempts by swimmers under the age of 14. (Records and Firsts))
Oldest Person: George Burnstad, USA, 70 years, 4 days crossed in 15 hours 59 minutes.
Fastest Crossing: Petar Stoychev from Bulgaria swimming from England to France in 2007 crossed in 6 hours 57 minutes 50 seconds.
First Woman: Gertrude Ederle from USA in 1926, 14 hours 39 minutes.
Most Crossings: Alison Streeter has made 43 crossings.
First to Swim the Channel Underwater: Fred Baldasare from USA in 1962 crossed in a frogman suit in 19 hours 1 minute.
Sources for sidebar:
Channel Questions, Marcia Cleveland and DevPlan, Inc., www.doversolo.com
Channel Swimming Records, www.channelswimming.com
Records and Firsts, www.doverdc.co.uk/museum/information_resources/channel_swimmers/records__firsts.aspx
This is a story about following your dreams—the cost and the payoff.
A dark silhouette stood at the edge of the English Channel at Shakespeare Beach, the White Cliffs of Dover behind and the sun just peeking over the horizon ahead. Matthew Johnson was tall for twelve. The guys on the Junior American Swim Team called him the Metal Giant because he was so much taller than everybody and he wore braces.
The salty surf splashed at his feet, daring him to go further. He would take the dare—when he was ready. His thoughts went to the hundreds of miles of training, to the many meets and marathons, and the endless fundraising. This was his dream. You bet he would take the dare.
His father, who pulled double duty as his coach, called from the escort boat. “Whenever you're ready son!”
Matthew wiped at the chalky white 'channel grease' smeared all over his body. Pulling his goggles down and adjusting his swim cap, he waded into the bone-chilling water. “66ยบ isn't so cold. I think Lake Superior was colder.”
Matthew waved his arms above his head. This was the signal to the official observer that he was beginning his cross. Matthew ran and dove into the water. The cold yanked at his breath. He spit out a bit of the briny ocean. His arms cut at the waves. The incoming tide pushed at him, but not as hard as Matthew thought it would. “Yeah, I can do this. I can definitely do this.”
Not much happened the first five hours. His body had started 'talking' to him, but he'd been through that before. He stayed 15 to 20 feet away from the boat, coming closer for his 30-minute feedings. His father would pass a cup of sports drink or hot broth to him using a long stick with a cup holder. Lunch was a carbo-bar and distilled water.
“How far?” he yelled up at his dad.
“Don't worry about that. Just swim.”
Easy for you to say, thought Matthew as he finished off the bar and plunged forward. He could see a shipping boat farther ahead seeming to block his passage. Ships are informed of the presence of channel swimmers and this one would be gone long before he got close. But the wake would not. Already he felt the first waves hit, forcing him back.
“Stupid boat!” A clump of oily seaweed slapped his mouth as he shouted. He wanted to puke.
2:00 pm. Over halfway across thick, dark clouds threatened the clear, blue sky. The wind was getting colder and the water was getting choppier.
“No, not now.”
Matthew looked over at the escort. His father was holding up the white-board they were using for quick messages. STORM. Matthew swam in closer to the boat.
“We might have to call it, son,” Mr. Johnson shouted over the rail.
“Please, Dad. Let's wait.”
“This could be bad.”
“Please.” He didn't want to be stopped now, not because of weather.
“Stay close.”
Matthew tread water near the boat as thunder rumbled past. A few heavy raindrops plummeted around him.
PLOP.
PLOP. PLOP.
Plop. Plop. Plop. Plop.
And it was gone.
8:15 pm. Matthew had been in the water a little over 14 1/2 hours. He was lucky he hadn't run into any jellyfish. The crew had spotted a group earlier and he swam around them. That added a half hour to his time.
It was getting dark. His dad had passed him a glow stick at the last feeding. He attached it to the back of his swim cap. It looked like a glowing alien finger sticking out of the back of his head.
“You're less than a mile and a half from shore,” yelled his dad.
His arms and legs were lead. His lips were swollen from the saltwater. Most of the channel grease was gone. He couldn't see very well in the dark, but he thought he could make out the shoreline as he bobbed up and down. A mile and a half. The moon seemed closer.
“OK,” he said weakly. “I'm going for it.”
With his goggled face toward France he dug his way through the surf. But the tides were changing and dragged him back with each stroke. “I'm not going to make it. I'm going to drown within sight of the beach.”
A light flashed over his head. Then again. And again. Looking up he could make out a dark silhouette at the edge of the cape and the light circling on top. The lighthouse. Cape Gris Nez, France. His landing point.
Adrenalin raced through him. With a renewed purpose he punched through the waves. The channel tides continued to pull at him, to drag him back and down. Matthew wasn't going down. His hand hit sand. The surf gave up and his stomach and knees scraped bottom. Crawling to shore, cold and tired, he cried. He had crossed. 16 hours, 39 minutes. He wasn't the fastest or the youngest, but he, Matthew Johnson, had crossed the English Channel.
Channel Trivia
The English Channel is approximately 22-24 miles across from Shakespeare Beach, Dover, England to Cape Gris Nez, France. Swimmers actually swim 30-40 miles because the tides push them from side to side. The water temperature is about 60°F. (Try sitting in a tub of ice water all day!)
The French call the Channel "La Manche" (the sleeve).
Channel grease is a mixture of Lanolin® and Vaseline®. Swimmers smear about two pounds of this gunk all over their body to help prevent hypothermia (Look it up!).
The first person to swim across the channel was Matthew Webb in August 1875. It took him 21 hours 45 minutes. He died a few years later attempting to swim under Niagara Falls. Actually, the first person to cross single-handed was Captain Paul Boyton in May 1875, but he wore an inflatable suit with a sail attached to his left boot while using a paddle.
Other records(as of 12/07):
Youngest Person: Thomas Gregory from the United Kingdom in 1988, 11 years 11 months, in 11 hours 54 minutes. (Since 1994 the rules forbid solo attempts by swimmers under the age of 14. (Records and Firsts))
Oldest Person: George Burnstad, USA, 70 years, 4 days crossed in 15 hours 59 minutes.
Fastest Crossing: Petar Stoychev from Bulgaria swimming from England to France in 2007 crossed in 6 hours 57 minutes 50 seconds.
First Woman: Gertrude Ederle from USA in 1926, 14 hours 39 minutes.
Most Crossings: Alison Streeter has made 43 crossings.
First to Swim the Channel Underwater: Fred Baldasare from USA in 1962 crossed in a frogman suit in 19 hours 1 minute.
Sources for sidebar:
Channel Questions, Marcia Cleveland and DevPlan, Inc., www.doversolo.com
Channel Swimming Records, www.channelswimming.com
Records and Firsts, www.doverdc.co.uk/museum/information_resources/channel_swimmers/records__firsts.aspx
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Field of Balloons
(December 16, 2005)
And so, he grabbed all the comic book dialogue balloons that appeared above his head and colored them with the worn and broken crayons from the box of 64 (he couldn't afford 120) and filled them with helium to the breaking point and tied them to the antennas of pre-owned vehicles in the used car lot with shoe laces, fishing line, strands of hair in hope…
And the people bought the cars and for the most part just popped the balloons, while others let them dangle and blow in the wind of 55 miles per; though a few—just a few—cut them loose to rise to the clouds and fall wherever dead balloons fall…
* * *
Today's Farm Report has been brought to you by
White Cloud Motors—
“Seeking to Satisfy with Quality”
since 1962.
And so, he grabbed all the comic book dialogue balloons that appeared above his head and colored them with the worn and broken crayons from the box of 64 (he couldn't afford 120) and filled them with helium to the breaking point and tied them to the antennas of pre-owned vehicles in the used car lot with shoe laces, fishing line, strands of hair in hope…
And the people bought the cars and for the most part just popped the balloons, while others let them dangle and blow in the wind of 55 miles per; though a few—just a few—cut them loose to rise to the clouds and fall wherever dead balloons fall…
* * *
Today's Farm Report has been brought to you by
White Cloud Motors—
“Seeking to Satisfy with Quality”
since 1962.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Red Ribbon
(January 2004)
Reaching for
a ribbon of red
hung
at the edge of the earth;
touched
by the fringes of the mind—
circumnavigation…
now to the east,
then to the west.
Lapsing into
improbable daydreams
feared
like a nightmare,
enjoyed
like a fantasy;
a lasting moment
of tomorrow
from yesterday.
Clinging to
rose-coloured vapors
held
by sweaty fingertips
kept
at arms length—
perspective
seen farsighted
from nearsighted eyes.
Looking at
a heartfelt
want
for an ethereal prize
hung
on a deflated chest;
a distant illusion
of tinted emptiness
that fills the horizon.
Reaching for
a red ribbon
hung
at the edge,
touched
by the mind.
Reaching for
a ribbon of red
hung
at the edge of the earth;
touched
by the fringes of the mind—
circumnavigation…
now to the east,
then to the west.
Lapsing into
improbable daydreams
feared
like a nightmare,
enjoyed
like a fantasy;
a lasting moment
of tomorrow
from yesterday.
Clinging to
rose-coloured vapors
held
by sweaty fingertips
kept
at arms length—
perspective
seen farsighted
from nearsighted eyes.
Looking at
a heartfelt
want
for an ethereal prize
hung
on a deflated chest;
a distant illusion
of tinted emptiness
that fills the horizon.
Reaching for
a red ribbon
hung
at the edge,
touched
by the mind.
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