April 2016 – Page 2 – kayLorraine

The Voice of Night – Colonial Settlement

Ruffner_Log_House_Apr_09 I lived in colonial times and was out on the frontier, living in a huge log common building in a settlement of white people. The building housed an eating and entertaining are on the ground floor, and lodging upstairs all around the periphery of the building. It was made of exposed pine logs with high ceilings and a walkway around the 2nd floor rooms that looked down into the common area. Far from being a saloon/brothel, the settlers were all Pilgrim types who gathered for hymn sings around the piano downstairs and had fellowship meetings around the long tables on the main floor. They were very white, very protestant/puritanical and very imperial.

As for me, I was considered a “white trash” woman, not good enough for their company. I lurked on the fringes of their common area, taking hand-outs of food and money from charitable settlers. On the periphery, there also lived a small tribe (members of a larger one) of Indians. They lived on the perimeter of the building under the eves in unfinished sections that were dark and dusty. they sold crafts and traded for food with the whites. Since I wasn’t welcome with the settlers, I took up company with the local natives and hung out with them, rolling dice, chatting, and eating and sleeping. They accepted me and adopted me unofficially into their group.

One day, part of the roof caught fire over in the finished section of the building. The whites were terror-stricken and rushed to get water. The local natives and I just watched – we were over in the unfinished wing, out of danger. I got nervous, but they showed me how the walls around us on our side were just tarp and animal skins. All we had to do, was lift the edge and slip out, and we’d be safe.

The fire spread down the wall across from us and we watched as the whites dashed to and fro, desperately trying to put out the fire. They hauled water in big wagons drawn by teams of draft horses, and made water brigades. They hustled to barricade the interior against the spreading fire. All was pandemonium, as they tried to save all their equipment and possessions from the fire. It kept spreading, tough, and soon they all had to flee their part of the building. The natives and I just watched the fire spread and consume the roof, the walls, the interior.

At last, we gathered our few things – blankets, bedrolls, a few eating utensils, and personal effects – together and ducked out under the edge of the tarp behind us. We climbed to the to of a little knoll and watched the whites scramble in vain as their common building burned to the ground.

The Voice of Night – I dreamed I was in a circus troupe…

circus-performance I dreamed I was the administrative director of a traveling circus show with all the standard talents – the buxom blonde tightrope artiste/wild horse rider; the heavily muscled power lifter; the debonair lion tamer; the countless dwarfs and clowns and jugglers and acrobats. A hodge-podge group – a standard circus band.

And I dreamed that we had a huge show to put on somewhere. But we had to get there first. It was quite a prestigious thing – performing in front of all the right people – kings, queens, diplomats, socialites. If we could get there, we could put on quite a show. How to get there? I suggested a plane or a bus. But on one else would hear of it. A motor vehicle of some kind – any kind. To get us there in time. It was an important performance, and we didn’t dare miss it.

But they said, “No – camel caravan will do much better. The equipment is too bulky and we can’t stand being cooped up in there for so long – all of us together, when we drive each other crazy, as it is. We enjoy each other’s company, but…”

“It was an important engagement, though,” I countered. “We can’t afford to take any chances.” And I arranged for a plane to take us to our performance.

We herded onto the plane. The lady, the muscleman, the lion-tamer, the clowns, the dwarfs, the bearded lady, the elephant, the horses, the chickens… the works.

We were not in the air ten minutes when the pandemonium that had been mounting broke loose – the dwarfs were doing back-flips over the seats, the lady was laughing hysterically, the muscleman and lion-tamer were wrestling, the elephant was roaring and tossing plastic champagne glasses around, the clowns were chasing each other up and down the aisle. All hell had broken loose, and up in the cockpit, two dwarfs were bothering the pilot.

The pilot came on the intercom and said he was touching down. He couldn’t fly like this, and he was landing the plane. No one but I heard a word he said, and when we came to a standstill in the middle of a desert, the troupe rolled off the plane looking bewildered.

“Are we there yet?” somebody asked.

“No, we’re not there yet,” I shot back sarcastically. I was frazzled from the short ride, nonplussed, had a bug up my ass that wouldn’t quit. I wanted everything neat, clean, orderly, and on time. At this rate, we would never get to our performance.

“Now what do we do?” someone asked.

I didn’t respond, only turned my back on the fucked-up mess of them and went to sit on a rock.

Some of the dwarfs disappeared for a few hours, then came back, leading about five camels. Not enough for all to ride on, but enough to carry the luggage and some of us. There were two horses, too.

We loaded up. We knew we were headed east, so we couldn’t go wrong, if we kept our eye on the sun. “Don’t worry,” one of the dwarfs said to me kindly, “if they really want us, it won’t matter when we get there.” I snorted and climbed onto one of the horses they’d given me, as the brains (however unheeded) of the group.

For days we wandered. Under the hot sun we dragged. For weeks. For months. The desert was endless. The sun was unbearable. When we stared, there were shenanigans and lots of hopping from camel to camel among the dwarfs.

But after a week or so, that stopped. It was all we could do, to keep on. The lady, the muscleman, the lion-tamer each carried a number of dwarfs in their arms, and the acrobats and jugglers trudged wearily beside the camels, holding themselves up by the harness. Water was low and we were weary. But with no tents to stay in, and a show scheduled to put on, we would not stop.

Then we reached an oasis. From a distance, it looked like just another mirage. But as we drew nearer, we realized it was real. If we’d had the strength, we would each of us have jumped down from our camels and hurled ourselves at the pool of water. But the most we could do, was to keep the camels headed in the right direction.

I was relieved. Now we could replenish our supplies and move on. Now we could reach that appointment, however late, and live up to all those kings’ and queens’ expectations. It was about time, and I was secretly elated. We stayed the night, then decided to stay another. We’d been wandering too long, we reasoned, to push ourselves that much again, prematurely. I wanted to get on the road again. The city couldn’t be that far. We had a duty to fulfill, and the last thing we should be doing, was waste precious time.

I tried convincing the troupe to move on, but they would hear nothing of it. The days stretched into weeks, dragged into months, and still no sign of any wanderlust. I talked things up over meals, clandestinely trying to sway the most influential members of the group to my way of thinking. But they wouldn’t hear of it. They only smiled and patted me on the back. “Relax,” they said.

Our days were lazy. Filled in with little more than eating, sleeping, sewing and mending tents, and playing board games. The rest of the troupe seemed content with our broken engagement. The others eyed me with some amusement and did not hide their remarks and jokes about me. I withdrew from the group, lived on the outskirts, and read the three books I brought with me over and over again.

Then one night we had a meeting. Once a week we had these meetings, gathering in our mess tent, sitting on folding chairs, swapping stories and ideas. Each week was different – a different topic, a different bent to the conversation. That night, someone had come up with the idea that we could put on a show for ourselves. That drove me mad. Because we were so close to the city – I knew it. We were within striking distance, and none of the performers showed any interest in moving on. And now they were talking about putting on a show… for themselves.

“What do you think of this?” was the question and everyone had their say, going around the makeshift room. Most babbled gibberish and the dwarfs started running and jumping and doing back-flips under, over, onto people. As we went around the room, it was obvious that none of them had a clue why we were where we were, and that most of them didn’t care.

I listened with muted anger, as these fools babbled on about the most pointless of subjects. I could see what was going on. I had seen it coming from the start. But not a soul had listened. And now, months on down the line, they were finally asking, what do you think of this? It came my turn. I began to speak. I started from the beginning, pointing out what had gone wrong, dwelling on each detail and sparing them no I-told-you-so‘s.

At first they listened politely, then rapidly grew bored and turned to amusing themselves. I was unsparing in my analysis, but as my voice raised, so did their noise level. I knew the situation in side and out. I understood perfectly the finest of aspects of our situation. My hindsight was 20-20, and my prophesies were as accurate.

But no one listened. They paid me no mind whatsoever. And non one understood a word I said. No one, that is, — except the tall, thin, dark man sitting beside me. He had been there all the time.

Change of season, change of pace… and using it well

Nauset-Light-Beach I almost drove out to Nauset Beach today. It’s an amazingly gorgeous day, bright and sunny, not a cloud in the sky. The perfect sort of weather to head to the beach.

Nauset Beach on Cape Cod is about 2 hours from my house. 2 hours and 4 minutes, according to Google Maps. And considering I was up early today, and I didn’t really have any hugely pressing duties that MUST be done today, I figured I could drive the 2 hours (and 4 minutes), arrive before noon, eat the lunch I packed, walk the beach, explore the areas that were carved away by winter storms, and get back home no later than 10 p.m.

It’s Saturday. If the day runs late, I can always make up for lost sleep tomorrow.

That was my thinking, anyway.

herring cove sunset — Another amazing sunset in Provincetown

When Laney and I were out in Provincetown, a few weeks back, we chatted with someone who lived in the area who told us winter storms had carved huge chunks of land off Nauset Beach. There were sections blocked off. Caution tape up. Facilities that weren’t accessible. I wanted to stop and take a look on our way home from P-town, but it was a rainy day, and we just wanted to get down the road. So, I didn’t get to take a look.

dunes-erosion-grass-roots — Woody dune growth, with their roots all exposed. Bunches of this had uprooted and were lying down the beach a ways.

I’ve been feeling disappointed about that, because while I was walking the beach at Herring Cove towards Race Point, I saw so much erosion, it was crazy. It was — as the fellow we’d chatted with put it — “like the hand of God reached down and just scooped it all away.” Dunes were eroded so far down that driftwood buried for many years was exposed, poking out of the side of the washed-away dune, a foot or so beneath the surface where the grass was growing.

Parking lot erosion @ Herring Cove North

Half the parking lot was cordoned off, because it wasn’t safe to park there.

A lot of the parking lot was just gone.

Massive swathes of asphalt had been undercut and just buckled and fell away… then washed on down the beach. Or out to sea. There was a lot of asphalt unaccounted-for.

herring-cove-asphalt-erosion1 — The asphalt looked like it had melted on someone’s dashboard

And up at the bathhouse area? Well, that beautifully constructed deck and walkway leading down to the beach for folks with limited mobility… that’s gone.

dunes-erosion — Dune erosion – near where we used to build our fires

The spot where Laney and I built many a beach fire, not far from the end of the walkway? That was gone, too — as though it had never existed.

And even more remarkable — all those colorful stones and pebbles that have been the hallmark of Herring Cove South… gone. Washed out to sea. I think they got washed away a couple of years ago, but this year, it was even more noticeable… perhaps because of all the dunes erosion.

Damage to the stairs at Nauset Beach - no, this isn't my picture (click the image to see a gallery of pictures) — Damage to the stairs at Nauset Beach – no, this isn’t my picture (click the image to see a gallery of pictures)

So, of course I wanted to get a look at Nauset Beach! It wasn’t enough to look online. I wanted to stand there and look at it – in person. I wanted to feel the sun on my back, the wind in my face, the sand under my feet. I wanted to hear the splashing of the surf, the calling of the gulls, and spot the occasional beach walker bundled up against the wind. Maybe I’d get pictures. Or maybe I’d just stand there and look at it, shaking my head. I wanted to see for myself what the hand of God had been up to, and marvel at it, just as I’d marveled at the damage at Herring Cove.

There was just one problem. I was bushed. I’d had a pretty long week, and I sorely needed to catch up on my sleep. Nothing kills a weekend more than being dragged down by a sleep deficit, and I’d actually been planning to catch up on my ‘zzzs’ today — and tomorrow. And nothing turns a 2-hour drive to the beach into a chore, like being tired. I actually did pack a lunch and was almost ready to go, but really, I was way too tired to do anything.

So I went back to bed.

A couple hours later, I woke up and looked at the clock. I could still make it to the beach and have at least 4 hours of daylight to enjoy. On the beach. Seeing the sights. But was it worth losing all that time to driving?

Not really.

Long story short, I made the best of my time at home. I got my yard raked. Dead grass has been pulled up to make room for new growth. Leftover leaves have been removed from the garden areas, and the deadfall in the front yard has been thrown into the woodsy no-mans-land between my house and the neighbor’s. The chokecherries that have been encroaching on the pines in the front, as well as getting a foothold all along the front stone wall (nasty thorny bastards!), are now trimmed back and tossed aside. And the trees that sprouted a few years back and were starting to get a foothold in places they shouldn’t be, have been cut and piled in the side woodlot.

And so, for me, spring has officially begun. With work. And with plenty of time to think. Yard work is a kind of meditation for me — a moving mindfulness practice that always brings new thoughts to mind as I tend the land around my home. Some folks hate yard work, but for me, it’s a reminder of just how fortunate I am to live where I do – and how I do. It gets me thinking. As I rake and collect and toss and mend, it frees up a whole lot of ideas that normally don’t come to me.

This year is seeing a lot of changes for me. People are moving in and out of my life. I’m losing people I care about, and I’m gaining new people whom I will eventually care about. My work situation is… well… interesting, as we go through a merger that has a lot of people asking a lot of questions, without many definitive answers, yet. And my own focus is shifting more squarely toward my writing and publishing, as I dig out manuscripts I started years ago… then put aside to tend to the day-to-day. There’s a lot of decent material there — at least five full-length works that are “written” in my head, but still need the words on paper. Novels. Essays. Philosophy. A play. And yes, some poetry.

As I was hacking away at the chokecherries, it occurred to me that although the books awaiting my attention are all about different things, they’re essentially about the same topic: Change. How we handle it. How we prepare for it. How we avoid it. How we embrace it and manage it, or fight it every inch of the way. What it brings to us. What it takes from us. It’s all about change, with me. And it has been for many, many years.

So, that was a productive use of time. I got my yard tidied up, and I got some good revelations. Sure, I would have loved to see Nauset Beach and how it’s weathered the seasons. But I was welcoming my own new season.

Right here, at home.

A welcome reminder of how much myth matters to me

books-dusty So, just by chance, a couple of weeks ago, I accompanied my partner Laney to the annual conference of The Association for the Study of Women and Mythology. A few months ago, Laney had gotten a (surprise, last-minute) email from a colleague about how the conference was still accepting applications for workshops and presentations… and would she be interested?

Well, yeah. Of course she was interested. It was a conference of several hundred women, all gathering to talk about women… and mythology. Laney’s an incredible drum circle leader and ceremonialist, and we both thought her work would fit just perfectly into the program. Lots of academics sharing papers and discussing their areas of study… and surely there were some women in the midst who could go for an “extra-intellectual” activity (“extra” as in, “outside the immediate purview” of intellectualism — not uber-intellectual).

Anyway, we scrambled a bit, put together a write-up of what she’d offer, then we crossed our fingers and — voila — before long, we heard she’d been accepted.

Then came the coordination activities. And the logistics. And making sure that the drum ceremony would not drown out the goings-on in adjacent rooms. And lining up help to get the room setup, because it’s a conference, after all, and there is a schedule to adhere to. We got pretty much everything sorted.

Or so we thought. Turns out, the original schedule we mapped out just wasn’t going to work. More juggling. More adjustments.

Anyway, long story short, everything turned out great, because I managed to get a day off work (paid vacation days are a thing of beauty), so I could help her load in and load out on Friday afternoon. Drums, drums, and more drums — including the “mother drum” which is a large “community” drum, about 3 feet wide and nearly 2 feet tall, and comfortably sits 5 people around it. It takes a special sort of maneuvering to get where it needs to go, and I’ve had years of practice, so off I went to drive Laney there, catch up on my reading, then help with the ceremony, load out, and ferry us home.

My plan all along was to help with logistics, and then take the hours that I wasn’t at the conference just for some of my own work. I had some reading to catch up on. I had some writing to do. I hadn’t paid the money to join in, and it wasn’t cheap, so I figured I could just linger in the halls, curled up with a book in a spare armchair.

And I did a fair amount of that. At least, as much as I could, considering that I kept seeing old friends I hadn’t seen for a number of years, and of course we wanted to catch up. Of course! It was great to see people again, and a bit surprising — although it shouldn’t have been, considering that I have a bunch of friends who are into women and mythology.

I guess I just had a fairly narrow view of who would be at the conference. Lesson learned.

And as it turned out, I had a fairly narrow view of how much I would be interested in the conference. I mean, yes, I’ve been fascinated by mythology in general (and women in mythology, in specific) for just about all my life. But for some reason, I didn’t think I’d really find it that interesting. Looking at the program, it was chock-full of some heavy-duty scholarship… far beyond the scope of my own interest and involvement. Maybe I figured that if I didn’t have all the degree letters after my name, I somehow wouldn’t qualify to attend, let alone participate in any of the discussions.

A funny thing happened, though, just from hanging around the fringes of the conference. As it turns out, I was interested. And I’ve actually become increasingly interested, over the course of the past couple of weeks. It got me thinking. It got me remembering. And beneath the shiny veneer of a life that’s more about modern technology than ancient mythology, these days, I actually found a glowing coal of interest that has stayed alive — banked in the backwaters of my full spectrum of interests.

And calling that interest — that passion — in mythology “banked” is the perfect metaphor. When you bank a fire, you cover it up with the ashes its produced, keeping it alive and glowing, till you come back to it later. I’ve heard tell that people used to travel with banked coals in a little tree bark container, so they could have fire wherever they were.

As it turns out, I hadn’t lost my interest in mythology and symbolism, as I tended to think while regarding my bookshelves sagging heavily under the weight of myths from vanquished and long-forgotten peoples. I’d just banked it. And it’s still very much alive. It still burns beneath the accumulation of extras from my necessary life, waiting for me to breathe new vigor into it and warm the rest of my everydays.

Myth still matters to me. As does symbolism. It’s never stopped mattering to me, I just got busy doing other things. And now those other things turn out to mean a lot less to me, than mythology always has. Life changes. We change. We shift and find new directions to take. Sometimes life brings us full circle, to remember just what used to light our fire — and still does.

Here’s to life. And all that it offers. Especially our stories.

Hulačová – Otherworldly sculpture — Global Art Junkie

Very cool! Check it out…

This artist from the Czech Republic has recently emerged on the international scene. The figures that comprise the cast of Anna Hulačová’s otherworldly sculptures are inspired by religious icons, mythological gods, and folkloric beasts.

via Hulačová – Otherworldly sculpture — Global Art Junkie

Annddd… the upload of artwork to my site commences.

012 - Oil pastel and watercolor on paper. Created 2008 — 012 – Oil pastel and watercolor on paper. Created 2008

I’m uploading images of 50-some images of artwork I’ve done over the years. It’s wild to look back on it all. And think about what’s yet to come. Who knows where this will lead…

It’s been a number of years since I regularly created any artwork. I did a bunch of really fantastic (well, I think so, anyway) BIG pieces. In Black. And Blue. On dropcloths that had been gessoed within an inch of their lives. It was fantastic. And fun. Heck, I may have to start doing that again, this summer. The weather’s getting warmer, after all… And my garage is calling to me…

In any case, looking at all the scans and pictures of my work makes me appreciate — truly value — all the advances made in imaging technologies. We get such better scans and photos now. And without paying an arm and a leg, which is nice.

The Voice of Night – Reclaiming the Castle

woods-clearing I had a remarkable dream, one night. I dreamed I was attending an herbalist convention, held at a camp in the middle of a northeastern forest. There were both men and women there, all of us deeply committed to the healing arts. The main lectures took place in a medium-sized camp hall, where about nine rows of folding chairs were set up in front of a podium. There were other workshops and classes on the schedule, in other small buildings around the camp. But the main discussions and speeches took place in that main hall.

I had been listening to lectures about herbs all day, and I was tired of so many words. So, I got up and took a walk in the woods to stretch my legs. I walked a long way, through the hardwood forest, the ground soft with many seasons of fallen leaves, as well as the ferns and moss common on the Eastern Seaboard. I walked farther than I realized, though, and soon I found I was lost. I stopped and looked around, but could see nothing but trees, could hear nothing but the wind stirring in the leaves, as well as little creatures scampering across the forest floor.

As I turned and looked around, I suddenly caught sight of a part of the ground that seemed to be dug up, off at a distance of some 100 yards. I walked closer to it, wary, but I could see or hear no other humans or sign of danger. As I came closer, I realized it was a huge pit dug in the forest floor — rectangular and stone-lined, it reminded me of an immense swimming pool, or an inverted castle submerged in the ground. The top of the pit was flush with the forest floor, and it went down many feet into the earth. The stones that lined it were perfectly cut and set together, and the whole structure was about 20×30 yards in size. I crept closer and closer to it, still not certain what this was. As I came to the edge, I looked down, and saw it had water sitting in it. I couldn’t tell how much, but there was a good deal — brown, almost brackish, but surprisingly inviting.

For some reason, I thought it would be refreshing to take a dip in this pool in the middle of the woods. I wasn’t sure why, but it beckoned to me. I was hot and sweaty and stiff from sitting all day in that camp hall, and a swim seemed like just the thing. If I got dirty from the water, I thought, I could always go back and wash off. I jumped in with my clothes on.

The moment I hit the water, I was flooded with an intense sensation of wholeness. It wasn’t just a sense of well-being — it was intense and almost overwhelming sense of oneness, of fullness and no awareness of lack or limitation of any kind at all. I was free. I splashed around in the water, did backstrokes and somersaults, and paddled around, filled with a sense unlike anything I’d ever had before. My whole being was suffused with a sense of peace, safety, well-being — a Divine sense of consummate satisfaction that calmed every irritation and smoothed every wrinkle of worry from my being. I could hardly believe it. This brackish water, which at first sight looked tainted with rotting leaves, filled me with joy beyond any expression.

I swam from one end of the pool to the other, testing the depth of the water. In one place, it would be six inches deep, in another it would be too deep for me to reach the bottom. Every square yard of the pool had a slightly different bottom, and I tested the depths with serene pleasure. I splashed and dove and played for almost an hour.

Then I decided it was time to get out. It was getting dark, and I thought I’d better get back to my conference and finish out the day’s lectures. I pulled myself out of the pool, dripping, blissful, and amazed at the experience. I could hardly believe this had happened to me, and I thanked whatever or whoever had led me there, for allowing me to experience this bliss.

I looked up, then, and saw two women watching me. They were middle-aged, with long, grey-streaked hair filled with twigs, leaves, and moss. Their faces were smudged, and they wore long burlap-like dresses that were tattered around the edges. Their skin was weathered and dark, but their eyes were clear and bright. They introduced themselves to me as the ones who were excavating this ‘site’. They said they were anthropologists who had been searching for Camelot all their lives, and they finally located it here. “That pool you were swimming in,” they said, “is Camelot. It’s always been here, and it’s still here for anyone who needs it.”

I was flabbergasted, speechless. I didn’t know what to say. They told me that they’d been working on this dig for years, now, and it was finally ready for others to experience. It was time to start telling people about it. They said I should go back to my workshop and not hide what I’d found. At the same time, though, I shouldn’t tell just anyone about this place. “Not everybody is ready for this,” they said. “Not everybody will want it, either.” I couldn’t imagine anyone not wanting what I’d found here, but they insisted I be selective in whom I told, while not being reluctant to discuss Camelot with those who were genuinely interested. Then they told me to go back, and I bid them good-bye. I said I would see them later, and they said, perhaps I would.

I returned to the camp, my clothes dry from walking briskly. When I got back, I could hardly wait to tell people about my experience — yet I wasn’t sure whom to approach. Besides, it was time for the keynote speaker, Patrick Stewart, the actor who plays Captain Jean-Luc Picard on the television show, “Star Trek – The Next Generation”. My head was in a whirl the whole time he spoke, but I picked up some of what he said.

He told us that although he played a starship captain on television, we herbalists were actually doing the same work as his co-players on the show — making inroads in whole new areas of life, and making it possible for humanity to expand beyond its own limitations. “You are the real thing,” he said, “and your work is as vital as my role on television seems.” His words sent a thrill through the audience, and we knew he was right — we were doing important work. Yet all the while he was speaking, he seemed distracted, tired, weary, and frightened. He seemed totally depleted, and although his words had the ring of truth, they came from a taxed and worn soul.

When he was finished speaking, we jumped to our feet, applauding. He stepped back from the podium, drawn and pale, and the audience broke up. Some gathered together in groups around the room to discuss the conference, while others of us went up to Patrick to shake his hand or ask him questions. He was polite to everyone, yet distant.

I stayed at the edge of the crowd surrounding him, waiting my turn to speak with him. When most of his admirers had praised him and moved on, I approached him and thanked him for his talk. “But I want to give you something back,” I said. “I just want you to know that Camelot is here. It’s not far away in some star system, it’s not halfway around the world. It’s here. I’ve been there just today, and I can show you where it is. We can go anytime.”

At that, Patrick fixed an intent gaze on me, disbelieving. “It’s here,” I said again. “We can go to it anytime you like. Right now, if you want.” All the hardness and tired lines faded from his face, and he broke down and began to cry. He cried very hard, like a little baby, holding his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking, while people around the room looked over at him, surprised and wondering. Some came over to see what was going on. After a few minutes, he collected himself and looked up at me and asked me where it was. He appeared hopeful for the first time all evening. Others around the room said, “Yes, where is it?” and came over to hear the answer. I told them where, and they all looked at each other with wonder. They couldn’t believe Camelot was so close, but I assured them that I had been there.

Some in the room heard what we were saying and turned away. They had no interest in going to see the place or experiencing it, and they said as much. They just wanted to discuss what they’d learned that day in their classes. They were hungry, or they were tired, or they just weren’t interested. They didn’t begrudge us our enthusiasm, just moved off in their little groups to get an evening snack in the cafeteria, or get ready for bed.

Those of us who did want to go to Camelot began to move out in clusters. I gave instructions on how to get there, and in small groups, we moved out — some racing at top speed, some going at a measured pace, others stopping to get their swimming suits or talk some more. I went with Patrick Stewart and a small group of women. As we approached the place in the woods where the pool was, we could hear laughing and splashing. Patrick’s demeanor was becoming lighter all the time, he had a spring in his step, and he was now talking animatedly, joking with the women in our group. We came near the pool and could see through the trees a luminous shining surrounding the pool, as some of my fellow students leaped and dashed and splashed into the water in hilarious ecstasy. Others stood around the edge of the pool, watching and enjoying themselves at the sight. Off to the side, I saw the two women who had unearthed this treasure. They nodded to me as I came near and smiled appreciation and approval to me.

I knew then, I had done the right thing. I ran to join the others in the pool, just as Patrick dove into the water that would renew him.

The Voice of Night – Dreams from a Dreaming Past

Strange Bedfellows isn’t the only epic dream I’ve had. I’ve had many, many complex, involved dreams over the course of my life. Maybe it’s my personality, maybe it’s my biochemistry, maybe it’s my “wiring”, but there’s some pretty wild stuff that’s showed up while I’ve been sleeping.

Years ago (like, about two decades ago), I posted my dreams as “The Voice of Night”. And that was actually one of the first websites I created, back when the web was young. That site went away, eventually, as early web things often do.

But the dreams all stayed on my hard drive. In html. Waiting to be brought back to the light of day.

Now seems like as good a time as any to do it, since I’m talking about dreams a lot, these days… as well as life lessons. The lessons still hold true. And many of them are actually even more pertinent today, than they were when they first came to me.

It’s going to take some time to post them all. But it’ll be a great way to pass the time 🙂

You’ll find them here, as I re-release them back into the wild: The Voice of Night – A Personal Mythology of Dreams

Last two poetry books updated – now on to Strange Bedfellows.. and beyond

woodtype Okay, so that’s done.

I just updated the last two poetry books I published. It’s not difficult – just a lot of attention to detail. Changing half of your name, and then updating everything accordingly, can get a bit eye-crossing. Especially if there are ebook versions, as well as print versions. I still haven’t decided what to do about the ebooks. The name will have to change there, as well.

Just when it seems I’ve gotten everything fixed… I find something else. So, I check, and check, and double-check. Especially because I’ll be publishing to Amazon and other international distributions, which means I need to ensure everything – but everything – is pristine and perfect. Once you put an ISBN to something and publish it via international distribution, you’re locked in. So, you have to make it count.

Again, it’s eye-crossing.

But now, it seems it’s all set.

I’m digging into Strange Bedfellows, now. From a logistical standpoint, the work is more painstaking, because the file is bigger and takes longer to save. Plus, it’s chock full of images, which now and then have a tendency to shift around on the page – and then throw off the page count. Fortunately, I’m working in Open Office, so the file formats are the same (No M$FT Word for me, thank you very much). Plus, Open Office file sizes are a lot smaller, so there’s less drain on my finite system resources.

And that’s always nice.

If you have the proper tools, you can do amazing things. And if you practice good attention to detail, you can really create some professional-looking products that anybody would think are commercially produced. That’s one of the benefits of having worked in publishing before — both print and digital. You pick up tips and tricks, plus you develop an eye for the kind of detail that goes into creating quality materials.

Some people think that you have to have access to money and contacts and resources, in order to produce professional-looking books. On the contrary, I’ve been doing “guerrilla” publishing since the 1980s, and some of my “amateur” works look just like what you’d find in the bookstores. If you have the desire and you keep at it and you set your sights high –and never give up till you create exactly what you want — great things are possible.

If there’s one thing I’d want people to know about putting their own writing out there, it’s that. What I said above. I’ve come across a lot of people who have either had a sour-grapes attitude (“Well, of course you made something nice – you work for a big company and have access to their equipment!”), or a sort of resigned approach (“I don’t need anything fancy, just some copies made up at the local office supplies store.”)

I disagree on both counts. First off, my books don’t look great because I use my employer’s stuff. I don’t. I’ve figured out how to either use what little I have very creatively, or I found a way to get access to the equipment I needed on an occasional basis. You don’t need to have constant access to a full-feature printer, to crank out a handful of poetry chapbooks. You can mock everything up at the local library, print it out for 10 cents/sheet, and then take it to your local copy shop to create the finished product.

If you want to publish full-length books, you can do it for free at Lulu.com. They have everything you need to publish a full-length book with a nice-looking cover, and it won’t cost you a think to set it up. You can do the pre-production work on the computers at your local library.

As for “keeping it simple” and going with a bare-bones approach… It’s so straightforward, and so possible, to produce a really nice-looking work on your own, that there’s really no reason to do without good design. All you need for inspiration and guidance, is a trip to your local bookstore or library, to see examples for best-practices in book design and layout. And then you just copy what they do.

It’s really quite simple. But a lot of people make it hard in their heads.

Far more important than expensive equipment or professional publishing skills, is a keen sense for detail and what makes a published product look — and feel — great. Once you’re clear on that, everything becomes a lot clearer.

Now… on to updating Strange Bedfellows. I’m writing a new foreword, as well as a conclusion. The story, on the surface, reads like an eco-warrior treatise about the hazards of modern living. But beneath it all, there’s more… so much more.

And there will be more to come about that. Soon.

Change for Good – Beyond the four-year altar-call

church Every four years, we’re treated to talk about change during the presidential elections. Everybody makes the case about why change is either needed, or not. And everybody has plenty to say about the new policies everyone else is proposing.

Who doesn’t want change? I certainly do. Good Lord, yes. I think you’d have to be either asleep or on very good drugs, to not desire at least some change in the world. If you’re just mildly paying attention, you’re aware of at least one or two (or two million) things that could use some improvement.

And all the political candidates have some pretty persuasive points. I’m in the unfortunate situation, where I can see the reason for every candidate’s platform. I can’t just discount them and call them “crazy” — because at a basic, human level, I understand them. Of course, understanding where they’re coming from doesn’t mean I agree with them — not in the least. But I do understand their perspectives, and I completely understand exactly why they and their supporters feel the way they do.

There’s one thing that eludes me, however — and that’s why anyone thinks that the change that’s most needed is going to come from on high, via a presidential candidate, when the “boots on the ground” are still hewing to the same-old-same-old. Seriously, we seem to collectively think that having a new butt in the seat of the Oval Office is going to steer the ship of state in some magically transformative direction… and meanwhile, all the folks down on the benches in the galley are rowing in the same old direction. Or not rowing at all — chances are, they’re on their smartphones.

What part of this makes sense? None of it, from where I’m sitting.

For the last four years — and all the four-year periods prior to the last election — the American public has done a fantastic job of avoiding making pretty much any personal investment in systemic change. We’ve enthusiastically pointed fingers and called names (we’ve got that down to a science), but what have we really — truly — done to actually bring about the changes we believe will save us all? Hell, we haven’t even bothered to more fully understand the issues we all face, collectively. We’re so busy snarking away on Facebook and tweeting our discontent, that any chance of in-depth discussion is, well, non-existent.

And no, watching a late-night current events discussion show does not count. Nor does having the political landscape explained to you by the pundit of your choice, as you nod in agreement.

None of that counts. Emoting is not effecting change. Reacting is not acting. Tweeting and posting is not social activism. And, sorry, flashmobs don’t count. Even if they are posted to YouTube and go viral.

What actually counts, is action. Doing something about your beliefs and values in a substantive, consistent way. You need to do the small, boring, unimpressive, personally costly, utterly transformative things each and every day, whether or not somebody is watching, whether or not it gets attention in social media and tons of likes. And guess what — it doesn’t count in an election year. Anybody can do or believe in sh*t in an election year. Just about everybody does. Anybody can gravitate to a political line and jump on board the party boat, every four years. Who doesn’t?

Watching all the political/ideological hullabaloo, this time of year, is like watching an altar call, when you see intransigent repeat offenders making their way to the front of the revival tent to have all their transgressions wiped clean… just like they’ve done regularly, as long as you’ve known them. And based on past experience and observation, there’s a pretty good chance they’re going right back to their evil ways, as soon as the glow of the revival wears off.

Same thing happens each election year. People get all up in arms and holier-than-thou and righteous and what-not… so-so-so sure that their candidate is The Cure for All That Ails Us. They’re true believers, and they support their candidates in word and deed. Then the election comes. Maybe they win, maybe they lose. But whatever the outcome, once the dust has settled and the new POTUS has their butt in the Oval Office seat, we all go back to business as usual.

And we spend another four years of habitual oblivion, racking up yet more reasons to be outraged and desperate, the next time around.

Considering how much more dire each subsequent election becomes, with “more than ever riding on the outcome”, it’s hard for me to take anyone’s burning political convictions seriously. Where’s all that social traction or that same devoted fervor when it’s NOT an election year. It’s nowhere to be found. Who writes to Congress? Who even calls their representative? (Signing an online petition doesn’t count, by the way, because the recipients often completely disregard them, because they’re so easy to fudge.) It’s all hands-off in the general population, and then we bitch and complain about how lobbyists have taken over our government. Lobbyists and special interests didn’t “take over” anything — they stepped into a gaping void that we’ve all created… and invited them into by turning a blind eye.

We rarely bother to really understand the full spectrum of the issues we face — we just hew to proposals floated by our candidates. Who among the believers that “big banks must be dismantled” understands the impact that would have on the pensions of countless retired schoolteachers? Or union members? Or other folks who have worked long and hard, and who rely on that pension to make ends meet? Who among the proponents of deporting all the “illegals” understands what impact that would have on the economy — or how their own constant craving for low prices drives the underground economy of undocumented labor? Who among the backers of a strong military understands how our long-standing foreign policies and global economic interdependencies contribute to ongoing strife that locks us in a perpetual state of policing and military intervention on behalf of more countries than just our own? And who among those who long for a return to Christian values, realize how vulnerable they are making themselves — because there are so many different flavors of Christian values, and many of those values have been used for centuries by Christians to disenfranchise and kill other Christians, with full religious justification?

We have no collective grasp of the full scope of the issues and challenges that we face as a nation, together. But to us, that’s not the problem — the real problem, apparently, is that other people just don’t agree with us.

All the ballyhoo, all the drama. It’s both entertaining and annoying. Because seriously, people, who is actually willing to put their money where their mouth is and take action by themselves, instead of looking to some national leader to point them in the right direction? Where’s the action, outside of election years, that backs up your commitment to change? People want energy independence, but they can’t do without their electronic devices and creature comforts. People want clean water for Flint, but they’d rather have cheap cars from Detroit. People want to protect the earth, but they can’t be bothered to separate out their recycling, or cut back on their driving. People want their kids to grow up in a safer world, but they won’t weigh in with their elected representatives on how to make that happen. People want gun rights, but they don’t want to learn how to responsibly and effectively use a firearm, so they don’t kill innocent bystanders.

We want our lives customized and personalized. Screw what that does to the environment. Never mind the expensively toxic bricks that Prius batteries are. We get save gas and look all the more eco-friendly. Never mind the haz-mat incidents waiting to happen when we throw away those new fluorescent light bulbs. They’re easy to come by and they save us money. New iPhone! Woo hoo! Never mind the massive buildings in China housing thousands upon thousands of workers, some of whom leap to their deaths out of desperation. That has nothing to do with us. It’s just sad. Here, let me share that on Facebook or Tweet a 😦 about it.

All this election year talk is just that — talk. For all the outrage and insults, within weeks after the election results are in, the vast majority of people will drop championing the issues and retreat to their social media corners, snarking about oversimplifications from the safety of the interwebs. They’ll say plenty — especially if they’ve “lost” the election — but will they actually do anything? For all the talk about values and the need for change, where’s the action to back it up… especially on an ordinary everyday basis? Where’s the direct contact with our dreaded Congress, to tell them what we actually want and need? Where’s the choice to forego creature comforts for the sake of preserving what we really care about?

Where indeed?

If you really want change, you need to act like it. And if I don’t see it outside of election years, then nothing you can say is going to convince me that you are serious about your political platform. Or that your candidate is a serious contender to actually lead.

Much of my thinking about change was influenced by a dream I had over 20 years ago. It’s now published as Strange Bedfellows – a story about how we change … and don’t. Get the book here.