a dream of murder that repeats itself over and over again. a dream i had at about9 years old of me in a back brick alley in a thin light tan sleeping bag over my bleeding legs. I am crawling as a child but yet an adult. My oldest brother is standing over me and it is he who shot me.
I had that dream a handful of times along with the one where I run out to the school bus late and my legs won’t move and of course the bus leaves without me. My mom furious as usual. I had many of the spooky dreams,, the lucid kid when you leave your body while paralyze on the couch or bed thinking blue demons are going to take your life. Sometime all you can do is breath and hope you don’t slip out of your skin. Other times you see every detail of the room, along with your napping well rested body preparing for the nightmare of your life.
It starts out with mundane looks for snacks in the fridge and check to see if the roommate is home and glad to have the place to myself until I smell the faint whiff of cigar smoke that I felt was my grandfather invisible.
The typical horror show scary kid taunts me and runs up a creepy stairwell that we can all picture and ends up in my bedroom selected for this dream only. The terror of the dream lasted for a century as I chased this child around a matrix of bob-eh-ty gook and finally after a few more re- inductions i faced the scary kid who miraculously melted into my arm as a darling little girl.
It is always a scary kid and you must always confront the ghost. Turns out very little of our experience is original. Like the car out of brakes and flying down the highway with just jesus at the wheel. That I am not quite sure if it is from my brothers car accident incident as a teen. He lost his breaks, so I’m told and super mom came to the rescue of rotten son that got himself into trouble. The semi-good one. Not the bad seed or me the trophy. My time would come later a hazing all survivors endure.
Hello expressionist. I am reaching out to you at the end of this piece because I, in EME form, have come up against a fear that i now need to lean into, or shall i say past my comfort zone. I am always striving to push past my comfort zone and when you live that way life will offer you up many opportunities to prove it. So I am a nervous wreck all the time which is why I have to use this forum to reconnect with this family. Quarantine s nice for purification, inspiration and over the edge sensations but not having a face to face gather at the book store to talk about my latest is starting to get to me.
So on to my courage, vulnerable speech, i recently (about five minutes ago..) recovered a memory of an elder in a vacation community that i attended as a youth very harshly criticizing me for talking about my piece in front of the audience. He was a degree la dee da and some dee da dooo doo at a university for writing, or reading… not sure but he was an elder and though I had been writing and performing a long time, some criticisms just stick.
So as I have share with you under the red light, that slowing down and managing my anxiety when i am at the mic is something I have practice quite a bit with your support; however I still felt rushed to “get to the point”…An echo from the every member of the little blue house in the hills and the twisted plot of land they poached. Oh so yeah the point. I want to talk about my writing and experiment with the non senscicle and the outside the lines and the messy and face the fear of seeming crazy.
We have all, as artist, looked each other in the eye and express our fears of saying something that will knock people off guard or shake their understanding of who they thought you are and what you thought you are. It is the scary part that we go through alone but come together to share our war wounds. Writing heals and anybody who tells you is a hobby or a less desirable attribute, or how dare you say that, then tell them to fuck off. please, at least in your head. Walk away even if it is family and deep deep love and dysfunctional loyalty. Write. Don’t stop writing ever. It is your only testimony a the end of he day.
Your story is worth hearing no matter how long or how much you babble or whoever tell’s you to shush… Still terrified but that is the point, is it not??