Smoke and Dreams

Everything smelled like smoke and ashes yesterday. I assume someone was burning a field somewhere, although I couldn't actually see any smoke from my yard. It smelled so heavy it seemed like we should've been able to see it. It felt like little ash particles actually in my nostrils.

I fell asleep with my nose and throat burning. I am surprised I didn't dream of fire. I was thinking of fire. I was having horror fantasies that wouldn't stop about the fire, wherever it was, spreading to here.

Instead, I dreamed that NFL players were using hashtags to sneak cats into my house to harm my kids.

I had to go to twitter, limit my feed to football players only, then slowly scroll through watching for hashtags. When I found one that looked dangerous, I'd click it, and scroll through that feed, watching for NFL players who had shared photos of cats. I had to examine every photo carefully, because the cat might hide behind someone's legs or even in an image on a kid's clothes.

When I found an NFL hashtagged cat, I had to delete it, then go back to the main feed and start over, with thousands of new tweets posted since.

Herded Like Cattle

Weird dumb creepy uncomfortable dream.

I was at school, moving through the hallway. Everyone was moving through the hallway. It was a tight, uncomfortable press and I couldn't even control my movements. Couldn't speed up, slow down, or turn around if I wanted to. Everyone was going to the cafeteria on the bottom floor, and I was going too, like it or not.

I didn't like it. The stairs, which wound in a squared-off spiral, were too steep. People were moving too fast. There was constant physical contact with people I didn't know by name, Not that I could've seen them to identify them. Nothing to be seen but a rush of color and press of anonymous bodies and movement.

Someone shouted my name,and everyone stopped moving, turned to focus on me. A path cleared and some guy I didn't know, but who apparently at least knew my name, rushed through.

"I'm pretty sure this is yours."

He had a Rubbermaid sort of lunchbox that made me think of a cross between Bento and industrial. It wasn't mine.

"See?"

He opened the lid to show me the contents. In snug, side-by-side trays, there were carrots, some sort of dip, Pokemon cracker (I didn't know those existed), the tiniest tomatoes I'd ever seen, and tiny slices of cheese cut into shapes.

I said, "No, it isn't mine."

"It looks like it might be yours, though. I think it is."

I took the box and held it up and turned it in my hands. Each side had neatly printed legends, like, "I really lie Pokemon!" and "Lunch is my favorite class."

One side said, 'This lunch box belongs to:' and under it, written in blue marker, was my brother's name.

"This is Corbin's." I said. "See? His name is on it."

The guy just stared blankly, like I accidentally said 'name' in a foreign language.

"See?" I pointed again. "Corbin."

"I think it might be yours. Somebody told me it looked like yours."

I glanced around, and every face I saw looked as confused as his. This live performance was starting to be dull, now that the weird girl wasn't making sense. People started to shuffle toward te cafeteria again.

Then I spotted Corbin, and I called out his name. I said, "I think I've got your lunch box!"

He called back, "What's in it?"

I said, "Vegetables and stuff, but it's got your name on it."

"But what's in it?"

The press of people began to move me again, and I struggled to turn my body back to face the way I was going. Somehow, I managed to hold back just a little, and people jostled and crowded past until the hall was empty. I could see over the last landing's banister into the cafeteria, and watched people swarm like bugs up to the counter, then away.

I went around the last corner, and there were no more stairs. There was still a full story of distance between me and the cafeteria floor, but the stairs ended, with a jagged, ripped-off carpet hanging loosely from the last landing like it had once partially covered the last flight of stairs.

How was I to get down?

A guy I didn't know shoved past me, with an annoyed sound at my lack of motion, stepped on the hanging carpet, and slid, half sideways as though on a snowboard or skimboard, down the available length. Then he leapt off the end, landed neatly on the floor, and headed to the counter like this was the most normal thing.

I tried it, and ended up sliding backward on my stomach, grappling for a grip on the carpet to keep from sliding so fast. Then I was on my hands and knees on the floor, palms stinging.

At the counter, a serving lady handed me a tray. Somehow I couldn't see the contents. I wasn't sure if I wanted it.

"What is this?" I asked, not taking the tray.

"It's what everybody gets. You all get the same." She shoved the tray at me.

I looked around. Was there even a door? I couldn't get back up those non-stairs. How would I leave? I turned to run, with her still calling after me to assure me everyone takes a tray.

Things I Don't Write About

I wrote about Ferguson tonight.

And there are a few things I usually don't write about.

Ferguson has been one of them, for a couple of reasons. One is the reactions. It makes me ill to see people I love say things like, "Well, he provoked..." or "Well, he wasn't complying...."

I can't sit and argue that and still face those people every day.

There are other topics and other reasons, but mostly I haven't written about Ferguson.

But tonight, I wrote about Ferguson.

See, there was this group of protesters who woke up to find a noose in their camp area, and when I googled, it seemed like nobody was writing about it. How is that a nonstory?

So I messaged the youth pastor who had started sharing their story, and I got some information and shared it on, wrote it up, made it officially news on a news site on the internet in the world.

(I feel like I'm advertising but because I'm talking about it here it is. Nobody's making you click.)

And now I'm (well, not now because I got up, but a few minutes ago) lying in my bed, in my temperature-controlled environment, with my walls and ceiling and babies and safe and comfortable (moderately- two toddlers in a bed means moderately comfortable is good), while the people who are actually there, the guys who woke up to a noose, and the people who lost a son or brother or friend, are not lying in a bed with soft sheets, but walking the streets, sitting in living rooms and crying, holding hands and praying, pleading for justice (which I don't think is a possible thing here - even if an investigation proves beyond doubt that this kid never did anything worse than sticking his tongue out at his brother, nobody's gonna give him his life back, so where is justice?), pleading for change, pleading for it not to happen to another kid, pleading for something to make sense.

And I feel guilty for my vague nod to the possibility the police aren't lying about *every single* thing, because I know I'm supposed to be neutral but it's like being neutral on climate change or the sky being blue, so that I feel like I'm supposed to say, "Others argue that the sky is purple with pink polka dots, and color is subjective, but blue is consistent with the language of poem and song." And I feel for those journalists who get slammed for putting on a scientist and a creationist, because 'both sides' is an expected thing even when one is not a side at all.

I hope I gave an accurate depiction while being fair. I hope change happens. I hope Michael Brown's family gets a thing that resembles justice enough to give them some scrap of peace. It can't be more than a scrap, when you lose your baby. I can't even fathom. I look at my babies and I can't even fathom. I know that change is gonna happen, because change does, but change in forty or eighty years when it comes naturally through generations passing on and new ones seeing things differently isn't enough. A lot of people can die in 40-80 years.

What can I do? Nothing but rail and holler. But I guess I can rail and holler, anyway. Even if what I get in response makes me sick. I reckon I can take a little sick to try to make somebody's babies not die, even if it's only try. It's the tool within my reach. Rail and holler.

Words Feel Defective

Words feel defective today, like they're not doing the job they have. I love words. I love that they allow us to communicate all these subtle things, ideas, feelings, plans, directions. I love to make words happen.

But then there's that thing where you repeat a word over and over, or stare at it on a sign for a long time, and it stops making sense.

You're like, "Yield. Yi-eel-duh. Yeee-uld. Yelled? I think I forgot how to say it. None of the ways sound right anymore."

You feel like maybe you better not say 'yield' in front of anyone, because all the ways to say it sound wrong and they're probably going to laugh at you.

If your kid asked you right now what 'yield' means, you'd want to look it up to be sure you were still right, because the meaning feels gone.

Except that's how I feel right now with all words, not just one.

I want to tell a friend I'm glad a thing went well for her, and "I'm glad for you" sounds like it doesn't make any sense, even though intellectually I know it does. Those are the right words. But I have this paranoid feeling that if I type it and hit 'send' she'll message back, "What does that mean? Is that English?"

I type "I'm glad" and before I can go any further, my brain goes,

"Glad? What's that? Happy? You're happy? Or a trash bag. Glad is a trash bag. Why would you tell her you're happy? She's the one who had the good thing happen. She's happy. You're not a trash bag. That doesn't make sense. Why are you saying trash bag to her? Glad is the trash bag, right? Maybe that's the wrong word."

It's perfectly silly and I have to make words happen today for work, but my brain insists that none of them make sense.

Now, to cross my fingers that this nice informal word-making pushed me past the block.

Stupid Bad Horrible Dream

I had the most terrifying dream ever.

I was standing in the grocery store parking lot when I heard someone yell something like "It's got silver in it!" I glanced around, and realized that it was a group of three teenagers, cheering the fact that the cart they'd stolen, which they only expected to hold free food, also contained an expensive silverware set.

I looked the other way, and there was an elderly man just getting the rear hatch of his vehicle open. He reached for his cart, and looked confused for a long moment before looking around, seeing the boys transferring the contents to their own trunk, and beginning to understand.

He started to walk toward them saying something very stereotypically old-man, like "Hey, you young hooligans!"

I yelled at him to stay back, I'd call the police. He was a fairly sturdy looking old guy, but I didn't want him getting hurt trying to take his groceries back.

I pulled my phone out, and started fumbling with all the buttons and things that seem so complicated to use in dreams, and suddenly it was on the ground and I was trying to find air for my lungs.

One of the guys had rushed me, hard, and knocked the air right out of me. Now he was holding me so tightly I couldn't move or breathe.

He relaxed his hold a tiny bit and started to explain to me how we were gonna stand right here and not make any trouble while the other fellows got to a safe distance - and I broke loose from him and started to run.

So he pulled out a cattle prod, which it turns out can shoot bolts of lightningesque electricity several yards, and used it to knock me to the ground.

Lying there, I watched and waited for it to stop. When I could stand, he demonstrated to me I was in his power. He threw me the prod.

He told me to bring it to him.

Instead, I tried to shoot him with it. He just laughed as the bright yellow bolts bounced harmlessly off his body. I moved closer and closer and he continued to seem to feel nothing.

"You've built an immunity!" I gasped, finally getting it but I was within his reach by then, and then I was a captive again.

He sat me on the sidewalk in front of the store and whistled for a bunch of little kids. All these little kids, like six and eight years old, sat down in a circle around me and started laughing, some playing jacks or cards, doing whatever.

And I knew I couldn't get up and leave, because there were so many, and if I moved they'd grab at me. I could get away from them, but I'd have to hurt one or more to do it.

And I sat there while he went inside. And I sat there and waited until my mom came out of the store and told me he'd been arrested.

And we went and got into the van and listened as the news said "....but the real hero was the woman inside the store who saw something going on and called 911 quietly....." and I felt like a giant idiot, and also knew they were patting themselves on the back despite having not gotten the other two, and if I'd done it right the old guy would have his groceries and silverware.

And Mama wouldn't let me call the police to give them the additional information until we were 'back on the highway.'  I'm not sure why.

And I sat there and did what I was told.

I am tired, angry, and frustrated beyond all bounds of my ability to cope. I am tired of fighting uphill everything constantly.

I'm sick of thinking about fire.

I'm sick of worrying about custody and what's going on when the kids aren't here.

I'm tired of struggling to have the energy to get anything done.

I'm sick of family members hurting other family members, and of knowing there's only one right side, but also knowing that if I take it, people I love are going to hate me.

I wish I could just lay down and sleep for ten years or forever.

Excerpt From Early Draft Of Untitled Witch Story

This is an excerpt from chapter three, in which the nine-year-old character tries to gather more information about the witch[es] she believes must live in the spooky house.

If you want background, here's the first draft of chapter one: Untitled Witch Story, Part One, Draft One.

I asked my mother who lived in the spooky house. I cringed a bit as I asked, with a part of me expecting her to scold me for not paying attention to the reading materials supplied by my church – after all, if I had, I’d know it was the house of witches. Another small part expected she’d avoid mentioning the witch (after all, she’d never told me before, and keeping things from me to protect me was her way in many things) and just tell me to avoid the place. A part of me expected her to identify the resident.

All of me believed that she must know that there were witches in the house, and it was merely a matter of how much information she would impart.

No part of me expected her to say she didn’t know.

Our town’s population numbered in the hundreds, and among those who actually lived in town, rather than on the outlying roads and farms that had a Columbia address but weren’t in the normal walking routes, there were no strangers – or so I had always believed.

“I think she moved here from somewhere, a little while ago,” my mother said vaguely. “She hasn’t lived there long.”

“But you don’t know her name?”

“No, she’s not from here, probably. She might have come from Ohio or something.”

I knew where ‘Ohio or something’ was. That was the place that everyone came here from. It meant ‘up north where they talk strange.’ It meant ‘none of our concern.’ It meant ‘might as well be a different planet.’

Anyone who was from away was from ‘Ohio or something,’ and once they were discerned as coming from that foreign place, they could be dismissed: we would never really know them or understand them, and maybe if we waited, they’d go away.

“How long has she lived there?” I asked. I had a notion that maybe my reading the Halloween tract had caused her to exist.

“I don’t know, maybe ten years, or more. I didn’t see her move in.”

Somewhat insulted at the notion that a period of time longer than my own life could be dismissed as ‘a little while,’ I walked away and didn’t ask any more questions.