First Spring

Spring is coming later this year. Or maybe it’s right on time and we’ve had early blooms so often we’ve forgotten the usual cycle. The dogwood has finally burst open in the front yard but the tulip tree is taking its sweet time. Wherever I go in town I see magnolias in bloom but not in our neighborhood.

So I’ve consoled myself with the little presents Mother Nature has hidden in the yard.

Like the sweet little periwinkles winding their way around the house and pond.


Or these adorable little violets I found peeking up by the deck.


The blackberry bushes are starting to wake up too.


And the lily pads are starting to peek out of the murk. We only lost one koi, the big old fellow. Considering how awful the winter was, we were lucky.


But what really made me squeal with joy was when I opened the shed this morning and looked at my bulbs. With the freeze last week I had to bring them back inside and they hadn’t even started to bud yet.

They are now!


The daffs were supposed to be pink! But they’re still daffs, and they are my birthday flower and I love them all.

Some day an entire section of the yard will be filled with daffodils and tulips and lillies! I already know where. And each year I’ll add a few more until the entire fence line erupts with joyous color every single spring.

This is coming up our first year in the house. There is still much to do, especially in the yard, but already it’s become much more than a house.

It’s a home.


Surprises, Both Pleasant and Not

I am walking up the stairs in our house. Just as I get to the top, I hear a crash outside. I run into the bathroom and look out the window into the yard. The neighbors have pulled a section of the fence down by the shed and a dog runs into the yard through the gap. I think at first it is my dog and then realize it is a younger (maybe around a yearish) dog of the same breed. My dog runs over to the younger dog and they start cavorting around the pond.

I run down the stairs and out the back door. I am mad as hell. Why are they tearing down my fence? I run over to the gap and stick my head through and yell at the boys in the yard. As I am chewing them out, I hear a voice call out that they should go out to the farm and get fencing to replace what they tore down.

That voice sounds familiar. As the boys are going out the gate at their house to get into their truck, I squeeze through the gap into their yard.

There is a man leaning against the brick on the backside of their house. I walk over to him. He has his hands jammed in his jeans pockets and a baseball cap pulled down low. The hair is different, really long, and there is a full beard and not the usual stubble, but I know that silhouette and that voice.

I reach him and intend to give him a good what for, but I can’t help myself. My arms go around him and his around me. I don’t know what he is doing in the neighbor’s yard or why he is dressed like this, but I know my Sweetie and he knows me. My hand accidentally brushes his ass as I hug him. Reflexively, I tell him I’m sorry. He lifts his hand to my chin and raises my eyes to him.

“No, you’re not.” And we both laugh.

“You’re right,” I admit, and reach down and give his ass a good hard squeeze.

He responds by moving his hand to the back of my head and pulling me in for a hard kiss.

Time stops as it always does when we are in each other’s arms. When we come to our senses, it is night.  I still don’t know what is going on or why he is dressed like he just climbed off the combine. But none of that matters.

“I’m tired,” I say. I nod to the hammock in the back of their yard. “Let’s go lie down.”

And we do.

I wake up, disoriented. I am standing up, and there is something hard and sharp pressing against my bum, We’re embracing again, but not for a kiss. I’m leaning against a shelf. I try to get my bearings, realize I am surrounded by cuttings starting to bloom. They are neatly arranged by group and by tiers. We’re in a greenhouse? What the hell?

Then he pulls away and I look around. It looks more like the floral section of the grocery store, but why they have cuttings instead of flowers is a mystery. I look down the aisle and see that this section is connected to the pharmacy. Odd. It looks like our grocery store but the layout is different. It should be the bakery to the right.

On a dolly is a giant burlap bag. I assume it is a rootball, but it looks like branches have been jammed into it. I walk over and start to untie it. A shoot starts to, well, shoot out of the top.

Suddenly, an angel with a sword leaps in front of me. “No,” it says. “It cannot get out.” He beats the shoot down with the flat of his sword and reties it. Whatever is inside the burlap bag starts to writhe and growl. “Go back,” he says, and I run back into the section with the cuttings.

We suddenly realize that there are angels everywhere, with swords drawn, facing outward to protect us. Now we are both scared. What is going on?

We see that a senior citizen is coming down the pharmacy aisle in a scooter chair. As he gets closer, we see that he is not a senior citizen but a zombie senior citizen! Great! Now it’s devolving into a nightmare. As Zombie Grandpa starts to zoom towards us, his scooter chair hits what seems to be an invisible force field across the aisle a few feet in front of us. The scooter chair bounces back several feet. The force of the hit startles us, and it seems to startle Zombie Grandpa too.

We run to check to see if we are protected on all sides. Is that invisible force field there? Are the angels still there, even if we can’t see them?

And then, we wake up.

Dark Night

There’s a great relief in the knowledge you do not suffer alone.

There, I’ve said it. Sounds cruel, doesn’t it? At least to someone like myself, raised to believe that everyone else’s needs and wants are more important than my own. Yet it is not a wish deliberately for others to suffer as some kind of payback or sadistic pleasure.

It is simply the statement of a fact. We all suffer. And we are not alone in that suffering.

My suffering has reached levels of such tremendous pain that I cry out to a god I no longer believe in to rescue me, knowing that there is no such rescue. There is no turning back. I knew this when I agreed, yet when I agreed, I had no idea the pain that would be involved. Just as in childbirth the mother does not remember fully the agony, all I can do is trust that when I am through this the pain will only be a distant memory, replaced with sweet, sweet, bliss.

But I have to get through this.

There is a numbness that takes over when it is all too much to bear. When I was caring for a loved one who was dying, I went deep into that numbness. You are on auto-pilot. There is no escape. You submit. It is like abuse. You know the beating is coming, so you shut down and take it. The bullies on the school ground will find you eventually. Take the beating now. Get it over with. Shut down. Shut down. A defense mechanism, survival tactic. You are no longer human. You are a thing, doing things. That is all. This is what you need to do to survive.

Maybe, even survival needs to go. That most basic, fundamental, primitive need. Maybe the point is death. Death of the ego. Death of the body as we know it. We have such pretty metaphors for death. The butterfly emerging from the cocoon. The chick pecking its way out of the egg. The child tearing its way from the mother. Transformation through crossing that liminal space.

In birth there is always death. In birth there is always violence.

They say this is the next step in our evolution. What kind of beings are we that we choose to evolve through such agony? Why incarnate in such frozen hard lumps of flesh when what we really are is light, light, fluid and graceful, and charged with the electricity of love? What were we thinking?

The only things that anchor me when the pain comes are concrete things. Blue eyes, pupils dilated with desire, holding mine, locked in a gaze of pure love. The curve of a strong, sloping shoulder. The startling contrast of soft lips and bristly beard. These are things I hold onto when it is too much to bear. They are the reasons I hang on, fingers dug in deep to the flesh of an encircling arm. These are the things that make my suffering bearable. The concrete, tangible offshoots of love. All that I can process when my mind and soul are being wrenched apart. Solid, solid, anchoring me here, keeping me from tearing away. Knowing that when this is over, there will be no more separation, only unity, only melting into that sweet crystaline light, one, one, one, one. . . .

When I hear others, brave others, who have the courage to share their pain, talk about their agony, there is a sense of relief. I am not mad. I am not sick. This pain they have had, the exact same pain, in the exact same place, with the exact same associated emotion. There is logic, then, and reason. The suffering is not random. It is planned. It is orderly, and rational, but not in a way we can recognize here. We can only trust. Others, others, hundreds upon thousands of others suffer too.

We are not alone.

And soon, we shall be one.

March 2014 New Moon Dream

It’s odd that I would have such a scary dream after having such an amazing night. You’d think happy experiences and bliss would lead to happy dreams, right? Well, obviously not in my universe. Here it is:

My mom and I are taking a walk in the country. It’s an area that I’ve never seen before, but it’s lovely, with rolling hills and lush green grass. It makes me think of Kentucky. We’re walking through a low valley, with a bit of a flat area where rows of houses have been built, with hills rising up on either side of the dirt road we’re walking on. My mom is chattering away and is pushing a baby carriage.

The houses look pretty nondescript; they are small, working class saltboxes for the most part with a few attempts at personalization–a front porch here, a garden there. The plots are really small and the houses are really crammed together, which I think is odd given we’re out in the country and there is lots of space to build.

Up ahead and to my left there is a house that catches my attention. It’s a lovely spring day, warm, and with a warm breeze, but this house is covered with ice and frost. I get that little prickly sensation on the back of my neck, you know, the one that tells you something spooky and creepy is going on? As we come up on the house I notice how run down and shabby it is. It looks more like a shack than a house. The other houses at least have a coat of paint on them, even if they are dirty from having come through the winter, but this one has never even been painted. The wooden boards are silver gray with the battering of many years and are splintered and rotted in places where they are visible beneath the layer of frost and ice.

Just before we come up on the house, my mom stops. “That’s your boyfriend’s house,” she says.

“No it isn’t,” I start to say.

She interrupts me. “Yes, it is. It’s the house where he was born.”

I just stand and gawk at her. He wasn’t born in Kentucky. And he sure as hell wasn’t born in the country.And then I start to realize that I am in a dream, and this probably isn’t literal. It’s his house–his family, his lineage, his bloodline.

Just as I realize that, a freezing wind comes tearing down the hills into the valley. We aren’t dressed for that. It whips through the houses and stirs up dirt and leaves and debris. I shiver. Ok, this is a dream. Figure out what is going on.

I run up to the house to examine it. Why is it frozen when none of the others are?  I run a bit further to look on the other side. Is it in an unprotected place where this freezing wind hits it while the other houses are protected in some way?

The hairs on my neck go crazy again when I look beyond the house into what should be the backyard and I see gravestones. Not just a few. There are hundreds, thousands of them, and they run the length of this town and extend miles into the distance, all the way up to the hill and up to the tree line. I turn to my right and peek around one of the houses on that side of the path. I am even more creeped out to see an even bigger graveyard on that side of the town.

And then I look up into the hills. Marring the lush green of the trees is a huge scar. The greenery has been stripped bare to show the yellowish clay of the earth, in a huge zig zag running about two-thirds of the way down the mountain. Strip mined, I think, and wonder why it hasn’t been reclaimed. Then I realize that it isn’t just the gash of the stripped trees–in the gash itself, it looks like through the middle is a blackish red line, the color of clotted, congealed blood. It makes me think of a belly ripped open, top to bottom, with a jagged knife, and badly sutured back together again.

And then I hear this man’s voice. It’s reciting the 23rd Psalm. When it gets to the part Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil . . . . I am in a complete panic.

What the fuck is this place? I know on an intellectual level that it’s some kind of message, one of those damn cryptic metaphors I’m supposed to work out, but all I can think is death sweetie no gotta save him not again i’ve lost him in too many lives not this one. It’s another one of those situations where the emotion just comes out of nowhere and no matter how much I try, it simply takes control of me. I start acting instinctively, not intellectually, fight or flight. I’m back at the level of a terrified rabbit.

And I turn to run back to my mom and my eye is drawn to the baby carriage. It is empty. Was it always empty and I just didn’t see because I was walking behind it with Mom? Or did someone steal the baby? And now a whole new set of fears comes up, all those dreams of past lives of my babies dying or being snatched away from me.

The wind picks up and howls and at this point I am completely out-of-my-mind terrified. All I can think of is sweetie. I have to find him. I have to protect him.  I yell at Mom, “Hurry up! Let’s get out of here.” And as I am yelling at her, and fighting against the wind which is so strong I feel as if I am going to get sucked up into it, like Dorothy in the tornado, I finally wake up, shaking.

Link to the 23rd Psalm

MegaCon 2014

MegaCon has restored my faith in conventions.

That is not to say that it was without fault. There were issues, which I’ll get into below. But I’ve been to several cons since my last convention report (nearly a year and a half now!), and one of the reasons I haven’t posted is because many of the experiences have been so negative.

Fandom brings me great joy. Fandom is my chance to escape a high pressure job and nearly unbearable family responsibilities for a couple of weekends a year and to touch base with the things that gave me hope and inspired me when I was young. Conventions should not end in tears, yet the last few I attended have. One landed me in Urgent Care.

Luckily, this one did not.

On Friday night, as I was sitting in the airport waiting on my flight to Orlando, I wasn’t too sure that would be the case. The flight was over two hours late, which meant that I missed my connecting flight. After an hour or so of anxiety, I got a seat on a later flight. Unfortunately, that meant that I did not arrive in Orlando until midnight, and I did not make it to my room until nearly 1 a.m. Considering that I had bought a three-day ticket, on the assumption I would get there in time to do something Friday night, I was disappointed.

I was staying in the headquarters’ hotel, the Doubletree Hilton at SeaWorld. The resort was lovely, the room was quiet, and the convention organizers had provided (air conditioned!) shuttles to take us to the Orange County Convention Center. So that saved my poor feet and back the twenty minute trek to the convention center. Unfortunately, I would have gotten there a lot faster if I had walked. The traffic onto the Interstate was insane, and while I anticipated I would make it there by 10 a.m. (when doors opened) it was nearly forty minutes later by the time we finally made it there.

I assumed, like most large cons, there would be a long line to get in. There wasn’t one. That doesn’t mean that there were not a lot of people there–there were thousands. Upon thousands. Upon thousands. The numbers I’ve seen online estimate somewhere between 75,000-80,000, and that feels about right. Think Calgary Expo Stampede Ground numbers. And like Calgary, things were reasonably well-organized for an event of that size. It took about ten minutes to get inside, another ten minutes to get my prepaid advance ticket, and then I was in.

Compare that to the Wizard Worlds where you stand in line several hours to just get in the door, or Louisville FrightNight where I had to stand in line over two hours just to pick up my prepaid ticket for a photo op. MegaCon could have been a complete clusterfuck, but it wasn’t.

On the other hand, the attendees at MegaCon were some of the rudest I’ve ever encountered (oh, Calgary, how I miss you). One of the emcees felt it germaine to work into his act guidelines for common con etiquette, including showers and deodorant, which I assume meant that there were quite a few first time con goers there and that accounted for some of the nastiness. But some of it couldn’t be–a young woman I walked by called out a truly filthy remark which I won’t repeat here (but roughly translated equates to calling me a cheap whore). Since I did not make eye contact with this person, speak to her, or touch her in any way, and since I was dressed conservatively in bermudas and a tee shirt that covered everything that could be considered “cheap,” I have no idea where that idea came from or why she felt compelled to scream it at me as I walked past her.

The nastiness did not stop at the con. When I spoke to locals and told them I was in town for the con, they were openly rude and condescending to me, putting me and all sf afficianados down. Considering that Orlando is a tourist town, that’s a pretty stupid thing to do from an economic viewpoint. Orlando, if you don’t want money from 80.000 people, I’m sure there is another city that will.

Anyway, back to the con. Once I was in, it was a blast. There were some amazing vendors there, but given that I had flown in with a backpack and a purse, it was difficult but necessary to reign myself in on purchases. I just bought one tee shirt, but I was tempted to buy a lot more. I wish I had gotten in earlier on Friday, because I would have loved to have spent more time looking and talking with some of the artists and craftspeople who were there.

My reason for being there was the Torchwood reunion. Originally, five of the performers were to have been there, but Kai Owen and Burn Gorman had to pull out. That left John Barrowman, Eve Myles, and Gareth David-Lloyd. That  still meant that Torchwood-level insanity would ensue. So I decided to head up to the room for the panel and get in line.

The trip up the escalator took less time than I feared. It after noon, and the bulk of the attendees were beginning to pour in the front doors. I made it upstairs and hung out and chatted with people while the organizers were clearing and setting up the room for the panel.

That said, I still had trouble finding a seat. Torchwood fans, take heart–it may have been several years since the show has been on the air, but no one has forgotten about it. It was SRO and the capacity for the room was 2000.

Unlike the Wizard Worlds, the organizers actually asked us to move forward and fill in the empty VIP seats so more people could come in and see the panel (Yay! Megacon). They had projectors set up, and those on the left side of the room got to see a pantomime behind the screen–John tried to steal a kiss from Gareth–who waved his finger at him No, no, no.

That, it turned out, was just foreplay.

Because we got to move forward into the empty VIP seats, I was off to the side but still fairly close to the stage, and, luckily, I had my camera out and was recording when the Torchwood trio came on stage–and at just the right angle to be able to see what was happening behind the table.

What can I say? It’s Torchwood. Spanking, threesomes, and simulated rear entry. That’s how Torchwood rolls. For real. I got the video. Go look at it.

Go on. You know you want to see how this turns out.

Gareth David-Lloyd and Eve Myles Give John Barrowman A Good Spanking–While He Records It On His Phone!

Some days when I write these captions I feel like I’m writing for the tabloids.

Anyhow, I won’t go over everything that was said. There’s also video up by another attendee of the entire panel on YouTube. They answered questions, they told stories about the show, they laughed and joked and teased each other. It’s clear that they consider each other family, and that made us feel like a part of the family too. It was wonderful, and everyone around me seemed to be having a great time. I was in fan heaven.

Best question of the panel? Someone asked John Barrowman what it was like to kiss Gareth. John assures us Gareth is a very good kisser.

Silliest moment? John and Gareth teasing Eve about her “ninja tits” (she has just had another little girl and is still pumping). More pantomime ensued (you can imagine).

Afterward, it was time for photo ops. This is where things really got screwed up. No one knew what they were doing, there were not enough people working the lines, and the signage was not adequate. There was a woman working the lines who was the most hateful employee I have encountered at a con since Torchsong. People were queueing in line as they had been instructed by another employee when this woman comes out and starts screaming insanely at people to “GET OUT GET OUT GET ALL THE WAY OUT. NO ONE IS ALLOWED IN A LINE EXCEPT VIP. GET OUT. DON’T EVEN STAND NEAR THE LINES. GET ALL THE WAY OUT OF HERE IF YOU ARE NOT A VIP. DON’T EVEN STAND IN THE PHOTO OP AREA. GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT.”

I’m not talking raise your voice to be authoritative and to be heard. This was hateful, disrespectful, and mean.

So while I am standing in the food court because I have been chased out of the photo op area despite having a ticket for a photo op that was supposed to have started a half hour earlier, I see someone FINALLY come out and start putting up signage to tell people where they should queue. And then I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, because these people are so incompetent they don’t even know the names of the people they are photographing .

David Gareth Lloyd??? Who Is That?

David Gareth Lloyd??? Who Is That?




Finally, we got in. I had limited money, because flights to Orlando are damned expensive, so I had decided to just get a pic with all three of my Torchwood heroes. How often are all three of them in the same place? So I go in, and people are standing between Gareth and John, with Eve on the other side of John, and I say to the guys, “Where do you want me, boys?” Gareth starts to pull me in for a hug, but then John goes to grab me and pull me toward him for a hug. Gareth pulls me over me again–I’m in the middle of a tug of war!– and then John reaches around and puts his hand on Gareth’s back and his other hand on Eve, who is laughing at them, and pulls us all in together for a group hug, saying “In the middle!” Yes, Sir. I’m laughing too at this point–and of course that’s the minute the photographer decides to take the pic, so I’m there with my mouth open like a guppy. But it turned out to be a good pic anyway–everyone was laughing and smiling, and it didn’t look like one of those awkward faked posed pictures you often get. There was a genuine, fun energy to it, and I was pleased.

And, to give the photographers credit, they said the photos would be ready to pick up in forty-five minutes–and they were! I redeemed my ticket for the digital download and overhead a family complaining to the manager. I’ll respect their privacy and won’t give details, but it involved the shrill screaming woman and a child. Could someone please fire this woman? Or at least get her some sensitivity training?

At that point, I was exhausted, so I took the shuttle back to the hotel to take a nap. I had tickets to see James Marsters’ band Ghost of the Robot that evening, and I wanted to be rested and up for the performance. I went back over to the convention center a little early and popped into the Rosen Center Hotel to have some sushi and then made my way back across the street for the concert.

Except for some vids on YouTube, I hadn’t heard much Ghost of the Robot music. I had heard people rave about the band at cons, and I knew GOTR had given Gareth’s band, Blue Gillespie, their start by asking them to open for them in the U.K., so I figured if they liked Blue Gillespie enough to give them their break, I’d probably like their music too. I was really glad that I went, because It was a great gig. Despite the fact the room was so cold we were all there shivering in our short sleeves, the band keep energized and did a full hour set of their own original music (if you’d like to check them out, here’s the official Ghost of the Robot page on YouTube). I’d read in reviews that people compare Marsters to Michael Hutchence, and could definitely hear why in his voice. I also got a Green Day vibe from a few songs as well, which pleased me, and I was also very pleased with their blues number too. The hour flew by, always a sign that you are in the presence of good musicians; they tapped into the energy of the music and took us along for the ride. I was impressed enough that I actually bought some of their cds, and I have not regretted the purchase.

James Marsters at Ghost of the Robot Concert

James Marsters at Ghost of the Robot Concert

I’d missed the shuttle to the hotel, so I popped back over to the Rosen to get a cab. It was about the same time that the Barrowman meet and greet was letting out, and I got a chance to talk to some folks who had attended. I had gone to the Torchwood meet and greet in Calgary, so I didn’t go to this one, but John had set up the event as part of his fundraising for his new album. He’s still collecting pledges, so if you’d like to contribute to the project, here is the webpage where you can learn about it. One of the people I talked to from the meet and greet told me that John had said that by crowdsourcing the album, John will have the freedom to choose the songs that he and his fans love, not just those that a recording company have rights to or think will be most profitable.

A couple of nightcaps back at the hotel, a chat with an absolutely adorable young gay couple who were obviously madly in love, and a drunken frat type yelling “cougar” at me across the bar–it was time to call it a night.

Sunday is always autograph day for me. Everyone looks like crap and is hungover on Sundays, so there’s no point doing photo ops if you can avoid it. So I went over super early, got in line, and as soon as the doors opened made my way to the celebrity section of the hall.

On the agenda was to complete a Torchwood Children Of Earth trio photo that Eve had signed at a previous con–that meant lines for John and Gareth. I also had never gotten Marsters’ autograph before; I had met him and had a photo, but I had never been able to get a signature. I was determined that today I would.

I know John is always one of the first to make it to the convention floor, so I got in line for him first. He didn’t disappoint. I snapped a picture of him while in line.

John Barrowman

Who looks that good at 10:30 on a Sunday morning? Amazing. John signed my photo and, as usual, took time to chat with me. If you have never had the chance to actually meet and talk to him, I really, really urge you to do it. He is genuinely a great guy, and his respect and affection for his fans is evident. He treats everyone with respect and consideration, whether it is a toddler, a squeeing fangirl, or a grandma. And if you’re game for a little cheekiness, well, he’s up for that too.

Next, I went for Marsters’ line as it was already starting to get really long (at one point the lines for some of the celebrities were all the way outside the man hall snaking back towards concessions. Friendly advice for newbies: if you want autographs, haul yourself out of bed and get there at the crack of dawn). The band members were at the table too, and I got to chat with them before I moved down the line to James. He, too, is a gentleman, taking time to talk to you, make eye contact, and genuinely engage with you. While some celebrities don’t like to make physical contact with fans, James shakes your hand after the signing. (Adam Baldwin is another who does this, but that is a story for another day). James didn’t have any pictures of Captain John (darn!) but I’m perfectly happy with sulky Spike. While I was in line, I saw James take a photo with a fan at the table, and he not only hugged her but leaned over and kissed her on the top of her head. She was so overcome she was trembling. He did not tease her about it–again, someone who is very respectful and considerate of his fans.

See why I love Torchwood fandom so much? There is not one person involved in this show that I have met who has not been an absolute wonder of a human being.

So, next up–Gareth. Since they were doing photos at the tables, I decided I was going to ask Gareth for one. I’ve had several with him before, but when I went over to the table, I saw he had on The Hat. You know, The Hat. The Hat he was wearing at the first Sex, Wales, and Anarchy concert. You don’t remember The Hat? Go look at it, here.

As it turns out, it wasn’t The Hat. It was The Hat’s Twin. But The Hat’s Twin is still an awesome hat (go look here). Coupled with the new beard, The Hat made Gaz even more adorable (is that possible?). So I just had to have a picture. As luck would have it, there was a lull in the line, so I also got a chance not only to get a picture but also to chat with him about his new movie, I Am AloneThe crew was finishing up the last scenes in L.A. that weekend, and I asked Gaz if he thought the film would be making the festival circuit this year. He said no, it would take most of the rest of the year for post-production, and the film probably wouldn’t make it to the festivals until 2015.

At that point, people were starting to walk over to his table, so we had to end the conversation, but after the con, Gareth tweeted some news about another one of his projects that he was promoting at he con called Enoch the Traveler. Enoch is a novel by Lady Soliloque, about a woman who finds a man unconscious in her driveway. When she takes him in and tries to get to the bottom of who he is and why he is at her house, they are confronted by dangerous and otherworldly visitors who plunge her into a world that tests her understanding of the boundaries of reality and her own abilities. I have read the book. It is very, very good, and I am a pretty demanding reader. It’s a fast-paced, engaging story, and it poses some interesting philosophical and ethical questions as well. Gareth has been involved with the audiobook version of Enoch as the narrator, and it has just been announced that Enoch will be filmed as a limited run series, with Gareth playing the character of Nickolov. I’m not going to spoil the story by telling you about Nickolov other than to say this is not a Ianto-like character–it’s going to give Gareth a chance to explore a whole new range of emotions and experiences in his character-builiding. If you would like to know more about the project, you can find out more on the Enoch the Traveler page. Gareth also now has a personal twitter account @pancheers where he is posting updates on his projects as well as personal tweets and pictures.

I had succeeded in getting all three of my autographs (and an awesome pic of Gaz), so I made another round of the hall to see what I could see. My fangirl heart nearly exploded when I saw Dirk Benedict was there. I managed to get a fuzzy pic of him on my phone.

Dirk Benedict

Dirk Benedict

I was madly in love with him when I was a kid, between Battlestar Galactica and the A-Team. Richard Hatch was supposed to be there, but I didn’t see him, and I was also disappointed that I did not see Manu Bennett from Arrow. I did, however see Will Wheaton, and I thought it was pretty funny to hear a parent tell a child, “That’s the guy who is on Big Bang Theory with Sheldon.” Ah, Wesley, have they forgotten you already? There were folks there from The Walking Dead, but the lines were so long I couldn’t get near to see them.There was a truly amazing display of fanmade Star Wars items from Han Solo in carbonite to remote controlled R2D2s.

Han Solo in Carbonite

Han Solo in Carbonite

At that point, I needed to call it a weekend and make it to the airport, where I had the shock of flying from a location where it was 83 degrees to another where it was 18. Ah March. It’s supposed to come in like a lamb, out like a lion, not in like a lion, out like a lion.

Anyway, overall, I smiled more at Megacon than frowned. I got a reasonable amount of sleep, and I managed to eat healthy meals (most of the time). I met more nice people than rude people. I got an awesome Doctor Who teeshirt. I got to see my heroes again, and that brought some joy back into my life. I had fun. Megacon, bring back the Torchwood Trio, and I’ll be there. In a flash. I need more joy in my life.

P.S. I do want to give credit where credit is due. Despite the shrill screaming woman in the photo ops line, the photographers, who had promised the digital downloads would be up in 7-10 days, actually had them up within five. Given how many they had, and how long it could have taken, I was impressed. The transfer of the file went smoothly, and there were no glitches.


I’m sitting in a cafeteria having breakfast. I don’t recogize the cafeteria; it is in a building I’ve never seen before, and as I turn around and look out the window to my back I see a large auditorium. I’m here for something,  but my brain is fuzzy and I can’t make it out. Suddenly I realize I am in town for a con. I dig through my bag looking for my tickets, and I don’t see them. Damn. Now I’m going to have to stand in line to buy them. Do I want to do this? I’m torn. I’m so tired. But I’ve obviously traveled a long way to get to wherever this is, so I might as well go.

I walk out of the building and go into the street. The line is backed up around the building. Great. I walk around and find the end of the line, and lean against a steel railing. I turn around and there is my sweetie. I didn’t know he was here. And why wasn’t he with me to begin with? He is drinking a beer. He sees me and says, drunkenly, :Oh my god, It’s so good to see you!” He flings his arms around me and hugs me and plants a big kiss on my cheek. “I haven’t seen you in so long,” he says, and then “What’s your name again?”

I just look at him. Seriously? He doesn’t know my name? I tell him and remind him who I am. “Oh, yeah,” he says, and repeats my name a couple of times. “Yeah, yeah.” People have turned away and are ignoring us at this point, and then he drops the act. He isn’t really drunk, but he’s pretending to be. And I know damn well he knows who I am. What the hell is going on here? He’s  suddenly ashamed to be seen with me in public?

Once people start ignoring us, he starts talking to me normally. I wish I could remember what we talked about, but t I was still hurting from the whole “who are you again” thing. Then in mid sentence, he turns his back on me and sits down on a table nearby. I think he’s going to turn around and talk to me but he doesn’t. He gets out a notebook and starts writing and talking to himself and ignores me. I’m really hurt now. Why is he acting so crazy? Then a teenage girl comes over and sits with him like she knows him and he ignores her too and keeps writing and muttering to himself. It’s like he wants everyone to think he’s gone mad. I feel like I’ve been dropped into some surreal Hamlet update, but Sweetie is so not Hamlet.

I’m just standing there like an idiot. I don’t know what to do. Should I play along? Should I go over and sit with them? Is this him telling me to fuck off? Why is he acting like this? Why is he acting one way when people are looking and another when they aren’t?  I’m just pinned there, unable to decide what the hell I am supposed to do because none of this makes any sense whatsoever.

Then I wake up.

Little Mysteries


There is a plane crashed nose first into a river. It is not sinking. As a matter of fact, it has been left in the river and has been converted into a nightclub. Did it ever really crash? Or was the nightclub constructed to look like a plane that had crashed? Anyway, it is a nightclub.

I am standing on the riverbank next to this club/plane. There is a very big object next to me. I say object because there is nothing in this realm of reality to describe it. The best I can do is to say it looks like a cross between a bobby pin and a large shepherd’s hook. Maybe someone broke a bobby pin in two, kept the side with the crimps and the partial arc at the beginning. It is to my right side, slightly behind me. It is taller than I am, which puts it closer to six feet than to five. It also seems to be encrusted with some kinds of glistening jewels, diamonds maybe? It is odd, and I am standing there next to it as if I am posing for a picture. Maybe I am.

Then I am in the plane. It is odd, because despite the fact that the plane looks to be nose in the river from the outside, on the inside, it seems to be more architecturally level. There’s a slight incline moving towards the back of the plane, but it is not as steep as it would seem looking from the outside. You are suddenly there with me. There are few people inside, and they seem to be preoccupied with other things. For all that this plane is supposed to be a night club, it sure looks like a plane to me. You take my hand and pull me down the aisle to the back. When we reach there, you pull me into your arms.

“People will see,” I say, blushing.

You say nothing, but reach behind me and pull the curtain shut.

Well, that takes care of that, then.

Next, I am outside a building. It is massive. It takes up nearly an entire block, and there are lots of stone steps leading up to the doors. Art Institute maybe? A Carnegie library? Some huge public space. I vaguely remember columns off to one side. A girl I know is sitting on the steps reading. Then I see a man. I run after him as he walks up the steps and then vanishes poof! right as he gets to the door.

“Damn,” I say to the girl sitting on the steps. She just shakes her head at me. “I keep forgetting he is a priest.”

What? Where did that come from? Is this a temple of some sort?

I am in the apartment I used to live in when I was in college. But my dog from now is with me. I am sitting on the sofa trying to watch tv and I hear a noise at the door behind me. The dog is suddenly alert, springing to attention.

It sounds like click, click, click. I think at first someone is trying to break into the door.But the door remains solid. It’s rather off to the side of the door rather than right at the door.

Click, click, click.

The dog sits back down, staring at the door, but her ears are back. It’s a weird and creepy sound, but I don’t know what it is, and for some reason, I’m not inclined to investigate.

Then I stand up. I walk through the wall of the apartment behind the television and walk into my parents’ front yard. It is in the now, and the house across the street, the one where the guy got sick and the family couldn’t pay the mortgage, has a light on. It’s been abandoned for over a year now; who the hell is in there?

I go into my parents’ house. My mom is young again, and she is sitting in the living room, having a cigarette.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “The cops are across the street.”

“What the fuck?” I say. I look back through the window. I don’t see any police cars.

“They’re using the house for a stakeout. Looking for the guy.”

“What guy?” I’m still peeking through the curtains, looking at the slivers of light flitering through the curtains across the street.

“The one that escaped.”

“From the prison?”

She never answers me. I just get a shiver down the spine. There’s something scary about this guy. I wonder if that is the click, click, click sound I was hearing in my apartment. Is this just some criminal on the loose? Or is this something targeting me? I find it odd the cops would pick the house across from my parents’. Am I bait? Or, rather than a scary on the physical plane, is this a supernatural scary? Have the dark nasties come back? Maybe something to do with that crazy woman who was threatening to kill me?

Or am I just being my usual paranoid self?

I wake up.

I go downstairs and take the dog out into the backyard. It’s one of the perks of having a privacy fenced yard; I can go out in the morning in my nightie. It’s already warm, and the breeze dances around my bare legs. It’s so nice to not be in five layers of clothes anymore. The dog is not inclined to rush to come in. She is sniffing around the yard in a very determined manner. Probably the neighbor’s cat jumped the fence again. The dog usually isn’t this obsessed with the squirrels and chipmunks. Just the cat.

It’s a routine morning when I come in. Put the coffee on. Weigh myself (Depressing. The weight loss I maintained all through the winter is now creeping up. How is this so?). I pour myself coffee and sit down in the tv room to watch the news.

And I am overwhelmed with a massive feeling of grief.

I’m curled up in a ball (again), screaming and crying. Something is wrong, something is terribly wrong, someone I have a connection to is in desperate emotional pain. When this happens I can’t sort out the whys. I just have to ride it through and experience it with them.

“Oh God help us,” I wail as I cry and cry.

“What’s wrong? Oh, baby, just tell me. How can I fix this?”

“Someone, please, help us!”

There is just a sense of loss, overwhelming loss, that everything is ruined and there is no hope.

There is always hope. But in the midst of this pain, it’s impossible to see.

And then, as suddenly as it came on, it’s gone. I sit and gasp for a few minutes and then walk, shaky, to the bathroom to get a tissue.

How can I fix things if I don’t know what needs to be fixed?


We are at my house. There are lots of family members there. We decide we are going to go to a theme park; the kids will like that. We are all piling into cars. I go into the garage to get my car and my mom and several other people are already in it. I think Where is room for me?

I tell Mom to give me my keys. She is driving, and despite the fact that it is my car, the steering wheel is on the right. She refuses to give me my keys. I’m frustrated. I just locked the door, and my house keys are on that key chain.

“You can hack into the garage keypad and get in,” she says, still refusing to give me the keys. This makes no sense as we are in the garage and the garage door is already open. How am I supposed to get into the house when all the doors to the house are locked?

I look into the back seat. There are a lot of people crammed into this car. How is that possible? Then I realise that the seat has been taken out and they are strapped in over the shoulders as if they are in a cargo hold on a plane. I notice my uncle is there, which is strange since he is dead, and a little girl with pigtails. I think that she is his daughter, which again does not make sense she is older than I am. She giggles, and he leans towards her and they head butt. I roll my eyes. Next thing you know he’ll be having her play football (he played college ball on scholarship back in the day).

Then, before I can do or say anything, Mom pulls away! I yell at her, but she just keeps going. I am furious. I go to the keypad and close the garage door, and rummage through the drawers in the work bench to find something to jimmy the door.

I manage to get in and find the extra set of keys for my car. I think I can drive my car and catch up with them, but how can I lock up the house without the house keys? Again, this makes no sense since Mom just drove off in my car! Nonetheless, I start packing a lunch to take with me. I pick up a four-pack of Silk almond milk and notice that the label says RED ALMOND MILK. I think that is weird. I’ve never hear of red almonds before. I put the milk cartons aside and reach into the fridge to grab the half gallon. Again, it says RED ALMOND MILK. It’s like it zooms up in close-up specifically so that I will see RED ALMOND MILK.

I put the carton back in the fridge. I am puttering around in the kitchen, when I hear someone open the front screen door. I expect that it is Mom, come back to fetch me, but I don’t hear a key in the lock in  the door. I also don’t hear anyone knock or ring the doorbell.

The dog has run downstairs and she is barking at the door. I walk into the living room and pull aside the drapes to look through the blinds. I see a big RED GARBAGE TRUCK. Since the company that hauls my garbage uses a red truck I don’t think anything about it, but I wonder why they are sitting in front of my house and why they opened my screen door. I feel compelled to look out the window again, and it is still there, and it is STILL RED.

I start to walk to the door to open it to see what is going on. . . .

And I walk into a conference room. I am at a con, fandom, not work. Yet  there are people there from work. I am confused.  I walk into another room, and there is my sweetie in a hideous Seventies-era polyester shirt, A RED SHIRT, WITH STRANGE GEOMETRICAL DESIGNS ON IT, unbuttoned several buttons. He is holding a serving platter of cookies. He looks utterly miserable. Why on earth is he doing this?? I try to make my way over to him, but people get between us. I manage to part the people and . . . .

I walk into a parking lot, get into my car and drive home.

When I get home, home seems to be a country club. There are hundreds of cars parked there, all over the lawn. There must some kind of function. When I go in, there are lots of people in fancy dress eating hors d’oeuvres. This is so not the kind of place my family would be spending time.

I no sooner go in and I realise I left the con too soon. Gareth David-Lloyd was supposed to have a concert tonight!

“Shit!!” I yell. Everyone is looking at me. “I’ve got to go back to Chicago!”

“It’a a four hour drive,” someone yells at me.

“I’ve got two hours. I can make it!” Again, logic does not seem to be working in any of these scenarios.

I run outside and jump into my car. I turn it on, and a screen flashes . It is not my car! And the screen says an unauthorised access has been logged and recorded. Shit! Just what I need, being accused of stealing a car. I jump out of the car and look at it. It is identical to my car–and there is my car right next to it. CCTV will see that they are identical and it was an honest mistake. I jump in my car and speed off, determined to make it back to Chicago.


I am filled with fears. i don’t know where they are coming from. The fears alternate with rage, the two tossing me back and forth to the point that I can’t get centred, can’t get focused.

I decide to skip lunch. I sneak off, lie down on the couch to try to meditate. I try to focus on my breathing; nothing happens. Random thoughts run through my head. I keep starting again, and again, but they keep popping up. Rage about things happening at work. Fears about my relationship. Fears about my health.

I take a deep breath and start again. This time I start to visualise. There we are, bride and bridegroom, arm and arm at the foot of a huge staircase. We slowly walk up them. Twelve steps. I roll my eyes. Seriously? And at the landing, at thirteen, two huge double doors fly open.

It is the woods, at twilight. The air is thick with the smell of vegetation. It is full summer, and hot, and nearly sultry. The trees are close together, the leaf canopy blocking out most of the sun, vines creeping up the trunks and branches.

Suddenly, you zoom off. And so do I. We’re actually making buzzing sounds as we fly, yes, fly around the forest. Yet we are still human. I think of the Star Trek episode where the people’s metabolisms have changed; they are on the Enterprise but no one can see them because they move through time so fast. To them, the crew are in slow motion. Maybe that is what is happening. Maybe we are time walking, moving so fast compared to what is around us.

We buzz away and come back. We dance together in midair for a few seconds, then kiss, then buzz away. This goes on for several cycles, and then suddenly, you stop, as if you drop out of warp drive. You are solid, like a stone column. Still human, but with mass, dense.

I fly over to you. You almost cannot move under the weight of your mass. Your eyes are black and empty. Something else is there. This is not you. My stomach drops. This is how you looked in that lifetime, so many years ago, when we were betrayed by those we trusted and our child ripped away from us.

You open your mouth, and chunks of ice vomit out. Frozen in the chunks are strange, odd things. Twigs, branches, a foetus (!), bugs, rocks. You keep vomiting out these frozen chunks and they fall onto the ground into a pile. Then, suddenly, I sense a presence. I cannot see the presence, but I sense the whoosh of a hand and then fire! The ice catches on fire and vaporizes.

Now you stop spewing ice. Now it is a stream of black tar. I still cannot see the presence, but I somehow know from it that I should say back. As the black tar streams out of you, your mass gets lighter. You start to glow, not full on angel mode, but the density is leaving. The darkness streams and streams out of you and as it does it vaporises. You stop, gasp for breath. Something is still coming out of your mouth, filling it, but it is no longer black. It is like a column of gray smoke. I can see it coming out of your throat from your solar plexus, but it does not go down the length of your channel. I see it coming out the back of your solar plexus.

I stride over and grab the column of smoke as if it is a rope and pull, and pull, and pull. I get it nearly all the way out, but I sense a knot, just behind you, just behind the solar plexus, and I visualize where the knot leads.

There is a demon there.

Suddenly I am not the bride. I scream in rage and fury and I am in that lifetime I saw during my first initiation, with long dark hair and full-on battle armor, a huge sword in my hand. The only difference is, this time, there is a shock of white hair framing my face.

I charge behind you  and scream as I hack through the cord of smoke.

I reach around and pull the rest of the cord out of your mouth and see it vaporise in a column of fire that winks out. You start to fall to your knees as I hear an enraged scream. The demon charges me and, without thinking, I impale it with my sword. It writhes and wails as I pick it up and shake it, hanging there on my sword, and then ram it down on the ground, twisting my sword to rip open its innnards as I fling it away. It screams shrilly one more time and then it vaporises, in a column of fire.

I walk back to you. I am still the warrior woman. You are even lighter than before, almost translucent. There is a drop of black tar that is hanging on your lower lip as you kneel and gasp for air. I want to reach out and wipe it away but I feel the presence say No, don’t touch it. It is unclean.

As I start to come down from the adrenaline rush I feel doubt and remorse. How could I just kill a being? How awful am I? It was a demon, but how do I know there was not a contract? How do I know that was what I was supposed to do?

As I am dithering, the presence materialises. It is Joshua. It has been over a decade since he has come to see me. He is his characteristic, exasperating self.

Don’t be afraid, he says to me. I shake my head. I’m the one with the huge fucking sword here.

“You know what I mean,” he says, out loud as he walks over to me.

I am afraid. I am so afraid of what is coming. I am so afraid that everything will go wrong. I should be happy. I should be excited. All my dreams are finally on the verge of coming true, but I am so so scared it will be short lived, and this will turn out to be like all those other lives, with death and tragedy and destruction.

“Stop this,” he says, as I sink to my knees next to you. “Just, calm down. Breathe.”

I try. I ram my sword into the ground and hold on to it for balance as I take deep breaths. Joshua is reaching out to you. He gently brushes away the drop of black goo from your lip and poof! it disappears. He raises his hand to your cheek and keeps it there.

“Close your eyes,” he tells me, with an amused voice.

I do. I see a huge laguna, surrounded by reefs. I see a tiny little speck in the lower left of the still clear water. A tiny little plink, with a tiny little ripple.

Do you know what this is? I hear him say in my head.

It is all of time. It is contained, I think. Quiet, peaceful. Predictable.

Now, look what happens, I hear him say in my head. He puts his hand on my belly, keeping his other hand on your cheek.

It is as if he is acting as a bridge. The energy surges between us through him, and in the laguna the tiny speck that was us suddenly erupts into a column of water that shoots up a million times higher than what the laguna is wide! The column begins to swirl and eddy, like a cyclone.

Matter and antimatter, I think. Boom!

And as I think Boom! the the cyclone rips apart and becomes a huge tidal wall that shreds the reefs and the water explodes in all directions.

Time cannot hold us, I think, and I hear him chuckle.

“Do you understand why there are those who are upset about you two?” he asks.

I start to hesitate.

“Would I have put you here if you were not supposed to be here?” he asks. “You create freedom, but to create you must destroy. Creator and destroyer. Not one or the other. Both. The two of you. One”

“I will not let anyone hurt him,” I say. “I will not let anyone hurt the people and the beings I love.”

“So be it,” he says. He pats my tummy with his hand as he stands up. “Whatever you must do, I forgive you. You are always and have always been forgiven. Whatever you have done.” And then he disappears.

I crawl over to you. You open your eyes. It is you again. You are looking back at me, not that blackness. We are again bride and bridegroom. You wrap your arms around me.

The forest is transformed. There are still trees, but they are no longer claustrophobically close. The sky, sunshine, we can see. Grass and flowers. We can hear the birdsong. Butterflies sail through the air. Everything dances. Everything is alive.

We are light again. We are light.

That Which Is Buried

I hear a voice right before I wake up. It’s a woman’s voice, and what she’s saying doesn’t register.

“Katie’s died,” she says. “She froze her eggs. She left one for you. Do you want it?”

“Hell yes!” I say, not thinking. Then cognition kicks in. My thoughts are a jumble. Katie’s dead? Huh? How? Why? And why would she leave me an egg? Oh god, what if I can’t carry it? What if there’s something wrong? What if I die?

My fear jolts me awake. I’m actually sweating, my heart pounding. Why would I dream that?

I get to work. Katie is not dead. I see her in the hallway, nod to her. That’s generally what it is between us. We work together, but that’s it. Not friends or anything like that. Why would I dream that? Why would I dream she would even think of me if she did die to leave me something like that?

I forget about it eventually. The world goes on. Craziness at work. Craziness with family. And then my side starts hurting, really bad. It feels like I’ve got another cyst. I’m supposed to go the the gyno in  a couple months. Should I call and go early? Get an ultrasound?

I’m standing in the kitchen, putting something in the microwave. Suddenly, there is flare of energy in my side. It’s clearly energy, like a block blowing loose and pent up chi surging through the now open channel. Disturbing, but it doesn’t hurt. And gradually, over the next few days, the pain goes away. Problem solved.

I get up in the morning and go to the bathroom. I’m half asleep, but even so, I know something is different. The amount of slippage as I wipe. I bring the paper up to my nose. The smell of urine is overcome by sweet, ripe apples. My heart starts pounding. How can this be? I’m not supposed to be able to ovulate? The gyno said so. Yet here it is. I know what my mucous smells like midcycle. I know that smell.

Katie left you an egg.

And then I cry. A miracle has happened, and my sweetie is away, thousand of miles away, and here I am, with a gift I never thought I would have again, and might never have again, and he’s not here. He’s not here. How cruel is all of this, how cruel.

Everything cycles just as it always does. Two weeks go by. My belly swells. My face breaks out. I eat an entire bag of Oreos and half a bag of  potato chips for dinner. My legs swell up. I’m so angry at the least little things I want to rip throats out. Everything cycles just as it always does but I do not bleed. My body resets. The cravings go away. The weight goes down. It’s as if it never happened. It’s as if I imagined it all.

And then, my side twinges again.

I am in the dreamtime. Chris is there, and she and I and a guy are standing at a table. Chris is buying us tickets for something, but I don’t know what. It makes me think about this dream, but it’s Chris. The man starts to hand us tickets, and Chris gets very upset.

“No,” she says. “That won’t do. They need to be covered in rhinestones. Those, ” she says, gesturing at the tickets on the table, “are not good enough for my family.”

The guy and I look at her like she’s crazy. Did she just say rhinestones?

The guy behind the table doesn’t blink an eye. “You mean like this?” he asks, presenting her with a large steel gray ticket bedazzled with hundreds of tiny sparkling little rhinestones.

“Yes,” she says, emphatically. “That is exactly what I want.”

“It will take some time,” the man behind the table says.

“We’ll wait,” Chris says, with a tone of satisfaction. She wanders off to look at the other tables in the room.

Someone else comes up to the table to buy tickets. The guy I am with and I scoot over to the left to give the person room. As I look over to my left, I see a cafe table in the far corner of the room. There is a pole that runs through the middle of the table, from ceiling to floor. Tucked away in the corner, on top of the table, curled up in a little ball, is my dog. She is sitting there with that Well? Stupid humans! look dogs get when they are exasperated with how thick we are.

I am in a house. It is a very grand house, reminiscent of those turn of  the century castle wannabes the robber barons built to show off their wealth. It’s run down, though, and a bit shabby. I seem to be the mistress of the house, and I have a legion of staff hovering around me. As I’m exploring room by room, the staff nervously follows me. They seem like a flock of flighty birds. I realize as I am exploring that there are no doors to the outside. I look out the window. We are on the second floor. Well, there has to be a staircase or an elevator somewhere. I take off again, flock of servants on my tail.

I don’t remember how it happened, but I am on the ground floor, which does not have walls! This entire castle house is built on stilt-like columns. The house is on a busy downtown street. I immediately think Chicago, but there is nothing that I am seeing that would confirm that. I just know, Chicago.

In the real world, I am backing down my driveway to go to work. There is a good six inches of new snow on the driveway, on top of what was already there, and I can’t see the ditch on either side of the driveway.

As I back onto the road, I stop. There, on the side of the road, is a dog. I immediately think it is my dog, but then realize that her ears are floppier and her coloration is different. I feel an immediate connection to this dog, but then I remember this dream.

I hesitate, and sit there in the car watching the dog. She is taking a shit in the yard, and she is straining. She has the runs. Poor baby. I should pick her up and take her to the vet. I crane my neck to see if she has a collar and tags. She doesn’t. She’s a stray–or not. It looks like she has recently been clipper cut. So not a stray. The couple who used to live here used to have a little dog. Maybe she ran away and came home. I should pick her up and call them. I’ve got my dog’s crate out in the shed, I can bring it in and put her in the laundry room.

No, the dream. She is not your dog. She is someone else’s dog. But I feel such an immediate heart connection to this dog.

As I sit there, dithering about what to do, the dog decides for me. She looks up at me one more time, darts behind my car, and then takes off at lightning speed across the neighbor’s yard, back into the woods toward the lake. She seems to know what she is doing and exactly where to run. So maybe she lives with one of the families back by the lake.

As I drive to work, I think about the dream with the dog. Enough things have come true that I’ve seen in dreams that I accept that it happens, but it happens with such irregularity that I’m always a bit stunned when it happens.

The dog was only the first part of the dream. What could the rest mean?

And as I try to make a connection, I think back to the old woman with the keys and suddenly I see one.

Hekate has keys.

Katie. Hekate. I know, it’s supposed to be pronounced HEK it, but around here folks would pronounce it heh KAY tee.

Hekate offered me an egg. And then nothing came of it. A dog that is not my dog, and a vision of my mom and the little girl and my dog.

And then six keys.

I Google. The only thing I find about six keys is The Six Keys of Eudoxus, which seems to be some kind of alchemical text. I am not into alchemy. It makes no sense. But broadly it’s about transformation, keys to transformation.

Hekate gave me an egg.

Hekate gave me six keys.

Hekate told me I would know what to do with the keys on the twenty-fifth.


Obviously the dog thing happened to let me know that I should be thinking about this dream. But I still have no idea.

Something is going to happen in a doorway(portal) that has to do with keys to transformation on the twenty-fifth.

Hekate is a triple goddess. She is maiden, mother, and crone.

Hekate stands at the crossroads.

She is nighttime. She is magic.

Hekate helped Demeter find Persephone.

Purification.Expiation. Stygian dogs.

A protector. A bestower of blessings.

In a dream I am in the woods. It is winter, the trees are barren. These are old trees, high and wide and rocketing into the sky. This is an old forest. There is snow everywhere. It is bleak and freezing.

I see a man in the distance. It looks like Gareth David-Lloyd in a lab coat. Dr. Bob, maybe, from Casimir Effect? But before I have a chance to try to call to him, he disappears.

I am surrounded by a blizzard of snowflakes. The snow is falling so fast and so hard, that I can’t see, and the wind is whipping it into a cyclone that is swirling around me. I am at the eye of the storm.

Through the raging of the wind, I hear the flapping of wings. I try to open my eyes, shielding them from the wind and snow with my hands. I hear the flutter of wings draw close, but can’t see anything. Then, suddenly, a bird swoops down and then right up into my face so that I can’t miss it. I am startled, but stand my ground. It is a snowy white owl, a small one, and it hovers right in front of my face. Its eyes meet mine and I can’t look away. I am filled with awe but also dread. The bird is beautiful, pure white and almost shimmering. Yet there is also the savagery of the predator in its eyes. It will not let me look away. I don’t understand what it is trying to tell me. Then, I wake up.

Is this Hekate again? A bringer of wisdom? (the doorway, again? Knowledge of the future? A message from Higher Self?)

Or a harbinger of death? (am I going to die? Is someone else going to die? There’s that fear, those damn past lives, coming up again?)

Guinnevere? (me as Guinnevere? That’s too absurd for words.)

For the last few nights, nothing. So exhausted, I can’t even connect to the reiki. I can’t even connect to my sweetie. I’m out as soon as I hit the pillow.

I’m sorting through links. I click through a few, and I see a reference to someone I used to work with. I keep clicking through, and then, I find an obit. It’s an old obit. It’s been a couple of years. But I don’t keep in touch with the people in that office, so it’s not unusual I wouldn’t have seen it before now.

There’s only been one time in my life that I have had someone who hated me so unreasonably and so deeply that they made it their mission in life to torment me at every opportunity. I have no idea what I ever did to make this person hate me. Jealousy, maybe? Insecurity? The fact I didn’t kiss her ass like everyone else? That I wasn’t afraid of her like everyone else? Who knows? I treated her the way I treat everyone–that we are all equal and all responsible for our actions.

Anyway, she hated me. I was desperately ill at one point, to the point of being on the verge of dying, and she went after me even harder. You know, the kind of person who, when sensing vulnerability, goes in for the kill. So in addition to fighting for my life, I had to fight her, and all her little minions who blindly followed her and did whatever she told them to do.

Sounds more like high school than a workplace, doesn’t it?

Obviously, I left, which is what she wanted. Some battles just aren’t worth fighting. But I hated her for the way she treated me. She drove others away too, just as vicious and hateful to them as she was to me. There was a flood of people who left. Yet she was still there.

But not now. She’s dead. And I don’t feel bad. I should feel bad that I don’t feel bad. But I don’t. I never went after her. I never engaged in the same nasty tactics she used against me.  I could have. But I didn’t.  I never went after her on the astral. I just walked away. I disengaged. It’s been years, and I never think of her anymore. But here’s her obit, and I recall everything she did to me, and there is no emotion there.

I can’t lie and say Oh, too bad. What sad news. I’m not dancing on her grave. But I have to be honest and say a part of me is glad she is gone. And I can’t even say that it’s altruistic, that she’s now not going to be hurting anyone else.

I refuse to feel guilt. I have a right to my feelings. She abused me. And I have a right to acknowledge how deeply she hurt me at a very desperate time in my life. So if that makes me a bad person, or a rotten reiki person, or a disappointing new ager, so be it. We are all dark and light, even me, and there is only so long I can bury the dark before it festers and poisons me. Better to let it out, acknowledge it, and then walk away, clean and healed.

Her name was Kate.

The Homestead

I was hoping for a dream that would help me sort things out last night. This is what I got. Things are just as murky as before.

I’m sitting in a car along a side street. There is a meeting at work going on, but I’m not there. Am I playing hooky? Am I being excluded? I don’t know, but I’m very upset, and very nervous. I see a nun come out of the building; I recognize her. It’s one of the sisters from school, but she left the sisterhood years ago, and in the dream she is still in her habit. Then, my mom comes out of the building. They stop and talk for a little while on the street corner, then Mom walks over to get in the car with me. I’m mortified for some reason; why was she talking to the nun? Am I in trouble? It’s like I’m a little kid again.

Then I guess we drive out to the homestead. No one is home, but the back door is unlocked like it always is, so we walk through the yard to get to the back porch. Someone has decimated the trees in the yard; those gorgeous 100+ year old trees have been shorn of their limbs. It looks like someone cut them off with a chain saw, then cut them into smaller pieces, maybe for firewood, and then for some odd reason, shaved off the ends of each so that they ended in a point. What is going on? Did my cousin do this? And why is he not here?

We go inside, and sit down in the living room to wait for him. Of course, the dog has to go potty, so I take her outside. The porch is completely empty: no chairs, no boxes, no cats (there are always cats. lots and lots of cats). It’s damn eerie. I let the leash out so that the dog can go down the steps into the yard. After she’s done her business, she comes back up to me and I decide to walk all the way down the porch.

It’s a long back porch. It runs all the way down the back of the house and past the add-on where the storage and stairs to the basement are. It’s at least twice the length of my house, and it ends right before the barnyard. I notice that there are now windows along the entire length of the porch once you get past the kitchen door, and that a new door has been added. You can see in the windows and I am dumbfounded to see that instead of the bathroom and storage room, which is what should be there, there are chi-chi shops. There is a mall in our homestead. I think, “It has to have something to do with all those Scandinavian students who have been coming over.”

Then I wake up.

I ask for a dream to give me clarity, and this is what I get. It doesn’t even seem related to what I asked. So what the hell does it mean?

Scary People Wandering About, Screaming Murder

More surreal dreams, dutifully logged for your amusement.

I am back in the studio I lived in in college. There is a crazy old lady who is screaming that she is going to kill me. She is wandering around the front parking lot of the apartment building, screaming and trash-talking me. I am across the street, by the river, hiding in the bushes. Eventually she walks around to the back of the building, still screaming that she is going to kill me. The door to my apartment opens,  and out pops Nan. She motions to me to come, and I run like crazy across the road and up the stairwell.

Once I’m inside, she tells me to keep down. She also tells me the woman’s name, but I don’t remember it now. The woman is walking back and forth in the back lot, screaming that she is going to kill me. I peek out the window; it’s not the back lot to the unit but now the back yard to our house. I’m furious. How is the crazy woman in my yard?

Nan tells me to keep down. I crouch down and move to the left of the window. Then there is a knock at the door. Nan motions to me to get out of the line of sight, and I scurry behind the recliner. It’s in an alcove, and once I am behind it, as long as stay crouched down, no one can see me.

There is a young guy at the door. I guess he is with the police, because Nan tells me to come out. This guy is going to escort me somewhere where I’ll be safe.

Next thing I know, I’m in some kind of auditorium. There are a lot of people there; I get the sense that they are all refugees. Then my aunt comes out of the front and starts circulating. I don’t know what she is doing; at first she is acting like a preacher giving a sermon and then she switches to a performer schmoozing up the audience. At the front of the room, the guy who came and got me at the apartment pokes his head out the door and motions for me to come with him. I go up to him at the front. There are several other guys there, and when I follow them into the next room, the tell me they’ve got Skype set up so that I can talk to my sweetie. Ironically, I suppose, when Skype comes on, there is River Song sitting there. I keep asking where my sweetie is, and they tell me that he’s going to be there really soon. I tell them they better turn the web cam on because they’ve forgotten to switch it on. Then Sweetie pops into the picture and I don’t remember what we talk about.

Next, I am grocery shopping. I am looking at some of the weirdest tomatoes I’ve ever seen. They look more like blooming onions, but they are tomatoes. Some guy comes up to talk to me; I am suspicious. Is it just some guy hitting on me, or is he with the crazy woman who wants to kill me? I can’t seem to shake him. I try to get the eye of the security guard who is standing by the door, but he seems oblivious, so I fake interest in the guy and start pushing my cart toward a wall. It’s not a wall, though, it’s a portal, and somehow I seem to know that. I start to push my cart through the wall, and the guy next to me does too, and he goes all the way through the wall. I pull back at the last minute though, just as the wall starts to solidify. Creepy guy ditched.

Now I’m done buying groceries and I’ve loaded them into my car. I’m taking my empty cart back to the store, and suddenly out of nowhere a young woman comes out of nowhere. She looks kind of Italian, but I know her name, and it’s not Italian. I do know she is working with the crazy woman. She is very smug. She tells me that I’m trapped, and there is nothing I can do, and she is going to kill me for the crazy woman. I scream “Police!” Police” and people start to look. She seems startled. I guess she thought I’d be so terrified that I’d just stand there and let her kill me. I take the chance and run into the parking lot screaming “Police! Police!”

I notice that the Skype set up is somehow now affixed to a telephone pole in the middle of the grocery store parking lot. I run over to it. The feed is still open, and I know I need to get Sweetie’s attention, and the attention of the people in the lot. As long as there are people around, I’m safe until the police arrive. So I start singing a love song at the top of my lungs. I’m making this song up as I’m going along, and it’s awful, and I can’t carry a tune, but I’m loud, and people are congregating around me. Once I’ve been through the song once, I start it again, and then my sweetie appears on Skype and joins me. Now it’s actually starting to sound better; somehow he just knows how to balance out what I’m doing so that it’s in harmony. More and more people come over to listen; it’s actually sounding quite good. The creepy girl starts to back off into the shadows.

And then I wake up

Post-Christmas, WTH Dreams

It’s been a very long time since I’ve had any of my weird dreams, let alone any dreams. I’ve been so overwhelmed with family responsibilities, I’ve been lucky if I could get five or six hours straight of sleep, and that’s not enough for me to go deep enough to actually be able to have that connection with the dream world.

The insomnia has been so bad that even Rescue Remedy has stopped working, and I’ve actually had to start taking magnesium at night to even get to sleep. I took some last night, turned off the alarm, and actually got nine hours straight. The reward–a series of dream scenes that make no sense whatsoever. But since those incomprehensible dreams invariably, in retrospect, turn up to have meaning, I record them here, just in case.

It starts off that I am in a foreign country. Everyone is speaking English, but they sound American, so I’m assuming it’s Canada, but there aren’t any overt signs that would signal “This is Toronto,” or “This is Vancouver.” I am coming up from a subway, walking up stairs to a city street outside a mall. I am not alone. I’m with a couple who has two pre-teen kids, a boy and a girl. We seem to know each other, but I have no idea who they are–I’ve never seen them before in real life or in the dream time. They insist that I go to see a movie with them; the kids are especially insistent, and they each take one of my hands and drag me down the street toward the theater. When I get there, the guy has bought tickets for all of us already, and he hands me mine. It says “The Architect” and it has Benedict Cumberbatch’s name under it.  In the dream, I think I don’t remember Cumberbatch doing a movie with this title. This has to be important. But what part? Is it the “architect” part that’s important? Or is Cumberbatch supposed to stand for something?

Then I’m at my parents’ house, but I’m still my age. Nevertheless, I somehow know that there is supposed to be a party and kids I went to college with are supposed to be coming. I’ve just gotten home from the movie, and as I’m taking off my coat, the ticket from the movie falls out of my pocket. My mom picks it up and says, “Why did you buy five tickets to the same movie? How stupid is that?”

I take the ticket from her hand and look at it. Instead of the individual ticket that the guy handed me at the theater, this looks more like a lottery ticket, with the five different code numbers for the five different movie tickets printed on a long, receipt-like paper. “I didn’t buy five tickets, ” I tell her. “I went to the movie with some people and they bought my ticket for me.”

Mom is still prying and asking questions, and I really don’t want to answer, mostly because I don’t know the answers. I don’t know who these people were or why I would go to the theater with them or even what the Cumberbatch movie was about even though I supposedly at this point have watched it. I take the ticket from my mom and turn to go to my bedroom to put it in my journal when I hear a car pull up outside. Some of the guests have arrived early, and I’m not ready.

I stuff the ticket in my pocket and let the people in. In the dream I know them, but they don’t look like any of the people I went to college with. We’re stiff and formal with each other; it feels more like a work function than a “hey let’s all get drunk and party” kind of thing which, when you get down to it, was pretty much my college experience. I tell them I’m still getting ready rather than point out that they are way early and tell them to have a seat while I go to the kitchen and get them something to drink.

The house is a mess, and I am kicking myself for not having cleaned it, and then I get mad. It’s my parents’ house, and in the dream they are still young, and there’s no reason why they can’t take care of themselves and clean up their own house. Why am I stuck cleaning up their messes for them? I’m angry. There are dirty dishes everywhere, and just as I think I see rat droppings on the counter (rat droppings! For Christ’s sake!), there are more people. I try to clean up the worst of the mess, take the drinks into the living room where everyone is (and where my parents are just sitting there, laughing, and not doing a damn thing to help). I say I am going to my room to freshen up.

When I get there, however, there is a guy there. He is dressed like he is in an 80s hair band. He is in white and red striped spandex, with the midriff cut out, and he has bleached his hair white blond. Despite the fact that it is really long, he has somehow, undoubtedly with AquaNet, managed to get his hair to stand straight up with the help of a white athletic sweat band (a subconscious pun? a literal “hair band”?). He looks like a very skinny version of one of those  Troll dolls that were so popular back in the day (except that he has a normal  human, un-troll-like, face). I am frustrated; I feel really icky after having seen the rat poop, and I am so tired, and I have to go back in the living room and put on my happy and sociable face and pretend that I want to be at a party. I just want to change. Hell, I just want to sleep. I’m so exhausted, I want to cry. The guy refuses to leave, and then the door opens and several girls rush in and see him and squee and throw themselves on him. He’s ignoring them and just staring at me. I don’t understand why he is dressed like that, why he isn’t speaking to me or what he wants me to do. I’m so tired my mind just won’t work.

And then I wake up.

The family part is obvious. I’ve been feeling really put-upon and down on myself lately. Ever since I was a child, I’ve always felt that the dynamic was reversed–I was supposed to take care of my parents, not the other way around. And while I have had periods of my life when I could pursue some of my dreams, I never have been able to do what I really wanted to do. Everything has always been conditional, always been based on the fact that if something blows up with my parents I would have to rush home and clean up the mess–like I am now. Quite frankly, I’m tired of it. I know on an energetic level part of my mission in this life has been to deal with their “generational curses,” as the Christians would say, but I’m at the point that I’m just tired and worn out and if it’s too much to expect any help, a little appreciation would be nice.

The couple, the Cumberbatch movie, big-hair guy–I have no idea yet what those are about. If I figure any of it out, I’ll let you know.


I am in the bathroom upstairs washing my hands. I am still bemused at how fussy and feminine it is, with its powder blue walls and white and blue floral tile. The fixtures are so turn-of-the-century, scrolls and flutes, yet slightly skewed in the way that makes this house so oddly endearing. I look at the lights, precisely placed at exactly the right height to illuminate the mirror.

Who on earth would put sconces upside down? I muse. Was it to make it easier to replace the bulbs? But at that height, you wouldn’t even need to get a step stool to reach into them.

I realize I have been staring at the fixtures. How long have I been here? There is something about this house that you just slide into another world. The veil is thin here. There is dust in the grooves of the fluted glass. I see the motes shimmer and dance in the bright artificial light. Everything comes into tight focus, hyperreal. And then, everything dissolves into a dance of bright shimmering energy.

It is nearly midnight. I am out in the backyard with the dog. As she sniffs to find a place to pee, I look up into the sky. The moon has floated above the garage, its edge blurring into the dark. I look up, and catch my breath. The sky is filled with stars, twinkling sharply. I was not expecting that after the blurry moon.

Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight,

I’m still not used to living in the country, without streetlights and cars and neighbors’ televisions illuminating windows. It’s pitch dark, except for the pale yellow arc of light from the porch light. I hear the bubbler in the pond, hear the rustle of the dead leaves brushing against the back of the garden fence. I look back up, transfixed at the sharp contrast between the cold blue light of the stars and the warm blue velvet of the midnight sky.

I wish I may I wish I might

You’re looking up at these stars too. I can feel your gaze on them, almost as if I am looking at them through your eyes. Even when we are apart this we share: the secret of the night sky, looking up through the bare branches of the tree, reaching out, connecting.

Have the wish I wish tonight

The nursery rhyme runs through my head, automatically, just as it has since I was a little girl. What is my wish? What is my only wish, every night we are apart?

Bring him home, safe to me.

It is the twilight between waking and sleeping. Something is telling me, this is important; you must remember.

I stretch out my hand. I see yours, coming into focus, coming towards mine. You grasp my hand in yours, and as we touch, the chakras in the palm of our hands ignite and suddenly, a column of swirling bluish-white light erupts, shooting vertically toward both heaven and earth.

And then, a voice pronounces, Two hands, joined together, will open the portal of time and space. We are pleased. We always knew it, deep inside, but now, it has been said. It has been called into being.

And I wake, with more peace than I have had in many, many weeks.

Pisces Full Moon Dreams

I see myself looking down at what I think at first is an auditorium in a very old building. As I focus in, however, I see that there are wooden pews and I realize this is a church.

We’ve been in a church before, in the dreamtime.

I realize you are there with me, and, suddenly, we are no longer in the balcony but standing off to the side, by the altar. I realize we are waiting on the minister. I realize we are getting married.

Not the sacred marriage. That has already been consummated. I am, have been, and always will be your partner, in life, and love, and magic. No, this is the marriage sanctioned by man. The marriage of quotidian life, the crying babies, and taxes, and bills, shrill alarm clocks, and carpools, and birthday parties and mowing the lawn, and mornings started with your hand in mine.

I turn to you. “Are you sure you want to do this?” And I realize, at that moment, that for the first time, I am absolutely sure that I want this. But, at the same time, as I’ve become more and more comfortable with the thought of making a commitment, I’ve become less certain that this is what you want. I thought it was. I thought I was the one with cold feet. But over the last year, things you’ve said, things you’ve done, well, doubt has started to creep in. Do you still love me? Do you still want a life with me? You’re here, with me, at the altar, so you must, but still, that little voice of fear is there.

Or maybe, it’s just that I still can’t believe you could love me, that anyone could love me.

Can you? Do you?

The scene shifts. I am walking down the road in front of the house and my dog runs up to me. What is she doing outside off the leash? I pick her up and walk up to the front door. As I go inside, there is a man there. In the dream I know him, but in reality I have no idea who he is. He tells me it’s not my dog.

“What do you mean it’s not my dog?” It looks just like her!

He gestures toward her tags. I look at them. My heart sinks. It’s not my dog’s tags.

“You have to call her family,” he says. “She is lost.”

I know he’s right. I look up and see my mom, and a little girl, and my dog come out of the living room. Yes, there is my dog. But this dog is so like her, and has already won over my heart. But I know the man is right. I hand him to her and ask him to call. I just can’t do it myself.

I go into the living room where Mom was. There is an elderly woman there. She is dressed in a funky old sixties dress and her hair up in a beehive. She is someone important, and I know what she is telling us is important, but I don’t know who she is and I don’t remember what she was saying. I am trying to be polite, but I want to go upstairs. I have things to do.

The woman gets up to leave. I walk her to the door. She stops there and reaches into an old clutch purse and pulls out a key ring. The fob on the ring consists of several pieces of very old wood, splintering and rotting. Attached to the metal ring are six keys. They are made out of soft translucent plastic. Three are straight type keys; three are the traditional type keys. They are very, very tiny compared to the ring and the fobs. They are tiny like diary keys, or to jewelry boxes, or to music boxes. I can’t imagine what they would be to. And they are so soft—they’d just bend back on themselves if you put them in a lock.

The woman gives the keys to me. I realize that, even though I’ve been doing this out of politeness, the whole point of this visit has been this moment. And I still don’t know what she is doing or what I am supposed to be doing.

“The twenty-fifth,” she says, as she closes my hand around the keys. “Hold on to them until the twenty-fifth. That’s when you’ll need them.”

Need them for what? I think. But before I can say anything else, she opens the door and crosses the threshold into the yard.

I stand there, gawking after her for a long time, trying to make my fuzzy brain work. What are the keys to? What is so special about the twenty-fifth? Why are there six of them? Why are they made out of this weird milky plastic?

I start to wake up. I am lying on the sectional in the tv room. It is dark outside. I can’t see the patio through the doors. The overhead light is on, dim, and I realize I’ve fallen asleep watching Grimm. They are trying to trap a wesen made out of molten rock.

I have a strange feeling of deja vu. I’ve been having a lot of them, since we moved into the house, especially at night time. I roll over onto my back. I see you there, in the hallway by the kitchen door, your arms crossed against your chest, leaning against the wall. You’ve lost so much weight your tee shirt hangs loose around your middle. The light in the kitchen is still on and it shines brightly behind you. You are looking at me bemused and, it seems, amused. The corner of your mouth turns up into that little smile of yours, the genuine one that sparks your eyes. I can feel your warmth, even from across the room.

This has happened before, I think. And you smile.

You turn off the lights. As my eyes start to adjust to the night, I can see something glistening outside the patio doors. As I focus in, I realize it is the full moon, floating between the branches of the trees in the back yard.

And then, off in the distance, in one rumble after another, fireworks.

Forever Young

I’m nearly asleep when I hear your voice calling my name.

I start to focus in on the sound of your voice, let it draw me to you.

I see us, old and bent, with scraggly white hair, scuffling along with our walkers. We sit down together on a bench to get our breath.

At least we get to grow old together, I think. This makes me happy, but also makes me sad. If only we had met earlier. If only we had known each other when we were young. If only you had met me when the bloom of youth was still upon me.

You turn and look into my eyes. “It’s all an illusion,” you say to me, having heard my thoughts in your head. “It’s all a dream.”

I try to imagine what it would have been like if we had met earlier. I see my life rewind in my mind’s eye, images of myself at different points in my life. Different hair, different body structures, different demeanors and personalities. Have I really been all those different people all in one life?

The images stop. I see myself, in a photo from high school. It was taken in the library when I was working on the school newspaper. The photographer that year liked me. He took lots of pictures of me. He was going for the “action news” vibe, shooting up at me from an angle. I was already at an angle, sitting on the table and leaning across to scrawl an edit on a sheet of copy. It was the year after I had lost so much weight, borderline anorexic, but always seeing myself as fat. Yet, in reality, I was so frail, reed-like, my shy eyes downward turned as they so often were then, the rounded planes of my cheeks made angular from the direction of the shot. I feel tears well up in my eyes as I look at that image, shimmering in front of me. I had so much hope. My entire life of possibilities in front of me. Where did that hope go?

Suddenly, I am in that body, seventeen year old me, but adult me still. And there you are, you, at seventeen, and I shake my head. What if seventeen year old you had met seventeen year old me? How would things be different?

You wrap your arms around me. You are so skinny too. We look so much alike.

“This can be us,” you tell me, rocking me gently back and forth. “We can be whoever we want to be, whenever we want to be. It’s all an illusion. We make it all. We can change it.”

I let myself sink into the safety of your arms. I’m comforted a bit. I know on an intellectual level the world is just an illusion, light frozen at a moment in time, caught by a thought, a fear, a memory. But how to believe in it? And how to take that belief to manifestation?


I was standing at the top of the stairs. The overhead light was not on, but the chandelier in the dining room at the foot of the stairs was on dimmer, just light enough that I could see the steps. It was early morning, before sunrise. I walked down the stairs and into the foyer.

When I opened the door, it was not our yard on the cul-de-sac. It was an urban street, like New York or Chicago, and there were children milling around with a couple of adults standing by. From snippets of conversation, I gathered they were going on a field trip and were waiting on their bus.

One boy broke from the pack. He was wearing a red baseball cap backwards. He walked over to a mailbox to drop in a letter. It was not a mail drop-box, though; it was a single post box. He opened the front of the box and slipped in a letter. Then, after he closed the box, he put up the flag on the side. I find this odd. I’ve never seen rural mailboxes in a city before.

Just as he raised the flag, a bus pulls up, not a school bus, but a city bus. In all the hub-bub, no one notices as he casually looks over his shoulder at the other children and gets onto the bus.

I think I should call attention to this. Does he realize he’s on the bus? Why aren’t the chaperones paying attention? But, as I watch the boy walk to take his seat on the bus, him walking down the aisle with an air of studied nonchalance, I realize that he is doing this on purpose. He is running away.

As the bus drives off, I know I should say something. But something else, something I can’t quite put my finger on, keeps me from telling. The boy is supposed to run. I don’t know how I know this; I don’t know why he should. I just know he should. So I simply stand there, watching, and wondering what is in that letter in the box.

And then I wake up.

Under the Surface

Monday Morning:

There is the veil again, floating and whipping in the wind, but instead of being a pure white against a blue sky, this veil is filthy and covered with grime.

When it flickers in the wind, I can get a glimpse of white, but it takes several minutes before the veil is pulled away sufficiently that I can see that it is a white mantelpiece in the Colonial style.  There is no fire in the hearth. It is pure white, but cold.

To the right of the mantelpiece, there is what I think at first is a picture, but realize it is really a mirror. In the mirror, black smoke seems to roil and move. I’m a bit put off by it—what the hell is going on? Is it a reflection of what is in the room? Is that why the veil is so filthy? Or is it a portal, into somewhere else, somewhere dark and angry and scary?

Tuesday Morning:

I’m on a trip somewhere. It seems to be a small town. I somehow know things that are going on in this town despite the fact that I am not from there.

There is a family with three children. The parents are uber-conservative Christian, and I mean Carrie’s mom over-the-top batshit crazy controlling Christian. The oldest two, a girl and a boy, have done something that their parents do not approve of, and the parents have used their friendship with the local sheriff to get the kids arrested despite the fact that the kids have not broken any law.  There is some kind of local festival going on, and the cops come in and cart the kids away.  The youngest kid, a boy, is terrified out of his mind that he’s done something his parents don’t approve of and that he will be carted away by the police. I get the impression that the boy doesn’t specifically think he’s done something wrong, but he can’t tell whether he has or not because his parents are so unpredictable, and, well, batshit.  I think that the kid is doing the right thing by being quiet and trying not to draw attention to himself, hunkering down on a bench in front of me and to the left, his arms hanging over the bench in front of him. I think maybe he’ll be able to get away from his crazy family that way. He turns around to look over his shoulder, and his eyes briefly meet mine; he is desperate and scared. Then the cops come for him. The boy is petrified. They are not taking him to jail; they are taking him to an institution to be re-programmed.  I am disgusted; the boy is not the cult; this town is the cult.

Just then the emcee of the festival points me out and says that they should all be appreciative of how much effort the “stranger” (i.e. me) has made to fit in.  I feel like I’m going to be sick. This is an attempt to intimidate me.  Don’t stand out. Don’t say anything. Don’t do anything we don’t approve of. As soon as their attention turns to something else, I leave. I want no part of this.

I start walking, and it seems to shift from a rural area to a city. I think it’s downtown Chicago, but I don’t remember seeing any specific landmarks that would signal that it’s Chicago; it just feels energetically like Chicago.  I go inside a hotel and walk into a room; there are a lot of round tables. I find one and sit down to compose myself.  I am still creeped out over what happened in the first part of the dream; it makes me think about the Shirley Jackson story “The Lottery.”  I am sitting there trying to figure out what the hell was going on in that place when, out of nowhere, Gareth Lloyd walks up to my table.

“Do you still want to talk?” he asks me.

I don’t get the “still” part, but I say ok anyway.  I think he’ll sit down because there are a couple of empty chairs there at the table, but instead he stands across the table from me and starts talking really fast.

I don’t remember word-for-word what he said but it was something about how he was going to be stuck in his room waiting for calls from his management. That doesn’t make sense to me; doesn’t he have a cell phone like everyone else? Who’s stuck in a room waiting on a phone call anymore? Then he starts talking about different people, which I can’t follow because I don’t know them, then he gets upset and says he’s going to have to wait for “his man in Japan,” and this guy really annoys him because he keeps telling him what to do and how to dress.

I think to myself that if someone tried to tell me what to do and how to dress, I would probably tell that person to fuck off, but I don’t say anything, and then suddenly Gareth seems to realize that I am there because all of this has been him talking without me having a chance to say anything or introduce a topic of my own.

He out of the blue asks, “Is this your first con?” and I think, Oh, I must be at a convention. And I say “No, I’ve been to several,” and then before I can continue, he takes over the conversation again.

“There’s always stuff to do on Saturday nights.” And then he launches into a laundry list of all the activities that are scheduled for that night. I sit there and nod and he keeps going. Then he starts talking about “cos players who dress up for a competition,” and I think aha, the Masquerade. This must be Tardis, even though it’s in a different hotel and downtown. And again I try to jump into the conversation and he cuts me off and says “It’s 9:00,” and I say “Ok, 9:00.” It’s not really 9:00—it’s more like late morning–so I take it that the Masquerade is at 9:00. He keeps repeating again and again “9:00; 9:00” and I say, “Yeah, okay, I’ll try to check it out.” He says, almost angrily, “It’s 9:00,” and I repeat back to him, “Yes, 9:00. 9:00.”

Then, he turns around and walks away from me, not even attempting to have any kind of close to the conversation (pretty much what happened the last time I spoke with him at a con).  I sit there, mystified, trying to figure out what just happened.  Nothing seems to be making much sense anywhere. I get that feeling that there’s someone staring at me, and I turn around, and there are a couple of groupies there who are glaring at me and I think, For God’s sake, he started the conversation. Am I not allowed to even speak to a person without people getting hateful with me even if the person initiates the conversation? Sometimes I feel like there are people who resent the fact that I even exist! Everything I do seems to piss someone off. I am not in the mood to deal with bitchy girls, so I just get up and leave and go into my room.

I am trying to find my badge for the con. How I was at the con without my badge, I don’t know, but I am now frantic trying to find it because I took it off in the bathroom and now it’s not there.  I am tearing up the hotel room trying to find the badge.

It’s made more difficult because I have already packed even though it’s Saturday and I’m not leaving until Monday, and from the amount of luggage, I seem to have packed for a three-year stay. I open my backpack and out springs a duvet—how the hell did I get a duvet in my backpack?

I am really upset and frustrated at this point and decide I need to take a break and go for a walk. I go outside my room and it opens into a courtyard. It’s kind of like a mall from the town where I went to college where the mall is built as a open square around a courtyard and there are cafes that open onto the courtyard as well as some store fronts. I walk around and people are staring at me; for fuck’s sake, why is everyone staring at me?  Is there something on my face?  Do I look like a freak? I’m feeling really uncomfortable again, so I go back in my room and start methodically unpacking every single suitcase and trunk in the room trying to find my badge.

Tuesday Night

I am in a car at a mall with my cousin and another guy. There is a lot of commotion; my cousin and the guy are arguing over whether she should go into an office that is in the mall. I never do get straight what the office is or why there is an office in a shopping mall. As we are sitting in the car, I see tornados coming out of the northwest, which is an odd direction for us to get tornados. It is also odd because it seems to be winter; there is ice and snow in the parking lot.

Now it’s not about whether she should go to the office or not but rather are we going to manage to get into the mall in time. I seem to be driving and I am looping around the lot trying to get near an entrance. Everyone else has seen the tornado too and they are driving willy-nilly everywhere in a panic; it’s complete chaos.

I don’t remember parking the car or getting inside, but once I do, I’m in the office my cousin and her friend were arguing about. It does not look like a Midwestern office; it looks very LA. I see Jennifer Aniston walking down the hallway and as she passes me, she winks—it is my cousin, who has shapeshifted into Jennifer Aniston. I am furious with her; what is she thinking? There are tornados coming and she’s pursuing this crazy plan of hers? And of all the people to shapeshift into; she’s not good at being inconspicuous.

Then I am at work, and I am arguing with someone in my office. I leave my office and go to my supervisor’s office to file an incident report, but he is not there, so I use the phone to call one of the secretaries. She’s very unhelpful and says there’s nothing she can do. At this point, my supervisor’s secretary comes in and chews me out and tells me to take care of my own problems and keep them to myself. So much for a supportive work environment.

Eclipse Dreams

Wednesday night

Part I:

I am standing alongside a dusty desert highway. I am seeing cars driving by, kicking up dust. These are not contemporary cars—they look like cars from the old 1930s gangster movies. I can see inside one of the cars, as if I am running alongside it, even though I’m not. There is a rough looking guy in the car who is talking into a very banged up, rusty, aluminum clamshell cell phone. I’m puzzled—why the anachronism? And, if there is an anachronism, why an old cell phone rather than a new iPhone or an Android?

As I’m puzzling over the contradiction, I realize I am now hovering over the highway. It reminds me of the old Hot Wheels track my cousins used to have—two tracks that veered up in opposite directions so that the cars could build enough momentum to fly. Instead of funky orange plastic track, however, there are two concrete tracks, with ridges along the side. The cars are running inside the tracks, but on each side, at about the same place (the bottom of the curve), there is a gap and the cars go flying over it. I cringe, as I am afraid the cars will not make it, but they do.

Part II:

I am in an apartment building I used to live in while I was in college. I’m assuming I am still in college in the dream, as my reactions seem to be those of a college age kid. I look outside the window and see the lawn roll down to the river, but it is winter, and everything is covered over with snow. There is a thick layer of ice on the river.

Scattered across the snowy lawn are my workout clothes.

I’m cussing. For some reason, my mom is there (again! Why is she in so many of my dreams recently?). She’s yelling at me about something. I get mad and put on my coat and go outside to get my clothes. I’m still fuming as I pick them up, first my black yoga pants, then a sports bra, then a black hoodie. I notice to my left there are two people in parkas lying on their backs in the snow. Were they going to do snow angels and fell asleep? Are they waiting on me to leave? I decide they are a couple of drunk frat guys and, disgusted, I go back in. Let their brothers find them, the jerks.

By the time I get back upstairs, my mom is at the window. She turns and yells at me again. “Why didn’t you do something?” she yells.

“What do you want me to do?” I ask. “Melt snow and wash my clothes in it?”

“They’re dead,” she says.


“The old people. They’re dead. Why didn’t you call the police?”

I run over to the window. From up here, I can see the faces of the people in the snow. It’s a very, very old couple, man and woman, and they are indeed dead.

“I didn’t know they were dead,” I said. “Besides, they’re dead. What could I have done?”

“You’re going to get in trouble,” my mom yells.

“For what? Everybody could see me. I didn’t go anywhere near them, and my footprints don’t go anywhere near them.”

Then I wake up.

Later in the Day:

The dog and I are puttering around the yard.  Suddenly, she picks up a scent and drags me past two houses into a nearby courtyard.  She is sniffing madly, and stops abruptly at what looks like a large stone.

I walk over and look at it, and yell at her to get back. It is a dead baby blue bird, lying on its back, eyes still closed and beak open.

Thursday night

My apartment is in absolute chaos. It seems to be a triage unit. There is a bossy fat guy there who is working on a guy who is bleeding all over my living room. Everybody is focused on the guy. I try to make sense of it and give up.

I turn around looking for my dog. I call for her, but she doesn’t come.

I ask the bossy fat guy where she is.  He rather triumphantly tells me he called the shelter to come get him. I don’t catch at the moment that he called the dog a he when the dog is a she. If he’s a doctor or nurse, shouldn’t he be able to tell if an animal has a penis or not?

I am enraged. “Why on earth did you do that? She doesn’t belong to you; you don’t have the right to do that.”

He just looks at me, smug and self-satisfied. I know he’s hoping that they’ll put her down before I can find her. I grab the phone and start calling shelters as I run out to my car.

Then I wake up. I reach down, just to make sure, that the dog is still there.  She is, curled up against my leg.

Friday Night

I am wandering around the neighborhood back where I grew up, about two blocks away from my parents’ house. There used to be a little neighborhood grocery store there.  My mom and my grandpa used to go there nearly every day, to pick up milk or bread. I always went along. There was a big candy counter right by the checkout; you could still buy individual pieces of candy there. To me, it was paradise. I loved the old wood floors and the quiet hum of the cooler units (no musak in this store).

I am back at this store, except I am outside.  The lot next to it is now empty, and it is filled with trees. I am in the lot but I seem to be very tiny—only a few inches high! I am with another tiny person.

We are looking at the trees. The trees are filled with birds hanging out to age. It looks like quail and canaries (yes, canaries! Who eats canaries?). The birds are teeny tiny too, and they are hung very low on the trunks of the trees where we could jump up and grab them.  The other little person is trying to convince me to eat some of them. I am tempted. When are we going to get to eat again? But I’m really not hungry, so I am really reluctant to get them.

The store owner walks over to the screen door at the side of the store. It is not the real store owner; it is an astrologer.  He is looking out at us. He has heard something. But I can’t tell if he can see us in the grass or not.

Then I am driving down the road by the library. It is pitch black, the dead of night, and the electricity seems to be off. There are no lights, anywhere. I am being chased by someone (cops? bad guys?). I don’t seem to be in a car, however; I seem to be in some kind of luge—it feels more like I am zooming through a tunnel or a slide than driving on a road.

I reach the library and the tunnel empties me out in a room. There are other people there, and they seem to be detectives or private investigators, which it seems I am too.

I go to turn up the lights (this room seems to have electricity), and there is feces smeared on the dimmer switch.  I pull back.

The people are talking. We are trying to decide on how to handle something, but I don’t remember what it was now. The name of a girl I went to college with flashes in my mind, but it doesn’t make sense to me what she had to do with any of this. I haven’t even seen her in years, since she moved away from Louisville.

Then we are all in another room still debating what to do, but now there is a sofa, so I go to sit down. There is something going on behind me on the couch, which is set forward off the wall a few feet, and I feel a bit wary about it, but I don’t remember what it was now.

Saturday Night

I am in a bar and Chris keeps bringing me mojitos faster than I can drink them.

I am Buffy the Vampire slayer. I am sitting on a trapeze, except the trapeze is shaped like a circle rather than a sling. There are other people there, on other trapezes, doing the typical high-flying stunts. There’s a woman who flies (yes, flies) up to me and grabs on to the rope that is suspending where I am sitting. She taunts me that I’m a coward for not jumping and doing the stunts like everyone else. But I know that she is trying to goad me into jumping and then something will go wrong. She is trying to use my ego against me to get me to do something dangerous. I tell her to fuck off. She keeps getting more and more aggressive. At one point, the swing comes near another swing that is lower and I jump for it to get away from the woman. I keep moving farther and farther away from her. She is enraged that I am not doing what she wants me to do, but she does not follow me, just keeps clinging to the rope on that swing.

I am going into a public restroom. I close the door to a stall and through the crack I see guys. I’m panicking; did I go into a men’s restroom by mistake? I am wearing a long robe, and I think Maybe they’ll see the robe and think I’m a priest or a Muslim or something like that, so I try to keep my feet covered so that they can’t see that I am wearing girl shoes. It’s complicated, and it’s made more complicated because as I try to sit on the stool there is a giant, and I mean giant, wad of newspaper on the seat—like a good six to eight inches thick. This is disgusting, I think. Is the other end actually in the toilet water? Then I see through the crack in the stall door a woman and am relieved; maybe this is a family or unisex restroom.

I am in a classroom teaching a bunch of high schoolers. The bell rings before I’ve finished my lesson. I yell after them to read the next chapter in the textbook—wait, it’s not a textbook I’m teaching out of. It’s a story—but what are those books called that have stories in them? My mind is a complete blank.  “Read the next chapter in the reader,” I yell after them finally. But high schoolers don’t have readers; what’s it called.  Novel! It’s called a novel. What is wrong with me that I can’t remember what a novel is?

Monday Morning

I wake up to let the dog out and go to the bathroom. When I go back to bed, there, lying amongst the sheets, is a baby. I can’t tell if it is a boy or a girl; the baby is in a white snowsuit with a fluffy white beanie. The white of the snowsuit contrasts with the royal blue of the sheets. I am perplexed; whose baby is this? How did the baby get here? As the baby starts to wake, so do I, and I realize this is a dream too. The dog is standing on the rug, staring in my face. The sun is up, and she wants to go out.



Knocking at the Door

I’m in my office when my mom comes in talk to me. I close the door. We’re trying to have a conversation when suddenly the door opens and someone just barges in.

“I’m in the middle of a conversation,” I say, annoyed.

The person just keeps talking as if she doesn’t get it.

“You need to leave for a few minutes,” I say, being blunt because she is so obviously clueless. “I am in the middle of something. Go wait outside.”

She is still talking.  I go to the door and encroach on her personal space, pushing her back in the hall.

“Wait here,” I say, more forcefully. I shut the door in her face while she is still talking.

“See what I have to put up with?” I ask my mom as I sit back down.

Mom no sooner starts talking, and I’ll be damned if someone else doesn’t barge in and do the same damn thing. I chase them out again, slamming the door.

It happens again.

And again.

And again.

The next time it happens I roar and chase the person out in the hall. There are a good twenty people in the hallway, swarming like a mess of angry bees.


They continue to snarl and carp.

“SHUT UP!!!” I roar. Finally, they get quiet.

“I am in a meeting with (I say her given name).” I draw it out, saying the syllables slowly as if they are slow. “When I am done with her, I will deal with you. I will call you by name. Now settle down.”

I shut the door and lock it.

“What’s it come to, “ I say to my mom, “that I have to lock my office door because people are too damn clueless to know that they are supposed to wait until you answer the door before they come in.”

We talk for a few minutes (I don’t remember what about) when there is a knock at the door.

“FOR FUCK’S SAKE” I scream, jumping up. Were they eavesdropping at the door? Papers fly off my desk. My mom is just shaking her head. I stalk over to the door and open it. Someone better be bleeding, I think.

I open the door, and I see no one. Then I hear a noise and look down.

There is a little person there. He is wearing a black suit and a white ceramic mask. The mask has a comic book caricature face drawn on it in heavy black lines—it is an angry face. It makes me think of the Weeping Angels in full attack mode.  He is being very aggressive and pushy, waiving a piece of paper in my face and spouting gibberish. Somehow I know he is a spy. I am now absolutely enraged.

The nasty little spy seems to realize that intimidation is not going to work. Suddenly he morphs into a math teacher. I don’t know this person, I just know he is a math teacher, and his name is Tom, but I don’t know any math teachers named Tom.  Tom is waiving this paper in my face now, since he is considerably bigger than the little guy. The paper is a math quiz of some girl I don’t know. He tells me I need to recalculate her grade.

“I’m not her teacher, “ I say, exasperated.  Why do these people always try to make me responsible for things I am not responsible for?

“But I just want you to check the math,” he reiterates, sticking the paper in my face. The red numbers on the paper are only a fraction of an inch from my nose. I’m going cross-eyed trying to focus, and then get mad again. Why am I trying to read this damn quiz? I am not this girl’s teacher.

“This is not my problem,” I say. “Her teacher is responsible for calculating her score.”

“She wants you to add it up again,” he says. Then he launches into the regular bs kids say to teachers all the time—their lives will be ruined! their parents will hate you! But this guy is the teacher. What the hell is his problem?

“I am not her teacher,” I say again, slowly, emphasizing each word. “But if that is her score, then that is what she earned,” I say, furious. I slam the door in his face.

I stand there shaking, so angry I can barely think. I am so sick of people trying to manipulate me to get what they want. Boundaries, damn it! Consequences for actions, damn it!

Then I wake up.

I go into the bathroom, for the usual morning routine.  I look into the mirror as I am brushing my teeth.  There is a huge red welt on my neck.

It is a spider bite.

The damn spider is back.

Now the dream is starting to make sense. People pretending to be what they aren’t, wearing masks, threatening me, and trying to guilt me.  It may have been over a year, but their tactics haven’t changed.

Obviously, I have.

Later, I am waiting in the drive through at Starbucks on my breakfast. Out of nowhere, a spider web filament appears and flies into window, attaching itself to my hand. I try to swat it away, but it is stubborn. I reach over and grab a tissue, grab the filament and tear it away, throwing it in the trash.

Not this time.

Something big must be happening, or on the verge of happening. These things don’t happen in the dreamtime unless there is. These things used to scare me. They used to intimidate me. I used to fret over whether I was doing the right thing, more concerned with whether other people got hurt no matter the cost to me.

Not any more.

Now they give me hope.

Now I know I’m on the right path. I know someone or something is trying to steer me away. They’re trying to scare me. They think if they make things hard, harass me, throw up roadblocks, that I’ll give up, surrender my power, think it’s not meant to be.

The things that are the most precious are the ones that we’ve had to strive for, to fight for, to work our fingers to the bone to achieve.

They can knock all they want. I know what they are now. I choose who to open the door to.


I am climbing some kind of steel structure like an old fashioned tv antenna tower, but the steel is shiny and new. The landscape doesn’t look old, however; it looks contemporary. Just a few feet above me, and on the other side of the tower, I see Eleven. He is hanging on with one arm while he is aiming his sonic screwdriver at flying Daleks. We seem to be under attack, yet despite the fact that we are in plain sight and unprotected, the Daleks don’t seem to know that we are there.

Then we both realize that there are thousands of Cybermen goosestepping down the street beneath us. Maybe the Daleks are more occupied with them than us.

The scene shifts, and the characters from Arrow are running around fighting the Daleks and the Cybermen. Suddenly, Slade walks up to me.  How this is possible whe I’m a good fifty feet off the ground is beyond me. He pulls out a metal box from inside his belly (like Cas hiding the Angel tablet in his body?) and hands it to me. This box is the key to killing both the Daleks and the Cybermen, he tells me. But I have to cut it in half with a sword. Then he runs away to fight the Daleks and the Cybermen with the rest of the Arrow characters.

The Doctor and I are looking at the box. The Doctor concludes that it will indeed kill all the Daleks and Cybermen, forever, but by cutting the box, it means Slade will die.

“We can’t kill Slade,” I say. It’s the Doctor. He’ll agree with me, right?

He just shakes his head.

He really wants me to do it.  He won’t do it though. I have to do it.

I hesitate. Can I really kill someone? Even if I have to to save others?

It’s as if my body is disassociated from my head. I am outside myself, and I see myself raise a huge sword over my head. It comes down with no effort on my part, but with tremendous force. It slices the metal box in two on a diagonal.  The Daleks and Cybermen disappear with thousands of poofs of smoke. Slade crumples to the ground.

The box looks like a guillotine, I think as I lower my sword to the ground. The diagonal slash looks razor sharp.

I expect to feel regret, but I don’t feel anything. I am oddly unattached, and am curious at this feeling of unattachment.

The scene changes. I am at a con. One of my friends from college and one from high school, neither of whom knows the other, are in a heated argument. I listen to them, as the people swirl around us. Two fire signs, in a fight. You can imagine. I decide not to get involved. I don’t know why they are both here, or even what they are fighting over.

Then I am back on the tower with the Doctor. I look down. The street is now cleared. It has morphed into the main street of an Old West town. My cousin is standing in the street, dressed as a cowgirl, with her hands on each gun as she walks, looking for all intents as if she is in a shootout.

Then she looks up at me. It is a challenge. Does she want to have a shootout with me? Does this have to do with the argument at the con? (the high school friend is a mutual friend). Is this something else? I look down at her. I don’t want to fight her. But if I have to, I will.

Then I wake up.

The House

I am going through a house with the agent.

This isn’t a house that fits into my plan. The one that I made, when I was a little girl. The one I saw in dreams, over and over, throughout my life. This house is nothing like the house I saw when I wove my little girl dreams of what my life would be like.

But the house feels oddly familiar nonetheless.

The agent is walking through the house with me, talking through the pros and cons. I feel oddly disconnected.

We walk up the stairs.

I know these stairs.

She’s gone ahead of me into the master bedroom. I’m only partially listening to her at this point. I’m trying to get a grasp of what is happening here. It’s as if this room exists in two places at once. It’s an odd feeling. The hairs on the nape of my neck stand on end. She goes into the ensuite. She’s talking, talking, talking . . . . .

I stand in front of their dresser. There is a mirror there. I see myself in it. I know that I am here, that I exist, yet I feel as if I am disintegrating. Everything is vibrating. Everything is alive, and buzzing, and in motion.

Without thinking, I turn to my left.

Walking through the door, there is you. You are sleepy, with your hair messy and a rumpled button down and baggy jeans. You have a baby on your hip. You both yawn at the same time. You are barefoot, and I feel the roughness of the carpet through your feet.

I know this is the one.

The agent comes out of the ensuite and distracts me.

I turn back to you when she is not looking.

You are gone. Yet in the carpet I can see faint indentations of your feet, walking all the way up to me.


I’m walking through a house. I trip over my shoelaces and nearly trip in a hallway. I catch myself and push up from the floor.  To my right is a room, and there is what looks like a huge pinata hanging from the ceiling. It’s red paper mache and it’s two hearts (like Valentine’s hearts, not real ones) that are joined at the lobes.  My mom walks in and reaches into the connected part and pulls out a piece of candy!

I yell at her: “Leave it alone!”

“It’s Whitman’s” she says.  Someone has taken two Whitman Valentine’s Day samplers and put them in the pinata.  I’m still mad at her. The pinata is not hers, and she should not be messing with it.

Then I am walking down another hallway and nearly trip again. As I catch myself, I blurt out “The Last of the Mohicans is my favorite movie!” which is odd since I’ve never seen it all the way through and haven’t bothered to read the novel. I’m more into British and French lit than American.  Then as I cross the threshold, I find myself in a workout room. There is a long line of treadmills facing a huge wall of windows, but before I can focus on what the vista is, I wake up.

Then I keep hearing two songs on loop:

First this one(I will wait)


And then this one (“Ho Hey!)

(Sorry, the URL link function isn’t working in Word Press)
Someone hands me a box. They tell me it’s already been scanned and x-rayed, so it should be safe to open.

There’s a teenage boy there. I get the sense that he is thinking about coming to our local college. I hand him the box, and he opens it. It’s filled with newspapers. He starts going through them. As he does, and he’s pointing out things on the page, certain columns get highlighted. It’s like on Dreamweaver when you highlight a column to change its properties, it gets outlined in red or yellow. I don’t remember what was in the highlighted columns, though. Maybe the point wasn’t the columns. Maybe the point was to make the Dreamweaver connection so that I would see this as code. But what is the code in old newspaper stories? Maybe that newspaper stories (of what happened in the past) can be rearranged and rewritten, just like code can be rewritten and generate a new template?

Anyway, the one story I do remember, right at the end of the dream, is a front page story of a blizzard. The boy is pointing out the picture of the blizzard that is on the front page, center column. I don’t remember what he is saying about it. I do remember thinking, “That is from several weeks ago. Why are these newspapers so old?”

Afterward, in waking life, every where I go I hear those two songs. On the radio, on Musak, on tv. Is it that those songs were there in the background and my subconscious just picked them up as a soundtrack for my dream? Or are they popping up as some kind of synchronicity, some kind of message?

I Choose Hope

Surrounded by naysayers
Preening and squawking
Strutting and pecking
So determined to prove how superior they are
They think not about the delicate souls they crush
As they claw their way over the carcasses 
Of fallen rivals
Overwhelmed by the cacophony
Of the earsplitting crows of triumph.

I choose hope.

Hypocrites and conjurers
Smoke and mirrors
And truths that are only truth if they say they are truths
And evidence to the contrary
They lure you in with the promise of knowledge
And then pick away at your soul, peck by peck,
Until nothing is left.
Hollow, despondent,
You surrender to their consumption
Their lip-smacking delight as they gobble you down.
Not even aware of how you've been played,
You disintegrate into the maw of their insatiable hunger.

Or else, lost in despair and fear
That what you believe is wrong,
Is madness, that love has been lost
Never to be reclaimed,
Or worse yet, love never was love,
You give up your power to them
Let them win, let them decide
What is real and what is not,
And having tossed away your birthright
Decide all is lost
And drown yourself in the green sea of despondency.

Oh, I understand these things well.
For years I believed in what was outside of me
Listened to the hucksters who knew better than me
Just what me I should be
And what I should say, and eat, and believe, 
And how and who I should love.
It's so easy to fall into that trap
To let another think for you.
And fall into that mindless numb place
Where there is no more responsibility
Your power not even stolen from you
But given up as a gift.

I have known this place too well.

But I choose hope.

I choose to believe that there are second chances
And third, and fourth, 
And infinite possibilities.

Think it through. If we have creation running through us,
How can we not create?
How can another make us believe it's not possible?
That we are toys of fate, chained to a destiny
We had no hand in.

No, I choose hope!

I have looked into the eyes of my beloved
And have seen all of time and space and creation.
I have held his hand and felt the power of the universe
Throb through his palm,
Rumble thunderously through his voice,
In the heartbeat of the stars.
I have held him in my arms and felt the world stop
And time stand still
In awe of our reunion.

I believe in miracles.
My miracle has found me.

And in this lifetime I vow that I refuse to allow
To convince me to throw it away.

So go ahead and preen and caw
About your esoteric galactic pedantry only you have
And peer disapprovingly over your spectacles
As I cavort in defiance of your edicts of doom and gloom.
I have found my beloved.
And in our love
Anything is possible.


This was supposed to post on March 25. If you follow my tweets, 
you know there was some nasty negativity going around. Rather than engage, I decided to write defiant poetry instead :)


Why are we at Boy Scout Camp? At least, it looks like Boy Scout Camp, a huge meeting room in a log cabin.  Through the big open windows, there are woods for as far as the eye can see.  You are sitting in the front of the room at a table with a huge woman. I mean, she is World Champion Weightlifting status huge. I swear to God, it looks like she is in a Scout uniform.  Are you supposed to be a Boy Scout too?  And I think, “You a Boy Scout. Boy, have they got it wrong.”

To my left, there is a tiered platform where they are displaying five different types of chips. None of the chips have brand names I am familiar with. One is named Hope (as in “I hope these carbs don’t go directly to my hips?”) and another Salazar (Slytherin, I presume?).  This is utterly bizarre and surreal, and then finally the woman stops talking and there is a break. I get up to get out of this crazy place and in the busyness, you grab my hand and pull me into an office.

It’s more like a reception area, with a high counter. You pull wooden hanging beads down to shut off the counter area and another set of wooden beads across the door.  I’m assuming that you want some privacy to talk to me about something, but then you take out your lighter and set the beads on fire.

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?” I hiss. We’re still in the office and, hello, you’ve just set the damn thing on fire.

You pull me through the beads before they completely catch on fire and walk me down the hallway. As we’re getting ready to walk through a door, we turn back to look. The inside of the office is completely engulfed in flames and no one seems to notice. You push me through the door and close it behind me.

And we are in the bedroom at my place.  You go to sit on the bed. It’s as if in crossing the threshold that the entire scenario that just happened never happened. I walk over to the nightstand and open it and take out a box and hand it to you. You start to laugh. It’s my toys.

“Start familiarizing yourself, “ I say as I walk into the bathroom to pee. I call over my shoulder, “The condoms are in a box on the shelf,” and then think, you dolt he already knows where the condoms are. I finish using the toilet and after I wash my hands I grab the lube off the counter as I walk back into the bedroom.

I try to keep this blog rated PG, so I will stop there and let your imagination carry you where it will.

Time passes.

I am at a meeting a work. It is in a store instead of our office, and there are tables facing toward the front. I go to sit at a table, and my boss says I can’t sit there. That table’s reserved for this other woman I work with, who is a notorious ass-kisser. I have to go sit farther back.

From where I am sitting in the back, I can see a building on fire (the Boy Scout Camp?). I try to tell people, but they don’t seem to care.  Minutes pass, and no one does anything. No one calls the Fire Department; no one’s trying to put out the flames. But then, I’m not doing anything either, just sitting there watching the building burn. Is this one of those things that’s supposed to happen? Is this karmic in some way? And if so, what exactly is it that the camp represents that has to be destroyed?


Mom and I have been fighting again. After she learned reiki, it lessened a bit, but the fact that I’m travelling this week has sent her into anxiety mode again.  “If I could, I’d keep you in a bubble,” she said to me, just today.

So I was a bit surprised, when I was mediating last week, at what happened.

It began with a lot of anger towards mom, bubbling up to the surface. That’s what I expected. But instead of the anger being connected to a memory relating to me, instead I got a memory of a fight between Mom and Dad.

I must have been about ten years old. Mom and Dad were in the midst of one of their ongoing feuds. Dad didn’t like the meat at the grocery store where Mom usually shopped and wanted to drive her into one town over and go to another grocery store that had a much better butcher (and they did—the meat, especially the beef, at that store was amazing).

Mom didn’t want to do it. I’ve talked before about how she’s borderline agoraphobic, and despite the fact that Dad would drive her (because she doesn’t know how to drive), she didn’t want to go.

So Dad ended up driving into town and buying the groceries.

He’d always buy something not on the list, and they’d get into a battle over it. This time, it wasn’t about doughnuts or a different brand of pop.

Mom and I were in the kitchen fixing dinner when Dad got home. He went up to Mom and said “I got something for you,” and pulled out a gag toy called a “Laughing Bag.”  Yes, you read that right. It was just a canvas bag, with a little speaker in it that laughed when you squeezed it. It was silly, and cost all of a dollar, and it ignited one of the worst fights I’d seen since he’d stopped drinking.

Did he do it to piss her off? Was it an act of defiance in the power struggle between the two of them? Or did he do it genuinely to try to goose her out of the funk she was in?  At the time  I thought it was the former, but looking back on it, I think it was the latter, because the look of hurt on his face I think was genuine.   She was in fine form that afternoon, and went on and on about his wasting money, throwing in his face all that money he wasted when he was drinking, even though it had been years since he had stopped. She shamed him, and I watched him shrink in on himself. And I felt shamed watching the two of them, that my mother could be so obsessed with money that she would fly into a rage over a gag that cost a dollar.  It’s one of the few times when I was a child that I actually sided with my dad in the war between them.

Years later, Mom was cleaning out the dresser, and I saw, tucked underneath the socks, the Laughing Bag. She saw me there, in the doorway, and said, “That damn thing. I was so furious at him for buying it. It’s so like him to just throw money away.” It’s been years since the incident, and I say nothing, but I’ve noticed it’s still there, and that she doesn’t throw it into the trash with the old socks but tucks it away in the corner of the drawer.

All of this is as fresh as if I am reliving it, even though it’s been decades since these things happened. I’m so sad, and I start to cry, and I want you to hold me and make it better, but when I turn to try to focus in on you, you’re not there.

Instead, there’s my Dad.

And I’m a little girl again, and the grief is so overwhelming that all I can do is cry and wail and scream “I want my Daddy! I want my Daddy! I want my Daddy!”

It’s turned into a purge, and there’s no way back, only through it, and as I scream and scream, and scream, I feel the energy rise throughout my body the way it does when I am burning off some particularly dark stuff, some really heavy karma. It’s ugly, and I’m so nauseous as it’s happening, and I just want it to stop but it doesn’t. It goes on and on and on and I don’t think I can take it anymore. My pillow is sopping wet with my tears.

And then it subsides, and I look up, expecting you to be there, but it’s Daddy standing in front of me. And he holds out his arms to me, and I fall into them and hang on for dear life. This is so weird. He almost never hugged me once I grew up, like once I hit womanhood he could no longer show affection. A china doll on a pedestal.  I have a picture of me sitting on his lap right before bedtime. It was a couple of years earlier than the Laughing Bag incident. We were in the recliner and I was perched on his leg hammering away on the guitar they had bought me for Christmas, howling at the top of my lungs trying to sing. I was so happy and he was laughing so hard at me. It’s my favorite picture of us. It’s so hard to remember the good times. The bad times always overshadow them. And now, after all these years, my daddy’s holding me again.

He’s shushing me and trying to get me to calm down. I’m yowling again, and he pats my hair. “Do you know how proud of you I am?” he says. “You’re so smart and pretty and strong. You’ve grown into such an amazing woman.”

Here he is, with me again, after all these years, and what do I do? I dig up all the bad things again. But  as they start to bubble up to the surface again, I stop. Suddenly it all becomes clear.

He looks at me expectantly. He knows what comes next. That’s why he’s here. I’m finally reached the point that I can see.

“We agreed to all of this before we came in,” I say. “I had to grow up with the fighting because I needed to learn how to fight.” And suddenly, I realize you are off to the side. I turn to look at you. You are looking particularly nervous.  “I had to learn to fight for you,” I say. “I had to learn to fight for us.”

Dad looks pleased when I say that. He takes my hand, and walks me over to you. You look really tentative, like you’re worried he’s not going to like you. He takes your hand, and puts my hand in yours. Then he puts our clasped hands between his and says to you, “This is my precious little girl. Take good care of her. I love her very much.” And then, after having given us his blessing, he’s gone. And we stand there, hand-in-hand, looking into each other’s eyes.


I’m standing outside near a lake. Suddenly, you are in front of me, dirty and bedraggled, and holding a baby. I’m startled; I wasn’t expecting you. And what on earth’s happened to you? You hold the baby out to me and I take her (him? I can’t tell the sex the baby is so young). I pat the baby on its back and say, “Yes, I promised I take care of her” (so I guess it’s a girl).

You put your finger up to your lips and shush me. I whisper, “I promised. What’s with you? Did you take a vow of silence?”

You wiggle your eyebrows at me and grin.

“What are you up to now?”

You point to the top of a mountain that has suddenly appeared out of nowhere. And then, again out of nowhere, you unsheath a huge broadsword. I pull back instinctively–there’s a baby here for God’s sake–and say “What are you doing?”

You point to the mountain with the sword, and then take off to the mountaintop. I shake my head.

Time passes.

I’m sitting in a rocker in what looks like an old farmhouse, giving the baby a bottle. Suddenly, the door flies open and there you are, even more disheveled than ever. You stride across the threshold, your sword in one hand and a large wrapped object in the other, and stop, right in front of me. You take your sword and ram it into the floor by your side (Excalibur!) and go down on your knees in front of me. It’s all very dramatic. And when you finally speak, your voice is booming.

“This is for you.” You hold out the package, and, with a flourish, remove the blue cloth that covers it.

It is a giant diamond you have in your hand. Not as in diamond ring, but as in a gigantic rock. It’s the size of a cantaloupe and, oddly enough, despite its size it’s already been cut. But for what? It’s too big to wear in jewelry. What’s it really for?

And that’s what I say to you. “What exactly are we supposed to do with it?” I ask.

“This,” you say, and toss it into the air above our heads. Gravity does not kick in; instead, it rises to just about five feet above us and stays there. Then, suddenly, it lights up, and we are surrounded by a cocoon of warm golden light. You put your head in my lap. All is right with the world.

I know that you have dragons to slay and monsters to confront. And like any quest, you must set off for that mountain alone. But Beloved, hurry home to me. There is no light when you are gone.

Sweet Hearts

I dreamed about you yesterday morning.

I am in high school and my mom is nagging me to go to some event. I really don’t want to go but I do anyway. I go to a small building (about the size of the neighborhood laundromat). It is packed full of guys. I am the only girl there. We are all looking toward the front of the building where there is a counter. There is a really, really heavy guy next to me is who being annoying and hitting on me and spouting gibberish. I try to be nice to him but he is being really aggressive and getting into my personal space and I finally get pissed and tell him off.

He turns away and I look back to the front of the building. Then from a door to my right you come in holding a baby. You walk up to the counter and talk to someone and hand the baby over the counter to the person.

Then you make your way straight to me and put your hand in the small of my back and guide me over to a round table. That seems to be a cue to everyone that they should take their seats. The creepy guy follows us to the table like he doesn’t get the meaning of the hand on the small of my back.

When we get to the table, everyone sits down except us. You smile and take out a cellophane bag. In it are blue Sweethearts (candy hearts—you know—like these).

Only the blue ones were in the bag.

Only the blue ones were in the bag.

I try not to laugh at the fact they are blue. “Are they really for me?” I ask.

You nod and smile. “Open ‘em,” you say.

The seam of the bag doesn’t want to tear, so I take one of my fingernails to punch through the bag. You raise an eyebrow and say “What are you, a Sicilian?”

I’m like, Huh? What do Sicilians have to do with fingernails?

I shake my head and motion for you to hold out your hand. I pour some hearts into your hand, then some into mine, and we eat them. To be polite, I offer some to the other people at the table but I deliberately shun creepy stalker guy.

I go to hand the bag to you and you take it, carefully fold the top down twice, and hand it back to me. “Keep it for me,” you say and wink. I try not to blush.

You walk away for a minute to go back to the counter (to collect the baby, I assume), but no one comes over and sits in the chair next to me. Everyone knows that it belongs to you.

I wake up. Later in the day I am checking my emails. Someone has sent me a link to an astrology site. The site says that the Sun was conjunct Eros in Pisces that morning. How apropos, I think. Love meeting Light.




The needles fly among the threads
Weaving tight hopes and prayers
Whispered sotto voce
To any but you, and me, and god.
Only the Trinity knows, can hear the truth of us.
Rich brown earth, fertile and ripe to grow
Azure blue Atlantic crashing against the shore
Midnight blue of a moonless sky
All interconnected
In an infinite loop
I weave as I chant the dream into being.
The farmhouse, nestled among the trees,
A front porch cool in the summer shade,
Hand picked vegetables scattered on a kitchen counter
As jars steam upon the stove.
A closet neatly organized,
Your suits tucked in smartly among mine.
A freshly painted room,
Sunny lemons, robin eggs, violets.
Tiny socks and shoes lined up in a row.
A soft breeze floating through an open window,
A fluttering curtain whipping against your hair
As you laugh and brush it aside to lean down to kiss me.
The crickets chant the refrain.
My arms grow strong with the labor
Of lifting our blanket of dreams,
My biceps hard from the repeated tension
Of stich after stich after stich
That weave the threads that weave the words
That weave the magic that births our world.
When it is finished, I will wrap us in it
And cocoon us from those who try to part us.
We will carry our hopes to the skies
And spin it amongst the stars
Our love, our legacy.

Water, Water, Everywhere–and Then, There’s Nazis (And Ianto!)

All these planets entering Pisces has made for one wet (and surreal) week in Dreamland.  Not only has it been pouring down rain (like it is now–at least it’s not snow!), but there’s been one mess after another in my dreams.

Monday Night: I was in an apartment. It looked like an apartment on the west coast. My cousin was there with me. I opened the walk-in closet in the master because I keep seeing water dripping from the ceiling. When I open the door, someone has pointed the shower head in the bath straight at me and blasts me with water like a hose!

I yell and walk inside to see what is going on. There is water (and sewage–eewww) pooling on the floor.

Tuesday Night: I am in a hotel waiting to go to the airport.  I go up to a lunch counter and I am talking to an Asian woman who runs it. We’re talking about noodles. She says she can make me chocolate noodles. I say ok, and I ask here where the toilet is.  She tells me, and I go and again the toilet is a mess with the seats broken and overflowing. I finally find one that is unoccupied and reasonably not gross, but I have to pull off lots of toilet paper from the roll because the sheet has fallen into the sewage pooling around the toilet and the liquid has seeped all the way up to the roll. I somehow manage to use the toilet (I will spare you the details).

I go back out and the lady acts like I’m nuts when I ask for my noodles. She claims not to know what I’m talking about. I’m worried she’s trying to scam me in some way. I bluntly say, “Do I owe you anything?” and she says no. I think, Well, there are witnesses, so I must be safe.

I go into the conference area of the hotel. I’m trying to find you. I keep looking and looking and getting very frustrated when this guy comes over and talks to me and it turns out it’s a friend of a kid from school.  I vaguely remember him. They are having some kind of contest. Up on stage on the backdrop appears a huge clockwork like Dr. Manhattan built on Mars.  The guy wins whatever it is and he grabs my hand and drags me up with him. I think, Why the hell is he trying to drag me into this? They hand us a case with earrings in it. I take out a fillagree one and try to pin it on the guy and he starts bugging out.

I say, “Didn’t you want me to pin this on you?” He acts like he doesn’t know what is going on. I’m getting pretty pissed off at this point. I say “Fine. Fuck this.” I throw down the case and walk out. I go out a double door and down the steps. It’s opposite the quad from the college. I cross the lawn and step over a low bush. There are two guys walking with me, but I don’t know them. Then I step over a low fence and walk across the mall.

Suddenly, my mom and I are at a carnival. A guy is handing out books. We’ve won a Bible, and Mom is excited because we’ve never had a family Bible.  I’m sure we have the ticket and the receipt and the paper that says we’re supposed to get a Bible, but when we get there, the guy, who is an old, white-headed guy, says very nonchalantly, “Well, I think that’s it. Maybe I’ll come back tomorrow.” And then he disappears into thin air–poof!

Mom is furious. I go and try to find him.  I see him in the distance in an office behind a desk. He’s attitude reminds me of Bilis from Torchwood, but he’s not Bilis. I have to walk down a country road with woods on either side and lots of overhang. It’s winter and cold and the trees are bare.  There are sketchy looking people standing around. They look at me menacingly as I walk down the road.

Friday Night: I am being held prisoner in some futuristic Star Trek type room, incongruously by Nazis. I can only assume that  the Nazis were because of last week’s Supernatural episode, but alas, there was no Dean or Sam, or even a helpful golem to rescue us. They are going to kill us. One guy has put a magic spell on a tube of lipstick so that a girl who has been killed will be reborn whenever someone uses the lipstick. The Nazis come in to kill us. I think, There has to be a way out of this, and realize there is–this is just a dream, and I can wake up. And I do.

Sunday Morning (after the New Moon): I am on a website looking at tee shirts. I click on the link in the left column for classic tees and then there are thumbnails coming up for all-time favorites.  Starting around #5, there are pics of Ianto from Torchwood–lots of them–from #5 all the way down to the bottom of the page.  I think, That’s cool! and then Ianto looks different.I click on  one of the pics and I’m taken to a video clip.  Then I’m actually in the video. Ianto is in a very mod suit and he has even more funky sideburns than he had in Series 1–it’s very 60ish. He is talking to some official-looking men and he is all fired up about something.  Then he goes into a room with a hoard of men in suits and gives a hell-raising speech about something.  The men in suits are really rowdy, and suddenly I realize Ianto is the Prime Minister and he’s giving a speech in Parliament. I think, Wow, this is something!

Then later I am outside on a street corner and a little boy is asking me to tell him what I saw because this was evidently a “significant historical moment.” I start to tell him. I don’t remember what I told him, but it seemed to make sense at the time. Then he says, “Maybe it’s better you just give me the video and I summarize it myself.” So I give him a jump drive.

Then two guys are debating. It seems Ianto now has a moustache.  It’s like a hideous 70s era handlebar, but instead of being full, it’s pencil thin, just along the top and edges. One of the guys argues that it’s fake; he says, “It looks like he just grabbed a moustache out of the prop box and stuck it on.” Somehow I manage to get a close-up of Ianto’s mouth–I have no idea how–and I see that there’s already a bit of five o’clock shadow growing in on the skin underneath the stache. It looks real to me.

Then the scene changes and I am walking down a sidewalk to see a poor couple with two kids–one in a stroller and one walking.  I know this woman, but I don’t know her name.  One of my relatives let her stay with her while she was getting clean (in the dream, not in RL). I hear the relative lecturing her saying, “This is your second chance. You don’t get a third or fourth one. You can never use drugs again.”

As they are walking towards me, I tell them I have something for them and I’ll leave it at their door–nodding to the place where they just left. The woman lights up, but the man makes her keep walking.

I go into the building thinking it’s the entrance to an apartment building, but it’s a store.  I realize the couple are homeless. I go to the woman behind the counter and asks if she knows the woman who just left. She says yes. I ask to leave some Xmas presents. Then I realize I have lots in my bag. I can’t tell which is which, but I assume the ones without names are the ones I want since I don’t know the people’s names. I realize the one I did put down for the woman did have a name on it- Chryssy. I tell the woman to tell them that the presents are for Santa.

Dutifully logged for your amusement.