In my dream
I masturbated
in the corner
as a night bird
flew around
my gnarled hair
A red dot on
the center of
my arm is where
they took blood,
it was getting
black around
the edges like
the old rotting
meat in my
refrigerator
When I woke
I wanted clean
and fresh
Clean and
fresh and
quick
Category: Dreams
Dreamland
Oh dreamland, dreamland
There’s no place I’d rather be
The glaring truth of me
will not set me free
I will never be higher
than I am in dreamland
Oh dreamland, dreamland
How precious your visions be
glistening,
rolling,
strolling,
hopping,
flying,
soft
and
smooth
flowered
and golden
in dreamland,
dreamland
Oh dreamland, dreamland
How plentiful and free
I do not long
and I do not greed
there is nothing and everything
with which to fill the need
in dreamland, dreamland
Oh dreamland, dreamland
There is no hunger here
There is no gluttony,
There is no dirty laundry
or mainstream TV
There is no jealousy,
no bad hair day,
no fear, no worry
All my fantasies
come to fruit
in dreamland, dreamland
All the plans I’ve made
follow through
in dreamland, dreamland
The Body Does Not Lie
My mind’s eye
is up-in-arms
over this leg
of the journey
She wants to
move ahead already
and foot the bill for
a place in the country
No longer can
she stomach town
Unplug–the Internet’s a Spiritual Rip Off
It’s not a simple time. It’s no longer a simple life. But the simple life is sold and we fall for it. The simple life is sold in t-shirts branded “Simple”. Simplicity is cropping up in your local malls and its shops are growing larger and its simple products are getting more and more. Simplicity is getting expensive. And trendy. But are you being true to yourself? Do you feel simplified?
Spirituality is promoted until it’s not spiritual anymore. The Dalai Lama preaches humility, thrice a day via Twitter. Ideas are exchanged and yoga studios promise enlightenment just… after… this… one… last… post…then its time for meditation. For real this time. “Off to meditate.” “Done meditating.” “Was great.” “Feel so good.” “Can’t stop typing.” “Don’t forget to ‘Like’ us for a dollar off your next workout.”
I personally can’t deal, can’t hang. My thoughts didn’t pinball around in my head until I was pulled every which way by technology. At night, morning and noon, like you, I groggily shuffle to the laptop and quest for information, enlightenment, validation, and discounts. I sit for hours and I find out a lot but I rarely find what I am looking for. And I NEVER find exactly what I’m looking for. Health. Love. Genius. I am disappointed. I am exhausted.
So I quit. Again. From now on I will no longer have a computer in the house, internet on my phone, or even a television. My home 
will house books, food, hot water and a bed. You know–the essentials. And when I come home from work, I will be able to hear myself think. What a concept.
I will no longer search for the things my spirit needs on Google. It doesn’t work that way. Ask yourself: are you exhausted? Let down? Out of touch with those around you? Out of touch with yourself? You might want to consider what I’m doing: unplugging. Already it’s been two days sans Internet and I. Feel. Peace.
Does that mean I’m done blogging? No. Not even close. I will still post weekly, respond to your comments, and read your work. I have computer access–I have my ways. But my Internet use will be scheduled and moderated. And no I will not be signing up for Google+ and Facebook like some of you have requested. I already have WordPress, Twitter, MySpace and Gmail. What more do you want world?
The only way my spirit will thrive is if it has space to breathe. End of story. The Internet is full of false promises. Beware. Truth lies in the space around your head and in the seemingly empty corners of your home. The world is magical if you just unplug and play with it.
Making it in Changing Times Conference Notes
I made my way up to Portland (soon I won’t have to travel so far, yay!) on January 26th for a writers conference, Making it in Changing Times.
Lidia Yuknavitch was the keynote speaker and the event was organized by Jessica Morrell author of Writing Out The Storm, a book Lidia held close to her chest and kept on her bedstand during the FIRST days, weeks, and months of her writing career. She credits the book for motivating her to write. Jessica Morrell is to Lidia what Natalie Goldberg is to me.
The event was SPECTACULAR. I was high the entire time. On writing, folks, on writing. During the session I thought of you guys: my blogging community. My writing tribe. My stranger-angels.
I took notes of course, with the intent of sharing them on my blog. With you. Because you are where I am–scratching and clawing your way into the writing world. Some of you are further along than others. For some of you this information will be premature, for others it will be old news. But I hope for at least one of you, it is just perfect useful.
Over the next few days, I will post 4 conference “notes”:
1. “An Editor’s Wishlist” by Jessica Morrell
2. “Kick Start Your Writing in 2013” by Polly Campell
3. “The Worth of Risk” by Lidia Yuknavitch
4. “Signs You’re Telling Not Showing” by Jessica Morrell
Do you know these authors? What books, conferences, and authors have inspired you? Please share your thoughts, we’re all in this together. I’ve never heard of an artist being “over inspired”, have you? For me, I can’t get enough inspiration. But like love, the timing has to be just right…if you don’t get anything from these notes right off–come back. It’s good stuff.
I’m a Night-Creature Again (Warning: Life Rant)
While you sleep I watch and write.
When I first moved to Eugene I searched for work for a month or two before finding a night shift position at a group home for teenagers. I wasn’t sure about staying up all night five days per week but let’s face it: I’m no stranger to the night.
It turned out the position suited me well. My job involved insuring the safety of our clientele–and when it comes to wayward teens I am a claws out, karate-chopping mother-hen-type gal (I remember what it was like to be in their shoes, many having been abandoned by their parents and experiencing unimaginable amounts of helplessness).
After being laid-off (surprise!) in November I sulked for nearly three months, writing a bit at first but losing my momentum as it seems writing and life and work all go hand-in-hand (I’ve heard many writer’s attest to this). Then, last week, in some crazy twist of fate, in a “the more things change the more things stay the same” kind-of-way, I was rehired. I will sit at the same desk, I will walk the same grounds at three a.m. admiring the same moon and all its phases and I will cook breakfast at the end of my shift in the same kitchen for the same people.
I am ecstatic. I’d recommend that any writer consider the night shift. In between bed-checks and garbage-taking-out and pots of coffee: there is writing. There is quiet. There is time and space and somehow, money too. Graveyard work + Writer’s dreams = Happy camper.
Neurotic Fan Part I
I missed out on the free stuffed animal cause I wanted a beer and the line for beer was zilch and the line for a free stuffed animal was around the block and down the hall.
I was disappointed.
I thought I was part of a bite-size group of people and after the show we’d all sit around in someone’s cramped apartment drinking straight whiskey and maybe doing a little coke.
I thought I’d get to talk up my book and maybe Chuck Palahniuk and Lidia would ask me to join their writers’ group.
It doesn’t matter if you’ve got no experience–all that matters is you’ve passion, and you do, I can see it in you they’d say as I’d shoot back the whiskey hollering Fuck yeah I do! sticking out my tongue and shaking my head back and forth. We’d all cheer and laugh. There aren’t enough writers out there, Chuck would tell me.
I thought I’d be the only girl in a black kimono and that Lidia might point me out to the audience, telling everyone what a good writer I was and some hot guy would spot me and think I was super sexy. Then he’d approach me and we’d fall in love and we’d both be writers and we’d make writer love.
It didn’t matter that I was already in love, and with a writer. Things could always get better.
You already know how this ends: in near full disappointment.
After standing in line with fifty-billion fucking college kids watching them text and say Like and grab eachother’s asses we filed inside where I slipped away to the WOW Hall’s basement bar missing my chance at a free stuffed animal (free to the first 100 people).
It was so quiet down there the bartender had her back to me and was on her knees stocking the cooler. I cleared my throat, ordered a Sierra Nevada, and sat in the corner and read Dora.
I knew Lidia was upstairs signing books for all the, like, college kids and I tried to summon her downstairs with my mind. Cause down in the dark basement bar was where Lidia should be. And, you know if it were twenty years ago it’s where she woulda been. But it wasn’t twenty years ago.
That was a long time ago.
What is a Dream?
You know those dreams you’ve had in life that you’ll never forget? I’m not talking about waking dreams (for once), I’m talking about sleeping dreams. For example, when I was about four years old I had a dream my dad picked me up in a hot air balloon and took me to Safeway to so we could buy some 
ABC soup, which was my favorite meal. Not much happened other than that but for some reason I’ve always remembered that particular dream. But why?
Then there are the recurring dreams–again, when I was just four years old, I’d say from four to six–which was actually a pretty traumatic point in my life–I would have this dream:
I’m in a dark dungeon. I’m lying on my back or my side and there are about five or six little elves running around and climbing all over my body. Above my head is a big roll of lead. Let me explain more: you remember Bubble Tape? They always had Bubble Tape on the rack at the grocery store at the check out stand. It’s like a carpenter’s measuring tape only made out of bubble gum. Yeah. That. So that’s what this big roll of lead is like. The little elves pry my big toddler mouth open, much to my resistance, and insert the end of the roll of lead into my mouth, shoving the lead down my throat. My throat expands and I choke but this goes on for what feels like hours and upon waking faintly taste lead in my mouth, metal in my throat.
I had this dream at least a few times throughout my childhood. I can’t help but notice–now I’m having a dream quite the opposite.
I had one just last night:
Sometimes it’s just me but sometimes, like last night, I’ll have an audience:
I’m back in Crescent City at a party and a lot of my friends are there–all grown up, having a good time, drinking beer by the river. I’m chatting with one of my male friends when I feel a noodle in my mouth. The flat kind–linguine. I put my index finger up to indicate “just a moment”, a break in the conversation if-you-will and reach into my mouth for the linguine. I grab hold of the linguine and tug. Well, that’s where my dream morphs into this recurring dream I’ve been having: pulling a never-ending mountain of noodles from my throat. The more I tug, the more I pull, the more noodles emerge. And just like in the lead dream–I can hardly breathe. My cousin Cevin and his friends approach and there I am, crouched down by a cedar tree, pulling out and vomiting up noodles, for what seems like forever.
What I appreciate about this new dream is this: it’s quite the opposite of my baby-Terah-lead-dream. Clearly, I’m letting it all out now instead of shoving it all in. For fun, I’ll retrieve my dream dictionary, The Complete Book of Dreams & Dreaming by Pamela Ball and interpret some of the imagery from both of these dreams:
Dwarf (sadly Elf was not available): A dwarf indicates a part of our personality which has not yet been integrated or has been left undeveloped. In a dream a dwarf denotes a part of ourselves which has been left damaged by painful childhood trauma or a lack of emotional nourishment.
Lead: The conventional explanation of lead appearing in a dream is that we have a situation around us which is a burden to us. We are not coping with life perhaps as we should be, and as a result it is leaving us heavy-hearted.
Throat: Dreaming of the throat denotes awareness of our vulnerability and also the need for self-expression.
Vomiting: Vomiting is a symbol of discharge and evil. We may have held on to bad feelings for so long that it has caused our spiritual system some difficulty.
I do believe there are connections between our dreams and our spiritual selves. I do believe that if you have, especially a recurring dream, you should pay attention to it and make changes to your life as needed. For example, if you are a man and you dream about a particular woman most nights, you need to explore your relationship with this woman. Or, if you dream about water, water, water, you should visit a spring or a sea–because your subconscious is begging for you to wet her.
Please, readers, share some of your dreams with me. I would love to use my dream book to provide you a little more insight into your subconscious. If you’re into that kind of thing.
Nighty-night. Sweet dreams.
You Can’t Tame A Wild Thing
To the east is wild. But to the west is even wilder. Always.
Nothing is more wild than the ocean, to me.
When I was young I had a birthday party at the beach and the sun went down and the tide came in and we while we all ran around the bon fire, the waves crashed in and took with it all of the birthday presents the kids had brought. Nice gifts, from their parents. I remember Tommy’s mom who was a beautician gave me a little fancy bag full of three or four bottles of nail polish. Blue and green and purple cause that’s what was in.
I remember I’d finally gotten that certain jacket I’d wanted–but the big bon fire was so hot in the sand and we were all running around, caught between kids and teenagers and I didn’t put the jacket on I just wore my striped long sleeve shirt. Us kids played back then.
A boy who thought he was my boyfriend (I guess I was leading him on) took me to a big log drift wood and kissed me on the lips.
Happy Birthday.
No thanks.
Cara and I wrestled in the waves and got so rowdy that I ripped her earring out–or she ripped mine out, I cannot recall. Someone bled and we laughed.
~~~
Someday I’ll really be out there. I’ll travel as far out into the wild ocean as my birthday presents did that year. It’ll be me and the insane stark white and teal waves and the whales and the dolphins and the diamonds on the water–all the diamonds–and the sunset and west, west and more west.
It’ll be me and my memories.
I’ll let them go out there. I’ll free them.
One by one I’ll drop them over the edge like excess baggage that my ship can no longer stand to carry.
My liberated soul the only anchor I’ll need.
Onward toward the rest of my life as a woman. Onward to my Womanhood, letting go, knowing that dry land and home awaits me. Solid land to the east. My home awaits me. Letting go into the ocean. Being in the wild. Letting go of the weight, the abuse the neglect like wet clothing like lead like city like smog like ego like pride like fear.
I’ll let let it go alright. Out in the waves.
But not until I finish this flipping book.
I need an ending to my story.
And then
I will go
and let go
for good.
Young Dreams
My young dream was to be a performer or an athlete. I also said I wanted to be a writer. I know because I wrote all this down on a slip of paper that recently emerged while rifling through child-things at my great aunt’s house.
I also know it because I remember all the energy I used to put into performing. I wrote–short fictional stories–but not very often. I had too much movement in my body.
I’d acquired at least a little bit of skill and grace from the few years of ballet, jazz and acrobatics I took at the Dance Art Studio in Crescent City. And when I had an audience, boy-howdy I put on a show. My family called it “tumbling” but I’ve watched the home videos and what I was doing was acrobatic ballet: cart-wheel, round-off, pose, cart-wheel, round-off, pose.
I practically lived in a long-sleeve pink leotard and dreamed of owning sweats, leg warmers and new ballet shoes like the other girls. I’d carry it all in the “Twinkle Toes” ballet bag I saw on display at the Dance Art Studio. It cost thirty-five dollars. Which was even more money back in 1996.
I watched gymnastics on TV whenever I had the opportunity and thought for certain I was just a few lessons away from a double back layout and a spot on the floor at the Olympics. 
Clearly I wasn’t, but once in acrobatics class when were learning back tucks (which is a back flip with no hands) my instructor was spotting me so I gave it my all. Seconds later when I was upright my teacher said “You just did it. I didn’t even touch you. You did it all on your own,” which drew the attention of the whole class, not because a back tuck hadn’t been done before, it had, but because I’d only been in acrobatics for a year or less (and just once a week)–the other girls had been going to the Dance Art Studio since infancy.
All I got from the girls was a long glance. No pat on the back. 
In the upcoming months I would begin to wonder why my crotch smelt funny as we stretched and get self-conscious over my dirty socks.
I stopped going to dance, which no one in my family protested or gently encouraged me otherwise. I’ve always been able to do as I please. Just as I please.
I cut my hair and half-heartedly took up basketball, poetry and boys.
I’m kicking myself now because I was darn good. I’d nearly nailed my back hand spring with no spotter, I had a stage smile and good balance. And now I know that crotches just smell funny sometimes. Especially after excercise.
I could’ve really been something.
TERAH RACHELLE VAN DUSEN 