I stared wide-eyed out the window into the starry night. My stomach dropped lower with each turn we sped around. Sitting in the back of the cop car, the sirens rung in my ears. We twisted down the mountainside, three girls crammed in the backseat, each of us too scared to beg the officer to slow down. He turned his back to the winding road and looked at us, laughing maliciously at our fright. That was the last thing I remember from that night. Because at that moment, it was time to turn off my alarm clock, roll out of bed, and start my day.
This is the dream I had last night. I know I have dreams every night, because the feeling will come back to me at some point during the day but I still won’t be able to remember the actual dream. Yet other times, like today, I wake up and easily remember what happened. Why do we remember some dreams more than others?
Because my dreams are the first thing I think about when I wake up, it is no surprise that I will think about it throughout the day too. Sometimes I share my dreams with my friends if it is especially intriguing or if they were a part of it. What I really wonder is if our dreams have an impact on the way we live on a deeper level than just talking about it. Do they influence our attitudes toward certain people, our fears, our morals?
When I have an especially vivid dream, I try to find the source of what caused me to have that dream. Sometimes it will be about people I spent a lot of time with that day, sometimes the setting is from a movie I just watched, and often there are parts of my dream that are completely random and I cannot place what instigated the storyline. Usually my dreams include observations I made throughout the day but never gave much thought to until they reappear in my dream. How did my mind filter out what would appear again after the day’s events, especially if it was something I did not pay much attention to at the time? How representative are dreams of our deepest thoughts?
By gaining a deeper awareness about our dreams, we may be able to unveil hidden truths about ourselves that we are too afraid to admit.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
The Little Things
“That’s beautiful.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Your laptop case. It’s beautiful.”
Thus began my conversation with the elderly man sitting next to me at a coffee shop downtown, who pointed at my peacock laptop case with his arthritic finger. His white hair stuck out in all directions and his neck was hidden behind a long beard. He sipped on his tea as our conversation spiraled into his wide array of travels, giving me envy as he told of his trips to each continent (even Antarctica). I asked him questions and he was enthusiastic to give me thorough answers. I taught him Spanish while I did my homework and he found interest in my environmental studies major. What began as a trip downtown to do homework in a new setting, ended with my mind filled with new thoughts and facts. Everyday is an opportunity to share your uniqueness with others. You never know what effect it may have on them.
“I’m sorry?”
“Your laptop case. It’s beautiful.”
Thus began my conversation with the elderly man sitting next to me at a coffee shop downtown, who pointed at my peacock laptop case with his arthritic finger. His white hair stuck out in all directions and his neck was hidden behind a long beard. He sipped on his tea as our conversation spiraled into his wide array of travels, giving me envy as he told of his trips to each continent (even Antarctica). I asked him questions and he was enthusiastic to give me thorough answers. I taught him Spanish while I did my homework and he found interest in my environmental studies major. What began as a trip downtown to do homework in a new setting, ended with my mind filled with new thoughts and facts. Everyday is an opportunity to share your uniqueness with others. You never know what effect it may have on them.
Monday, October 24, 2011
A Way of Life
The front door makes a high-pitched squeal when it is pushed open, as if to give a warning for what awaits you inside. Your nostrils flare at contact with the immediate penetrating odor, leaving you to question how you may have stepped into a giant baby diaper. The walls of the foyer are a sad gray, remembering their snow-white days. Fur rolls like tumbleweed across the hardwood hallway floor, showing you the way to the kitchen. Following their lead, you glance over at the staircase to your left with enough confirmation already that you will have no need to climb up there.
Natural light comes through the sliding glass door in the kitchen, exposing the dust dancing in midair above the kitchen table. Dirty dishes are stacked in a forgotten pile in the sink. You rest your hands on the countertop, a grave mistake you soon realize as you turn them over to reveal days’ worth of crumbs. Ahead of you a filthy living room catches your attention and curiosity seeps in. With each step closer the putrid odor of the house heightens, until finally, you are standing in the epicenter. Stains of questionable source dot the carpet, representing more shades of neutrals than you could think of on your own. The rancid smell hovers like a moth intoxicated with light, unable to escape in the stagnant room. The fan above acts as a shelf for layers of dust and cobwebs hung as decoration between the blades. The empty couch against the wall seems to be the center attraction in the room, a safety zone from the land mines on the carpet below. Beside the television crinkled papers were piled askew, seemingly forced together as a last minute thought. Tchotchkes lined the bookshelf in the corner of the room, a menagerie of garage sale trinkets ranging from kitten figurines to snow globes.
You glance at your watch, surprising yourself for staying in here the few minutes that you have. Backing into the kitchen, you decide to take a quick peek in the bathroom to your right. Clumps of hair on the blue tile floor catch your eye. The trashcan is filled to the brim and the tissues seem to be playing a balancing act at the peak of the pile. The clear soap bottle next to the faucet is filled only to a level unreachable by the pump. You turn your head away in disgust and head out onto the deck off the eat-in kitchen.
It seems to have remained intact despite the deck stain that is chipping away. Lights hang on either side of the glass door on the outside. There, hanging on the left light, is a hornet’s nest the size of a coconut. Hornets swarm the area and make it apparent that the homeowners steer clear of this danger zone. The backyard looks as if it has been abandoned for weeks, the grass growing high and weeds marking their territory. I've had enough, you think, and push through the
unkempt yard towards the driveway.
Natural light comes through the sliding glass door in the kitchen, exposing the dust dancing in midair above the kitchen table. Dirty dishes are stacked in a forgotten pile in the sink. You rest your hands on the countertop, a grave mistake you soon realize as you turn them over to reveal days’ worth of crumbs. Ahead of you a filthy living room catches your attention and curiosity seeps in. With each step closer the putrid odor of the house heightens, until finally, you are standing in the epicenter. Stains of questionable source dot the carpet, representing more shades of neutrals than you could think of on your own. The rancid smell hovers like a moth intoxicated with light, unable to escape in the stagnant room. The fan above acts as a shelf for layers of dust and cobwebs hung as decoration between the blades. The empty couch against the wall seems to be the center attraction in the room, a safety zone from the land mines on the carpet below. Beside the television crinkled papers were piled askew, seemingly forced together as a last minute thought. Tchotchkes lined the bookshelf in the corner of the room, a menagerie of garage sale trinkets ranging from kitten figurines to snow globes.
You glance at your watch, surprising yourself for staying in here the few minutes that you have. Backing into the kitchen, you decide to take a quick peek in the bathroom to your right. Clumps of hair on the blue tile floor catch your eye. The trashcan is filled to the brim and the tissues seem to be playing a balancing act at the peak of the pile. The clear soap bottle next to the faucet is filled only to a level unreachable by the pump. You turn your head away in disgust and head out onto the deck off the eat-in kitchen.
It seems to have remained intact despite the deck stain that is chipping away. Lights hang on either side of the glass door on the outside. There, hanging on the left light, is a hornet’s nest the size of a coconut. Hornets swarm the area and make it apparent that the homeowners steer clear of this danger zone. The backyard looks as if it has been abandoned for weeks, the grass growing high and weeds marking their territory. I've had enough, you think, and push through the
unkempt yard towards the driveway.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
For Sale
I guess you could say I’ve been sick to my stomach lately. My owners have cleaned me from the inside out, stripping me of my character and restoring me to my original, generic self. They leave me helpless and alone, though I can see their heads hang low in shame as their distance from me grows further. And with their departure come the arrivals, day after day. These new families enter with magnifying glasses for eyes, analyzing my every flaw. The scar on my wall, or the beauty mark on my carpet; they look at these with shaking heads. The judging is harsh, and I cringe with each turn of the doorknob of a new critic. Why do they condemn when they don’t even know the story behind it? They stomp all over me—upstairs, downstairs, basement, and garage—with unrecognizable footprints and wafts of foreign scents. I feel empty inside, the usual clutter of a family lifestyle now dispersed and hidden. The vacuum cleaner traced lines on my carpet and the faint smell of Pine-Sol masks my true aroma. Classical music plays in the background, setting the atmosphere and playing with my heart. I would cry if I could.
What if there was no water cycle, but rather....the milk cycle!
Cheese Day
The alarm clock did not go off. This was my first thought as I regained consciousness after a dreamless sleep. The alarm clock didn’t go off! I leapt out of bed and rubbed my eyes clear of goop. My stomach sunk in panic at the thought of being late to class and I scrambled like a mad man in search of something to wear. Then it hit me. With my gradual awakening from morning grogginess I soon came to peer out the window with the childish longing that never seems to go away. Angelic rays of sun streamed through the glass, a barrier of protection from the freezing temperature outside. From the sky white curds fell in thick globs, layering the frozen soil into a dairy wonderland. “Moooooom! Please give me good news!” Euphoria rushed into my body with little warning as my prayers were answered. Thank God for cheese days.
Bundled up like an eskimo in the tundra, I was ready to expose myself to the outdoors from the comfort and safety of my layers. The air was crisp and powerful, with the magical abilities to turn my nose red and trigger my sinuses. My nostrils became a leaky faucet of snot, and there was no off handle. By the time I reached my gloved hand to clear the unfortunate drippage, the record temperatures had crusted it into a clear mold of my upper lip. Abrupt gusts of wind felt like a slap in the face, sweeping evaporated milk into my eyes and piercing my skin with its strength. The sun shone gloriously, acting as a spotlight to the beauty of nature’s wonders. I squished my boots into the dense thickness of cottage cheese and gained satisfaction with the squirting separation of fresh curds. With each step I took, imprints of my boot bottoms stamped the cheese firmly into the ground.
Trees stood strong and rugged ahead of me, an army of forest that was able to withstand the winter climate. Stripped of its leaves, branches now acted as a hanger, showcasing the shredded strips of cheddar that had not quite made it to the ground. I sprinted over to a low-hanging branch, eager for my first cheesicle of the season. I yanked the frozen precipitation from its resting place with a quick snap of the wrist. As I took a long-anticipated bite I could taste the bursts of flavor as the cheese melted into an ooey deliciousness that I craved all year for its special natural form. My eyes rolled to the back of my head as I savored the moment, a brief liberation from the harshness of the outside world. Not wanting this youthful feeling to end, I bent my head back and opened my mouth up wide to the sky. The sides of my eyes creased into wrinkles as I smiled at the feeling of sticky curds pelting my face and tongue. I was temporarily blocked of vision with the overwhelming density of the precipitation. My face soon became covered with the trapped curds, just barely missing their intended landing zone on Mother Nature’s floor.
I trudged along the tree line, fighting through the thick cottage cheese around my ankles, until I came to the river, now frozen in its solid opaque form. The simplicity of a world in white was slightly tarnished at the riverbank. Apparently I was not the first to venture out here this morning, I thought to myself as I approached the muddy shore. The pudding-like footprints were a paradox to the pureness of the fresh blanket covering the land. Brown and creamy, the mud contaminated the tasteful richness of this necessity of life. My compulsiveness to maintain order to the innocent presence of the morning cheesefall brought me down to my knees. I began to take the rapidly solidifying cream and smooth it over the muddy patch as if I were spreading cream cheese on a bagel.
A nearby shallow area of the river caught my eye, as it had not yet completely frozen over. Frothy bubbles had formed and collected on the bank where the milk tirelessly struck the rocks. It thickened in areas with crevasses that sloshed the milk with greater force, and I could see floating blobs of whipped cream clinging to the rocks as a result.
The sharpness of the cheesey air gave me pangs of hunger. The once sweet aroma of milk in the summer had now transformed into the more aged varieties of flavorful cheese with the winter season. Drool quivered dauntingly on the inside of my lip, ready to make its escape as I dreamt of the homemade cheddar recipes Mom would make for the rapidly approaching Christmas season. Although I now embrace this winter weather, I will soon be done with the cold and ready for the cream-filled spring. A sweetness of butter and cream will fill the air as the cheese slowly melts and milk begins to percolate into the ground. I imagine these days, thinking of the months ahead before they come.
As I walked back home to relieve myself of the grumbles in my stomach, I puffed out breaths of hot air to entertain myself. With each blow wasps of steamed milk filtered through the air like belly dancers shaking their hips to a silent song. Impatience set in as I began to feel sopped and heavy with the collection of small curds that had formed on my hat and sleeves. I brushed off the sticky nuisance with a customary sweep of the hand as I neared the front door. “Straight to the laundry room!” yelled Mom, not wanting to deal with the dairy dampness.
The alarm clock did not go off. This was my first thought as I regained consciousness after a dreamless sleep. The alarm clock didn’t go off! I leapt out of bed and rubbed my eyes clear of goop. My stomach sunk in panic at the thought of being late to class and I scrambled like a mad man in search of something to wear. Then it hit me. With my gradual awakening from morning grogginess I soon came to peer out the window with the childish longing that never seems to go away. Angelic rays of sun streamed through the glass, a barrier of protection from the freezing temperature outside. From the sky white curds fell in thick globs, layering the frozen soil into a dairy wonderland. “Moooooom! Please give me good news!” Euphoria rushed into my body with little warning as my prayers were answered. Thank God for cheese days.
Bundled up like an eskimo in the tundra, I was ready to expose myself to the outdoors from the comfort and safety of my layers. The air was crisp and powerful, with the magical abilities to turn my nose red and trigger my sinuses. My nostrils became a leaky faucet of snot, and there was no off handle. By the time I reached my gloved hand to clear the unfortunate drippage, the record temperatures had crusted it into a clear mold of my upper lip. Abrupt gusts of wind felt like a slap in the face, sweeping evaporated milk into my eyes and piercing my skin with its strength. The sun shone gloriously, acting as a spotlight to the beauty of nature’s wonders. I squished my boots into the dense thickness of cottage cheese and gained satisfaction with the squirting separation of fresh curds. With each step I took, imprints of my boot bottoms stamped the cheese firmly into the ground.
Trees stood strong and rugged ahead of me, an army of forest that was able to withstand the winter climate. Stripped of its leaves, branches now acted as a hanger, showcasing the shredded strips of cheddar that had not quite made it to the ground. I sprinted over to a low-hanging branch, eager for my first cheesicle of the season. I yanked the frozen precipitation from its resting place with a quick snap of the wrist. As I took a long-anticipated bite I could taste the bursts of flavor as the cheese melted into an ooey deliciousness that I craved all year for its special natural form. My eyes rolled to the back of my head as I savored the moment, a brief liberation from the harshness of the outside world. Not wanting this youthful feeling to end, I bent my head back and opened my mouth up wide to the sky. The sides of my eyes creased into wrinkles as I smiled at the feeling of sticky curds pelting my face and tongue. I was temporarily blocked of vision with the overwhelming density of the precipitation. My face soon became covered with the trapped curds, just barely missing their intended landing zone on Mother Nature’s floor.
I trudged along the tree line, fighting through the thick cottage cheese around my ankles, until I came to the river, now frozen in its solid opaque form. The simplicity of a world in white was slightly tarnished at the riverbank. Apparently I was not the first to venture out here this morning, I thought to myself as I approached the muddy shore. The pudding-like footprints were a paradox to the pureness of the fresh blanket covering the land. Brown and creamy, the mud contaminated the tasteful richness of this necessity of life. My compulsiveness to maintain order to the innocent presence of the morning cheesefall brought me down to my knees. I began to take the rapidly solidifying cream and smooth it over the muddy patch as if I were spreading cream cheese on a bagel.
A nearby shallow area of the river caught my eye, as it had not yet completely frozen over. Frothy bubbles had formed and collected on the bank where the milk tirelessly struck the rocks. It thickened in areas with crevasses that sloshed the milk with greater force, and I could see floating blobs of whipped cream clinging to the rocks as a result.
The sharpness of the cheesey air gave me pangs of hunger. The once sweet aroma of milk in the summer had now transformed into the more aged varieties of flavorful cheese with the winter season. Drool quivered dauntingly on the inside of my lip, ready to make its escape as I dreamt of the homemade cheddar recipes Mom would make for the rapidly approaching Christmas season. Although I now embrace this winter weather, I will soon be done with the cold and ready for the cream-filled spring. A sweetness of butter and cream will fill the air as the cheese slowly melts and milk begins to percolate into the ground. I imagine these days, thinking of the months ahead before they come.
As I walked back home to relieve myself of the grumbles in my stomach, I puffed out breaths of hot air to entertain myself. With each blow wasps of steamed milk filtered through the air like belly dancers shaking their hips to a silent song. Impatience set in as I began to feel sopped and heavy with the collection of small curds that had formed on my hat and sleeves. I brushed off the sticky nuisance with a customary sweep of the hand as I neared the front door. “Straight to the laundry room!” yelled Mom, not wanting to deal with the dairy dampness.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Life's Greatest Mysteries
Dreams.
Death.
Emotions.
Making decisions.
Morality.
Religion.
Time.
Getting older.
The past.
The future.
The present.
Death.
Emotions.
Making decisions.
Morality.
Religion.
Time.
Getting older.
The past.
The future.
The present.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
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