Barbara Ellen's Keepsake Blog

The Shadow of the Wind

bgerberick — Thu, 08 Oct 2009 19:17:35 +0000

As I sit to write this, not one hour has passed since I finished reading The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Luis Zafon. I cannot resolve within myself whether I should sit and meditate on this book, and let this feeling of peace and fulfillment and deep-routed contentment sink in, or if I should let my fingers fly to celebrate its brilliance. The latter seems to be winning. I read this book in ten days. With the exception of the books I was assigned to read while earning my bachelor’s degree, I have never consumed a novel with the tenacity with which I have read this one. I inhaled this novel. The 500+ pages which I thought could easily last for the remaining two months that I will be in Spain flew past my eyes without my realizing. I have never wanted to be a part of a novel more than I wanted to dive into the world portrayed in this one. This has easily become my favorite novel, for more reason than the happy coincidence of finding it and reading it at this time in my life. I say with every confidence that Zafon is a master craftsman, and I have resolved to find more of his work immediately, even though the version I read was an English translation from the original Spanish.

This piece functions beautifully thanks to its foundation in and self-aware investment into the complex multi-leveled labyrinth that is literary tradition. That haunted place that is The Cemetery of Forgotten Books becomes a symbol, a structural embodiment, of the world that is created by and dwells only within the pages of books. The piece intricately incorporates the written word, relying on it to propel the spellbinding plot and motivate the characters. The reader is initially charmed by the beautiful romantic language with which Zafon writes. As one continues, the sentimental language that seems almost tongue-and-cheek in its sweetness begins to evolve to reveal much darker and deeper layers, sucking the reader in and trapping them in their addiction to the suspense, mystery, and strangely beautiful tragedy of the characters.

What begins with the façade of a dark romance, unfolds further to reveal an aspect of almost every genre of literature, from crime and detective fiction, to political allegory, historical commentary, to a star-crossed lovers’ plight, to a Julius Ceasar-like betrayal and what could even be considered time travel… I hate to employ the cliché that this novel has something for everyone (especially those who are as easily enchanted by dark romances as I), but I earnestly advise everyone, even if you do not count yourself as a “reader,” do your life a favor and read this one. It is both classically familiar and divinely original.

Each individual among the host characters is impressively dynamic and three-dimensional. While one may recognize that some of them will hold some archetypal label or another, they are anything but static. The color and depth which Zafon pours into each one is impressive, to say the very least. Even characters whom the reader meets second-hand, like Miquel Moliner are so well established, well maintained, and carefully directed by Zafon’s talent that they become as real to us as a person we might pass in any Spanish Calle, Plaza or cafe. His ability to capture human curiosity, concern, fear, guilt, and loneliness is only slightly less striking as his ability to convey the happiness and passion which punctuates it. These are the stepping stones on which his reader relies as the story surges on. The splendor he creates in these moments propels the reader through the rest of the confusion that mirrors life all too accurately. The characters’ delights and frustrations become the reader’s own like no other novel I’ve read.

This book is hauntingly beautiful from start to finish and blissfully tragic. Zafon is a master storyteller. I cannot recommend this work enough. The only thing more thrilling than reading it, and finishing it would be to see Lain Coubert staring at you from the corner of the street one night, if you ever happen to make it to Barcelona, knowing that you know this horrible and wonderful story, and limping away into the mist.

Tattoos: I want them.

bgerberick — Wed, 09 Sep 2009 06:22:40 +0000

Two blogs in one day. Wow. I don’t really know what to do with myself. Okay. So this is something I’ve been thinking about a lot, and I have always thought getting a tattoo would be something I’d like to do as an adult. I haven’t yet, I even canceled an appointment I had made in Santa Cruz because I wasn’t gung-ho enough about it. But, it’s been on my mind quite a bit the last week or so, so much that I’ve created a pic file on my comp devoted to tattoo ideas. I figured I’d post them up here and see if I can get some feedback, even though I think I’m the only person who even knows I have a blog. Sorry, a little sour tonight. Anyway, here they are.

I wouldn’t be able to get all of them, of course, but the are all options. The ones for my feet will probably happen first. The rest remains to be seen. My close fam and boyfriend are not really all about the tat’s because of how it could affect my career, but I’ve thought about it long enough to know I really want one. When I do, I’ll post the results.

How I Met Him

bgerberick — Mon, 31 Aug 2009 00:00:38 +0000

First of all, this is a rather long story. A lot of aspects need to be explained to understand why I was where I was, and how I came to be there, and the obstacles that almost prevented me from being there at all.
Although I met him when I was going to be a junior in college, to be accurate I’d have to begin the story when I was in high school. It was during this time of my life, when I was singing with the school choir that I was introduced to the work of choral and orchestral composer Eric Whitacre. Followers of his work will agree that the uniqueness of his style is unmistakable, and his talent earns him fast and loyal fans. It was the several pieces of his that I was able to perform in high school which put me into this group of people.
Because I continued the practice of choral singing when I reached junior college, I was given the opportunity to travel to Italy with the school choir and tour for almost two weeks singing in the Italian cathedrals. Part of the time spent in Italy was devoted to an Eric Whitacre Choral Festival, during which our choir, along with two others from the US, worked with Mr. Whitacre himself, rehearsing and performing his pieces as he conducted. A truly unbelievable and awe-inspiring experience. It was while rehearsing, and explaining why his lovely wife Hila was not going to be joining us, that he told the combined chorus that he had written a musical called “Paradise Lost” which was in the production process. At this news, I excitedly interrupted with, “YOU wrote a MUSICAL?!?!”
I should mention here that at the same time I was being introduced to EW choral music, musical theatre acted as my social outlet. I have always and will always hold a place in my heart for musical theatre. It is one of my life’s passions. Music and theatre in and of themselves are elements of my life that are very important to me, so the two together is something that makes me incredibly happy. Learning that one of my favorite composers had written a musical was news almost to good to handle. Eric answered me, “IIII wrote a musical” with a smile, and in celebration, I slapped my choir folder against my knees three times with a muted “Oh My God!” one word for each slap.
Later that night, several of my choir mates discussed making a trip down together to Pasadena, CA where the musical was premiering, to see it. We were all very excited, but it would later seem that only a few of us were serious.
Now this far, it would seem that this is a retelling of how I met Eric Whitacre, but it’s not. In fact it’s about how I met the love of my life.
After we returned home and the summer went on, I tried to keep the discussion about going to see the play going, but less and less of my peers were responsive. Eventually it was just me and Josh. However, because planning a trip like that with only the occasional message over the internet isn’t exactly the most effective way to do things. Confusion regarding transportation and ticket payment made things difficult, along with a miscommunication at the theatre box office about reserving a ticket, and things ended up with me going without a confirmed ticket and as a third wheel between Josh and his girlfriend Megan. I even had to swallow my pride and sent Eric an email asking for any help his influence could give me. The idea of the social awkwardness and uncertainty of even getting in to the show almost made me decide to forgo the trip entirely, but I resolved to go with the encouragement from a theatre staff member that if it was just me, and I put myself on the wait list early, I had a very good chance of getting in.
We left around three in the afternoon and arrived in the Los Angeles area just short of 6:00. We found the very small ninety-nine seat theatre and found that the doors had not been opened yet. We found some food and then made our way back to the theatre. The theatre door opened onto a T-intersection, the street approaching from the opposite direction became the driveway to the parking lot that wrapped around to the back of the building.
As the three of us walked up the block and approached the T-intersection on the left, I turned my head and saw that half way down the opposite sidewalk stood a young man. He was tall and thin and dressed in dark colors, a navy long-sleeved collared shirt, black dress pants. His weight was to one side, and he was looking down studying his phone with the other hand on his hip. He had messy brown hair, not short, but not long enough to be called long. My first thought on seeing him was, “Oh please God, just cross paths with me so I can make eye-contact with you.”
I should explain here that at the time, I was freshly out of very emotionally exhausting relationship and happy to have reclaimed some sense of self and singularity. Neither Tommy nor I were invested in finding anyone new with whom to be romantically involved. It was perhaps the furthest thing form our minds, but humans as we are, we had no choice but to take notice of each other.
We perched ourselves around the theatre door. Josh and Megan against a street sign and a small tree, and myself on one of four 3′ tall red pillars. Not supposing that the guy down the street would be in the area for the same reason I was, I was surprised to see him approach and stop in the lobby plaza. At this point, the four of us were the only people in sight, let alone waiting outside the theatre. It was still very early and we had more than an hour to wait for the show. It didn’t surprise me that he struck up a conversation. He asked, “So do you guys have tickets?” We answered that the couple did, I was putting myself on the guest list. He introduced himself saying his name was Tommy. We talked for several very long humid minutes. Because it was a ridiculously hot day, the main thing on our minds was getting inside away from the heat. Eventually, a theatre staff member came to the door and took our names, although the lobby was not yet officially open. That settled, we were now free to seek shelter from the sun without jeopardizing our chances of tickets. My group an I began to walk in the direction of some open stores to spend the rest of our time before the lobby opened. As Josh and Megan went on ahead, I hesitated a moment, almost relented, but indulged in my first impulse; before they got too far away I asked Josh, “Would it be alright with you if I invited Tommy to come with us?” He answered jokingly, ” You can invite him to come with YOU.” I smiled at the sarcasm but brushed it off and stepped back over to Tommy. I said, “Tommy, we’re going to go hunt for some air conditioning. Would you like to come with us?” We had been talking pleasantly enough for a significant amount of time, and since he and I were both effectively on our own, including him in our group would alleviate my third-wheel status, and he wouldn’t be on his own. Truthfully, I was hoping for some more palatable company. Tommy said, “You know, I’d love to.”
We made our way to a Rite Aid around the corner and down the block. As we walked I noted out of my peripheral vision that he was very tall, taller than me, which in my case is rare. I was genuinely enjoying his company and conversation. He also happened to be a fan of Whitacre’s work from his involvement in high school choir. He had, in fact, been to see the play twice before, but felt compelled to see it again. For the majority of the day, my mind had been preoccupied with one thought; I must get in to see this play. Sitting outside and trying to find a way to amuse myself while Josh and Megan enjoyed the show was an awful thought. We passed an old cinema that was still operating, if just barely, and I remember thinking, “Well… if all else fails, I could always go catch a movie and invite Tommy.”
We walked around the store enjoying the cool and indulged in an ice cream. I naturally got mint-chocolate-chip. On our way back to the theatre, rounding the corner again, I spotted Eric’s very recognizable hair from down the block as he was entering the theatre lobby. Along with the agenda of getting into the show, I was also anxious for the opportunity to speak with the maestro again. I bleated out something along the lines of, “Oh there he is!” and nervously laughing, while surrendering my collected posture to my nerves. The embarrassment lay in the coincidence that between Eric and our party was another man, who would later turn out to be a cast member. Making a fool of myself in front of this unassuming individual, who no doubt thought I was referring to him, and my new companion was not a little embarrassing.
We had only been gathered in the lobby a short time, but enough to see Eric and talk to him briefly, during which he asked if we had all come together, (the question gave me a fraction of a second’s reconsideration of Tommy), when those who had tickets were asked to enter the house and take their seats. Those on the guest list were asked to wait in the lobby. It gave Tommy and I another chance to talk alone about our common interests, of which there seemed to be a great deal. I remember noting that I as I spoke, I had Tommy’s complete focus. He was looking at me intently and really listening to me. It was an uncommon feeling, especially with an acquaintance so new, but nonetheless appreciated.
We both, thankfully got in to see the show. We sat together behind Josh and Megan in a row of added seats. The show in all its glory would take me another 2000 words to praise appropriately, so I’ll stick to the subject at hand.
Our unexpected connection asserted itself even more securely in the hubbub and reverie after the show was finished and the audience receded into the lobby. We were both resolved to see Mr. Whitacre and congratulate him on the performance, so while we waited, we prattled on about how amazing the show was. I was giddy that I had been successful in my endeavor of getting into the show and gotten a chance to speak with Eric Whitacre again, this time more socially and less business. I had not expected to be so astounded and thrilled with the production and I wore my excitement and pleasure all over my demeanor. Tommy was indulgent, and when I bounded over to him after speaking to Eric, and he put his arm around me. We ended up sitting at the same table where we talked before the show while we waited for Josh and Megan to talk to people, get autographs, pictures and merchandise. Eventually, Tommy had to leave. After such an enjoyable evening, I didn’t want him to go without ensuring a way that we could stay in touch, but I also didn’t want to seem like I had ulterior motives. I asked if we might exchange email addresses. We did and hugged good bye, and I watched him walk out of the large glass doors, sorry that he had to go. I didn’t know that I would fall in love with him then, but I knew that he was a person I had to keep in my life for a while. A long while.
That was two years ago today, and Tommy and I are together and happier than we ever imagined we could be before we met that night. He’s changed my life, and is the best pleasant surprise I’ve ever known. There are so many different elements that went into our meeting, and yet loving him is so simple.

I love you, Tommy. I always will.

The Petrified Dragonfly

bgerberick — Fri, 28 Aug 2009 16:21:44 +0000

Look what I found today!! This is my last week of nannying for the family I’ve been working for in the mornings twice a week over summer. The little ones have warmed up to me finally, today was especially fun. I’m really going to miss getting paid for playing with little kids the way I did today. =) Anyway, I found this dragonfly when we were spending time out in the backyard this morning. It’s perfectly petrified. It’s complete, not tears in the wings except for a tiny bit on one edge. Christina was a little freaked out about the “bug”, but she was chattering away about the “dakon fwy,” so she learned a new word today. I’m keeping it in a resealable babyfood container which seems to be keeping it from getting knocked around to shreds. Pretty damn cool souvenir for a really fun job. <

Who or What is Fefu?

bgerberick — Tue, 21 Jul 2009 21:09:50 +0000

This post was originally intended to be written and posted before I left school, but due to technical difficulties caused by Cisco clean access and McAfee, it hasn’t been revisited til now. It still carries the same significance though, so I’ll give it to you now:

So, ladies and gentlemen…. ladies. I’m taking a break from the creative writing stuff to take a moment and talk about the amazing experience I’ve been having in the play I’m currently working on. It is called Fefu and Her Friendswritten by Maria Irene Fornes. It depicts a group of eight women coming together at a friend’s home to prepare for a seminar they will be giving some point in the near future, but in a very Woolf-ian fashion does not focus on this seminar and the performance, but the relationships of the women with each other during the preparation process. What is truly unique about this production is that the second act is written to have all four scenes occur simultaneously, and the audience is divided and guided from one area and one scene to the other. The actresses perform each scene four times. Truly a completely different kind of theatre than I have ever been a part of.

This is an endeavor that my friend, the great Sarah Swilley has chosen to take on and produce at her house close to campus, but not officially affiliated with the university at all. I’ve so glad she did. The dramatic productions that I’ve been involved with at school have been, truthfully, somewhat lacking in stimulation. Theatre has always been my emotional and social outlet from the obligation of book studies. But the productions I’ve been involved with have each become more of a class than anything else. This production is completely different. And Miss Swilley has shown what an incredible strong and talented director she is. It is a total labour of love, and I adore and respect each of the nine women who are putting on this production. My cast mates and I have delighted in how perfectly the show was cast. I sincerely am amazed at the devotion, talent and skill of each of these ladies.

I play Cecilia Johnson. While a rather small part, this is one of the most demanding and challenging roles I’ve had the chance to work on. I share a great deal in common with Cecilia, from her affinity and passion for education and working with children in alternative educational systems, but there’s also a great deal about her that was a challenge for me to penetrate and understand. Her relationship with Paula, played by my dear friend, Deepika, is rich and complex and frustrating and real. One of the most important aspects of my work in this show is to create a whole history for this relationship and it has proved to be some of the most challenging and rewarding experiences of my acting experience. In these parts, we have both performed our first on-stage kiss, with each other. While the kiss somewhat daunting at first, Deepika and I have found a great cooperation in this process, enough that I trust her more than anyone else I’ve worked with. It is a part that requires more trust and professionalism in one’s fellow actor than I’ve ever had, not in a technical stunt kind of way, but a raw uninhibited human emotional way, and I think I could safely say that there are moments of the show that require the same of my other castmates. The environment that we have created among us is one of absolute safety and respect.

Unfortunately, the delay in this post has made recalling specific moments of this experience difficult, but I can say honestly and sincerely that this has been one of, if not the, best theatrical experiences of my life, and I am so thankful to have had the opportunity to challenge myself within the safety and supportive environment of these amazing young women. I have no doubt that I have bettered myself as an actress, and I think this production, for the non-traditional and provocative piece it is in itself, the cast and direction and production overall have delivered a show that is the kind of word the thespians of Santa Cruz attempt to do often, and fall just short of. I am so proud of my colleagues and so happy for the experiences I have shared with them.

On that note, I think I’m going to start a reviews page for books and theatre and movies that I’ve recently seen and feel the need to bring to attention. Keep an eye for that.

A morning’s walk.

bgerberick — Mon, 18 May 2009 20:23:30 +0000

The first thing the young woman was aware of upon awakening was a chill on her leg from her calf up to her lower thigh. As she pulled it back under the blankets she rolled onto her stomach, and reaching forward pulled the pale curtain away form the open window. Gazing out while her eyes adjusted to the morning light, she saw that a patchy fog was accompanying the sunlight into the tops of the trees. In a race between the two, the fog seemed to be winning; the sun that had been both worshiped and bemoaned in the days preceding was now muted and feeble, exhausted from its recent exertion.

The girl let the curtain drop back down onto the sill and turned again over herself onto her side, putting her back to the window and the sickly sunshine. She lay still a moment and lost herself in searching and exploring the accidental designs in the plaster on the wall. A slender tree with huge curving roots, a ship leaving a floating crooked Italy in its wake, a dog/dragon creature laying on its back, and as always, the endless faces.

While she contemplated the personality of each of these faces and hypothesized their relation to each other, she gathered the blankets closer around her and delighted sleepily in the warmth her own skin had invested into the sheets. Her arm lay bent close to her face, and the scent of her own skin, warm and supple beneath her down comforter, brought to her mind thoughts of yesterday’s antics and today’s approaching necessities. She faintly recognized the scent of her perfume and it clung to the lotion she had applied to her damp body almost 24 hours before. It mingled with the SPF in the lotion and a slight day-old earthiness in the intimate parts of her body.

It was comforting, reassuring of her humanness, her particularity. The sensation of warm skin had always been the most at home she could remember feeling. Her hand resting between her thighs now as it had when as a child it had sought the skin on her mother’s chest as she was falling asleep still had its pacifying affect.

Within a few moments, her alarm notified her that going back to sleep now would be unwise. She rolled out of the covers and sauntered across the room to desk and shut off the buzzing alarm. Leaning on the banister of her bed she inclined her head toward the the mirror and considered the face which met her gaze. She decided her hair could afford going one more morning without being washed and piled it onto the back of her head. Her face could also be acceptable without makeup, but not without a washing.

She dressed unenthusiastically, and prepared her things. After several more trips upstairs to get something that had been forgotten, with her bag over her shoulder, she walked down the stairs and into the misty morning. As fog quickly began to stiffen her fingers with chill, she felt the growing impulse to write, and knew that as soon as she sat down again, she’d be able to begin, drafting words as she walked, and hoping the structure would be sound once she had a pen in her hand.

At the bottom of the stairs she descended when walking toward the bridge was an empty wheelbarrow. With no other person in sight, she half contemplated moving it out of the way of the foot traffic that would be following her in the next few minutes, but in three steps was too far away to turn back. She crossed the bridge and looked down into the wooded ravine for the driver of the wheelbarrow, but no one was to be seen.

As she mounted the hill on the other side of the bridge, she walked into the road and found the fog and sunlight swirling in and out of each other. Thin grey clouds moved both toward her and across her path. She mused that she might emerge to the other side of the mist to find herself in Camelot or Narnia. She took the footpath supposed to be closed past the library, as she regularly did. If any transportation was to happen, she knew she’d prefer to be in an appropriate setting from the off. This foot path seemed forgotten since it had been “closed.” Rarely did she encounter anyone walking in it at the same time as she. It was not very long, but its placement as the bottom of the steep hill, almost directly below the main road and the numerous shades of green made it the highlight of her morning walk. To her, it seemed to be the most untouched place on her morning route. The same today as it had been on this day years ago. The moss grew in the same way on the trees. Dew gathered in the same leaves, puddles formed in the same place beside the tiny foot bridge. One would have to shield one’s eyes from the sun in the same place on the path as the light dove down into an open space between branches of the canopy. This morning, however, the fog shielded the ground from the touch of the sunshine. While it had not crept down into the trees along the path she followed, it hovered just out of sight overhead. When she came up and back onto the main road it would be waiting for her, moving sinuously and swiftly, both highlighting the sun’s rays, as water on a lake, and muting them, obscuring the sight of her road. It was still early. She was not certain if the fog would linger into the afternoon, but for now was grateful she had put on an extra coat before leaving home. As she pulled it tighter around her she hoped that later in the day it would not be necessary.

people watching 1

bgerberick — Sun, 10 May 2009 05:13:24 +0000

I worked my tables shift at the dining hall today, or as my peers and I like to call it, the DH. It is supposed to make us feel like our employment experience is more legitimate than when we found ourselves working at the cafeteria in middle-school. At least now we get hats instead of hairnets, never mind that they are a neon mustard-yellow. Good luck incorporating that into an outfit after you graduate… not that I’m bitter about the DH uniforms… I could after all be working at Hot-Dog On A Stick… yeesh. I do not envy those ladies.

I digress…

With the College 8 DH there is an entire shift devoted to cleaning tables. Porter had people do this job on an as-needed basis, and let people finish their shifts by cleaning a couple tables, or filling in when there was not much else needing done. But this quarter, I get to play busser for 3 hours a week, just me and the dishrag. It’s not too bad as long as I have my iPod. And, added bonus, primo people watching opportunities. Here’s where I come to my point for the evening. I find it so malevolently amusing that I can be so close to other people’s conversations just because I have my ear-phones in. They all seem to ignore me, and no one seems uncomfortable with my standing right over them cleaning the table just beside them, because I’ve got the earphones. If I’m listening to my music, occupied with my own little world, I must not be able to listen to them. It’s tempting to take advantage of the social liberty. Of course I’m not obnoxious with my proximity to anyone, but, realistically, my ear phones could be off just as easily as they could be cranked up crazy loud. I could be oblivious, or just look like it, while hanging on every word. Like I said, I’m not really invested in eavesdropping, but I’m amused that I have such a clear and open opportunity that no one seems to have any issue with.

I sincerely enjoy the moments of spontaneous synchronicity when I’ll look up to a group of people and the expressions on their faces and the body language dynamics match up with the music I’m listening to. I half smile every time I find that I’m unintentionally and without any knowledge on their part, giving their day a soundtrack. Or at the very least incorporating them into the soundtrack of my day. A guy will walk away from his table towards the kitchen in tempo with the Gym Class Heros; a girl’s face deflates and her mouth goes quiet as Imogen Heap decressendos; three friends put down their plates on the table according to percussion of the Dresden Dolls; or another girl sways and wiggles back into her jacket while Regina Spektor arpeggiates.

While I’m working, the regular non-student kitchen staff will each come out and take their half hour break at one point or another. Today, I noticed one man on his break. Emelio. He was sitting at one of the small tables near the large windows. His back was to the window so he could observe the happy satisfied student customers, like I was. He’s not an old man, not enough to be grey, but just enough so the deep marks of his face could now be called wrinkles if they were called acne scars before. His eyes are perpetually half closed. Not out of sleepiness, but rather out of a deep instinctual kind of focus that does not even seem to be all that intense anymore, although it might have been once. Now, only habitual.

His stillness caught my attention. And by stillness I do not mean lifelessness, for he was indeed not stoic or cold. Just still. He had finished his meal, and his plate and used napkin sat in front of him on the table. His elbows rested there too, on either side of the plate, his hands brought up to his face, one wrapped loosely around the other, as if in casual prayer. His chin did not rest on, but rather contemplated a physical contact with his thumb knuckles. He was just watching. His eyes did not move much, and when they did it was slowly. It was hard to decide if he really was watching any individual students, or just taking in the flutter of the room as a whole. I wondered what he was thinking about. I wondered what language his thoughts were in, or if it was language at all. Did it have anything to do with what he saw or where he was? Today, tomorrow, or 30 years ago? I really could not know, and compared with the people I involve myself with on a daily basis, who cannot help but to wear the slightest emotion on their face and in their body, who are of the habit of expressing every complexity of thought and feeling, this man’s simplicity of countenance was a quiet enigma, brief as it was.

I never made eye contact with him in the short time I watched his reverie. I moved to a table accross the room and when I looked over again, his table was empty. I didn’t dwell on him too long, but as you can see, he made a lasting impression. Just by sitting still.

This thing could be a hypnotists best friend.

bgerberick — Wed, 06 May 2009 04:32:01 +0000

Thank you StumbleUpon! If you want to feel unproductive, have I got the site for you.

http://www.vaiavanti.com/

Have fun. And, don’t try to stand up to fast after watching this for a while. Ask me how I know.

Rain in place of church can yeild some interesting dreams.

bgerberick — Sun, 03 May 2009 19:13:43 +0000

Although it’s rather cliche I’m choosing to write about a dream I just had. I don’t remember the last time I stayed in bed until eleven, and I’m not even dressed as I write this. It may not even prove to be anything significant or remarkable, but I had such a strong emotional reaction to it that I want to record it before I lose it, as dreams always have a tendency to lose there clarity the longer we stay conscious.

I had the sincere intent of getting up and going to church this morning when I went to bed last night. I set my alarm early, and when it went off, I habitually hit the snooze. I heard rain whispering on the concrete and asphalt down below me outside and pulled back the curtain by my bed to see a grey haze awaiting my walk to the bus stop. Rain is not normally a deterrent for me when it comes to walking, but I decided to let the sound of the rain put me back to sleep for a while.

The dream started, or at least the significant part of it, with me driving with someone into my old neighborhood in my home town, the culdasak where m parents still live. I don’t know that they lived there in the dream, but it was a neighborhood that exactly resembled it.

I think I watch too much Law and Order; in the dream I was a cop or someone who had the right to carry a gun. The person I drove with must have been my partner. I got out of the car and walked back toward the back of a driveway between two houses. It was much more overgrown than it is today, and I had to duck around branches and tall grass before I could see what was back there. I don’t know what I was meant to be looking for, but I was sure there was something at the back of the driveway that I had to deal with.

Along the back fence, I saw two little girls, one with a white shirt and pink shorts with a pony tail, and one in a blue shirt and purple shorts with her hair half pulled back in a braid, half down. They were playing together contently enough, but for the fact that they were playing with a gun. The little one with the pony tail was holding the gun with as much know-how as an adult and pointing it at her sister. The other turned around laughing and covered her head bending towards the ground with her head between her knees. The girl with the gun shot. It only clicked, nothing happened. It wasn’t loaded. They both started laughing.

I approached them and startled them. As I began to talk to them I found out that they were sisters, and the gun had been given to them to play with by a male guardian. Probably their father, but that detail has already slipped. I asked them if I could see it and they handed it to me. The one in the blue shirt looked at me as if she didn’t trust me. I spoke to them in spanish off and on and decided to invite them into my house where they could be safe (from what danger I could not, and still can’t attach a name). I told them I had a garden and invited them to help me pick the tomatoes and whatever else was ripe. I said that I just wanted to make sure that they were safe and okay. The one who had held the gun now grasped my arm and said that she wanted to come, the other followed somewhat reluctantly.

We walked to the front and I signaled to the person sitting in the car to come with us into the house. As we crossed the drive way, a car drove up and stopped in the street. A man in a white shirt and a shaved head got out and yelled to the girls. They both made to run for the car, the one in the blue shirt made it all the way there and turned back to look for her sister. I tried to hold them, but had to call to them to get them to stop. The one with the white shirt did and looked back at me. I repeated to her that I wasn’t going to hurt her, I just wanted to make sure she was okay. The man at the car yelled to her demanding that she come over to the car. She looked between us, and I held out my arms and entreated her with, “sweetie” and repeated again that I was going to make sure she was safe. She ran back to me and secured her arms around my neck.

I stood up, and as I did, like a time lapse shot in a movie, she became a couple years older, about 6, and the people in the car vanished. I was saying goodbye to her, now. She was going away somewhere, I don’t know where, but it was the last time we were going to see each other. There was a very strong emotional attachment to this little one on my part, and I was fighting tears as I spoke to her. She was sad and asked me if I was too. Speaking in both spanish and english we talked with her arms still around my neck, me holding her against my hip. I said I was very happy she and her sister were going to be safe and happy, but I was sad I wasn’t going to see her anymore. There was enough of an attachment for both of us that I can now assume we had seen each other with great frequency before now. She put her hands on my cheeks with infant-like affection and an immature grace. I can’t say this morning what we said back and forth, but we spoke a little longer and she kissed my cheek, and I kissed hers and her little tan shoulders and arms repeatedly as I cried, and held her head down on my shoulder. I felt her tiny fingers move up and down on the back of my shoulders to soothe me.

I don’t know how we finally parted, but I know that I cried more and longer in this dream than in any other I can recall before. I think I may have even shed tears onto my pillow. I have no idea where my emotional attachment to this imagined little girl came from, but I was devastated at the thought of losing her indefinitely. I woke up, almost relieved by the release, reminded of how much I miss the children I worked with at the pre-school where I used to work. It has been so long since I worked with children, I can’t wait to start my summer jobs when I’ll get to see them again. When I looked out the window, it did not look like any time had passed outside. They same grey haze served as sky and I could again hear the pitter of the rain. The clock proved otherwise though, and I had run out of time to get ready for church. I’m happy I was able to record this before work. Again, I don’t know why this dream affected me so dramatically, but I don’t remember ever having an emotional reaction to compare with it. Thanks for reading.

Lauch Pad

bgerberick — Fri, 01 May 2009 20:17:05 +0000

So, I’ll tell you what I’m NOT going to do…

After some casual deliberation, I’ve made some decisions about how I’m going to utilize the outlet of having this blog. First of all, while I do have other creative writing pieces and poetry and whatnot, I’m not going to devote my time to replicating them onto this site. Not only would that be rather time consuming, as I have pieces that span a couple journals and files stored in my computer, so just going to search and select what I would want to display here would be a challenge, but! i think that they have a right to “rest in piece” (forgive the attempt a pun). Some of my work is really old. Teenager years. Not to say that it’s not good, I wouldn’t be holding onto them if I didn’t think it had some value, but including them in a public collection would undoubtedly provoke me to start tweaking again, in order to more closely reflect my perspective now, versus a few years ago. You get the idea, anyway. I’m going to just let them lie as they are, and move forward. Each one is contained in whatever space I chose to keep it, and that’s where they belong. If I keep returning to work I’ve already done, I’m not going to improve my skills. And as this blog seems as though it’s shaping up to be mainly a creative outlet rather than an on-line journal update, at least until I go to Spain, I’d say that I’ve resolved to keep moving forward with my writing. For the sake of comparison, and if i get enough readers interested, I may post a previous-work page someday, but that’s the plan for now. So, stay tuned; something interesting is bound to happen. Hopefully. Now go splash in a puddle!! You’ll enjoy it more than you think.