Epic Dreaming Of Vampires, Werewolves, And Vikings.

As per usual, I had a vivid and epic dream with an intricate storyline. This one however did not include a celebrity cameo. It was about vampires and other paranormal creatures. Mostly vampires.

With most dreams, they come back to you in waking hours little by little. Sometime in just emotions that shroud you in the ambient haze of the dream itself. That is what today’s dream did. As I go about my day... er... night, the details descend upon me like long forgotten memories.

The first thing I recall from the dream is being surrounded by fire in a large storage building. There were people running around confused, I saw men pointing the way to the exits. I ran the opposite direction, into the fire. I knew there were people inside that needed to be saved. I arrived at the epicenter of the flames and there sitting on a row of wooden crates were about five vampires, trapped by the fire. I used all of my strength to carry them all out at once.

Once out in the open, in a thickly wooded area, the vampires surrounded me. More than five now. They circled me, sniffing and smiling. I stood there covered in soot ready to be made into a meal. But that did not happen. A well dressed vampire with long dark hair reached for my hand and began wiping the soot from my skin with his lacy handkerchief. He told me I needed to go back into the burning building to save the precious pieces of artwork. That art was the only thing that kept the human race tolerable. So I ran into the building engulfed in fire and brought out the wooden crates the vampires were guarding. Inside were paintings and marble sculptures all with a carnal theme. All depicting vampires in the thrall of sexual conquest over a mortal woman.

The dark haired vampire told me that I was an enemy of their race. I began to change into a wolf in response to his taunt. He sniffed me again and said to me, “There is fae inside this wolf.” I ran into the woods and found myself on the edge of a cliff. Where I jumped into the churning waters below. I swam to an island and was again met by vampires. The dark haired one paced in front of me waiting for me to change again. I didn’t. He offered me a position within the high council of vampires as a high priestess. I would become a coveted oracle among the undead. They would bring children to me as offerings. I would put the children into my room and hide them inside a room with golden walls. They would write down their dreams and tell me about their imaginary friends. And I would care for them and make talismans against their fear.

The vampires would fight over who would bring me the most sexual pleasure. All lined up at my door for the chance to bed me. They would grow stronger on my blood. It became addictive like a drug. One told me that the fire was intentionally set by the vampires to entice me into their council. They needed a seer and wanted to drink my blood. I was furious and began to seek out the dark haired vampire.

When I found him I was so entranced with him that I didn’t kill him. Instead I had sex with him in the middle of the forest as a wolf. Then the wolf/fae hybrid I was drank his blood. He gave me the gift of shape shifting into mist. He and I became the king and queen of the vampire council. He was my exclusive lover from that point on. I learned to use magic and began using it to find magical pieces of art. We then opened a temple where those pieces of art were used by mortal magicians in order to take down the corrupt human system of government. Our plan was to replace it with an old Norse drinking hall. And all decisions made on behalf of the governments of the human race would be made by representatives from ancient gods.

The fae folk found out I was in league with vampires and demanded a place at the government hall.

And it was about then that I awoke. Feeling very emotional and drained. Somewhere in this dream is a story that I must write. And write it I shall, but not until I finish the million I have already started.

I have no desire to analyze this dream as it was too entertaining to break down into the fucked up nature of my being. I’m sure there is a therapy session waiting for this one. But for now, it is just an amazing story.

Knock Knock. Who's There? Zombie Epiphany. Zombie Epiphany Who?

BRAINZZZZZZZZZ

Yesterday I visited a part of my past best left in my past. Also, I’d like you to know that while I am typing most of this, I’ve been awake for over 24 hours. And under the influence of Tylenol PM because my insomnia just keeps getting worse. If this post seems rambling, that’s why. Or maybe I am just releasing some pent up rage over pieces of my upbringing. Either way, it’s your own fault for reading this as I warned you it is all kinds of fucked up. I am all kinds of fucked up. Well, not in the murderous want to kill you with a sharpened pasta fork kind of way. More in the holy shit this girl has had some weird fucked up shit happen to her in her life and she is amazingly normal-esque in spite of the shit that has happened kind of way. Also, SHE’S A WITCH. Oh my fuck, She. Is. A. Witch.
 
You know, I told you to turn back in that last paragraph. Carry on if you must.

Walking into a place of worship that caused so many scars in my psyche was like being a rape victim being forced to relive her rape at the scene of the crime. (Sounds dramatic, I know. But it is exactly how I feel. Violated by God’s fan club.) It was nerve wracking to say the least. I have been out of the grip of this religious group for about 25 years now and it still burns me up inside to see the way they treat people outside of their accepted parameters. The reason for my being back there was that a wonderful woman who was a part of my life from the very beginning passed away. For her I showed the respect she deserved and faced up to my reluctance to cross that threshold again. She was a rarity among humans, much less the bible thumping humans. Her existence was a gift from whatever source lies in the ether.

The building itself once held power over me, just as the people inside it did. Strict doesn’t even begin to cover it. Picture being a 10 year old forced to sit in the school library while other kids ate birthday cake or holiday candy. For a child to be so banished from parties by her own parents in front of her peers is more than emotionally crippling, it is downright cruel. The therapy that followed years later was inevitable. I guess one good thing came from all of those embarrassing trips to the library, I learned to love books. Getting lost in fantasy became a way of life for me that continues to this day.

Some of my memories are so tainted with my eventual disgust for what I was forced to endure that I block out a majority of the details. I remember asking questions and getting stock answers that never made any sense to me. The contradictions were apparent before I knew what the word contradiction meant.

I’ve touched on my religious upbringing in previous posts so I won’t bore you with an abundance of repeat information.

The issue that has been at the tip of my tongue for weeks now (ok, let’s face it, decades now) is the cult mentality of the group. If you know me, you will know the religion I speak of. If you do not, I then you can insert any organized religion you like. Most of them have the same basic shortcomings. The human tendency to judge then lord there beliefs over you as if it makes them superior to you. It becomes even worse if you have been associated with their group previously. Then they take the ‘shun the nonbeliever’ attitude and label you a traitor to their crown of thorns. I think in their minds you become worse than a murderer and must be avoided for fear of contamination of the entire flock. I have discovered that logic equals contamination.

What I have witnessed lately is the most unchristian behavior of so called christians. I myself am not a so called christian, but that does not mean that I don’t respect or acknowledge the Christian pantheon. To treat a person like garbage during a time of crisis is not what I read in the teachings of the man they call Christ. I also remember from my Bible reading days that one should not judge without acceptance of being judged oneself. And holding a grudge against someone who sinned as a teenager for 20 years is a bit excessive. Then blaming the person who sinned for not wanting to continue to be brainwashed and emotionally tortured by the religious cult that villainizes you. It is a sick cycle of petty attitude that really boil down to wanting to hold power over everyone else in the false name of Christianity. Who makes good decisions when they are a teenager? Not any that I have ever known, especially not me. Really, I made some after school special sized mistakes when I was an angsty youth.

So now here we are 20+ years later, a group of children raised to become the next generation of ‘Go Forth And Preach It Christians’. All finding our own paths in this life, none of them within that original dogma we were force fed. What does that say? That an entire generation found the restrictive judgemental regime to be a mountain of pompous egos systematically set to destroy individuality? Yes I am angry. I have been playing nice for so long because I didn’t want to rock my mothers belief system too harshly. But after crossing that threshold again as a free thinking adult I saw their real faces. The faces of fear. Not of me fearing them. But of them fearing anything different and out of their realm of explanation. These are the faces of the men and women who set about destroying the world through such times as the Spanish Inquisition and the Salem Witch trials. Some are good people being controlled like puppets of a cult-minded society. Others are not so good and are perfect candidates for the misery they inflict on others.

I find it hard to face the faces that looked at me with such disdain as they did yesterday. I walked in to that building with my sister and a few others who felt as betrayed by them as I do. We stood together (some of us literally stood together) united in not letting them in to bully our brains. The brainwashing was wiped from me long ago, but pieces still surface. Once in a while a voice that is not my own whispers words from that long ago place. I like to call it our club of disillusionment. We grew up to be part of that scary world we were warned against; a polytheistic witch, a criminal, a lesbian, a bunch of fornicators, a few still searching for their sins, and multiple rejected members of said Christian society.

I feel those old resentments rising up in my throat like bile. The taste so acidic that I might choke. But this is me we are talking about, while swallowing down that acrid childhood I noticed that some of the basic canon of this organization seem very much like awaiting to be turned into a zombie. I couldn’t help but get the giggles during the singing one of their songs(hymns to any other organization) talking about God raising the dead to walk again on earth. That sounds exactly like a zombie raising to me. It may not have been the first time I noticed that Jesus was a zombie, but it was the first time I realized that there would eventually be a joyous army of zombies rising after the world ends. Quite a visualization really. So I left that foreboding building a little less traumatised with the knowledge that I will survive that particular zombie apocalypse because I am a lowly sinner. Or should I say zombie Armaggedon.  

Later in the the day, I also learned, via autocorrect, that my current state of existence has a name and her name is Myra. So after a few hours of contemplation, I have come to the conclusion that I will call my world Myra and all who want to be a part of my world will now be known as The Fellowship of Myra. Or for short F-Myra. Possibly for shorter FM. Needless to say, Myra is a shiny place where magical creatures abound and stories never end. Glitter, rainbows, and an occasional zombie uprising fill the streets of Myra.

Taming My Inner Elephants And Becoming My Childhood Heroes, 80's Style.

Danny DeVito not included...

When I was a youngster coming into humanhood in the pixelated aura of silver screen heroes I wanted to grow up to be Joan Wilder. An unassuming sexy writer who finds herself entrenched in adventure and a love affair in a far off land. I mean, who wouldn’t want to be her? I had this fantasy that if I wrote stories and epic adventures my very own Jack Colton would find me. He’d be unable to resist my shy witty charm. We would run through a jungle dodging danger at every turn.

Then I grew up. I forgot that I wanted to be Joan Wilder. I forgot about writing stories for years. It’s funny, it was when I went back to school to become a nurse that I remembered that I wanted to write. I never really stopped writing. I just forgot that I wanted to make it more than a stress reliever. More than a hobby. I have been writing words on paper since I was 5 years old. The words I wrote made other people happy. Teachers were impressed with my words. Local papers published my poems.

Then I grew up. Life became a constant struggle to pay bills. Writing was an occasional past time. Eventually it was just a long ago dream. The girl who wanted to write stories never became Joan Wilder. She became me, the girl who write stories once in a while. The only difference is that now I don’t want to be a fictional character from a 80’s film. I want to be Amy the writer who finds her own adventures and writes about them. I have so many stories fighting for release from my head that my problem becomes a matter of focus. I start writing a piece of each story rarely finding an ending before the next story finds it's way out. These days I rarely go for more than a few hours without writing words on paper.

This is where the wild elephant comes charging into my brain's little word village. (I have a few villages inside my head. One specifically for Elvis Impersonators. But that's not important now.) When I was studying with Buddhist monks they told me a story about meditation and how the mind during meditation is a wild elephant raging through, untamed, damaging all in it’s wake. This is how all of the stories in my mind feel. They are wild elephants trampling there way out. In order to be what I want to be when I grow up I need to become an elephant trainer. I have to tame the elephants or I will never be the Amy version of Joan Wilder. Yes, I still write for myself. To make me happy and somewhat stress free. But now I feel compelled to make my stories available for others to read. The concept is intimidating to say the least. I do not like the whole publishing world and it's elitism. Nevertheless, it’s a calling. I’m finally old enough to make a go of it without fear of rejection. Well, mostly without fear of rejection. Let's say it's fear of rejection with a side of holy shit people will know shit about me and be all judgy about it.

All of these thoughts have been coming to me lately in the wake of death. The deaths of a few friends that made a huge impact on my life. It brought to the forefront of my mind the importance of being true to myself. My wants, my needs, my desires are viable entities worthy of coming to fruition. Life is way too unpredictable to sit around wanting things that I’m too scared to pursue. It’s time to actually finish what I start. Maybe enter a writing contest or dip my toes into the publishing world. Intimidating or not, I want to try. I have managed to finish four short stories so far. So maybe I can collect one fragmented thought at a time. Taming each elephant with a resolution to become the hero of my own adventure story.

I have no desire to be the next great American novelist. That’s not my style. I just want to entertain others with the stories that entertain me, the stories that keep me sane with their whimsical insanity. Maybe I will become Joan Wilder after all.

Next up in Lizzard world...  how I plan to become a time traveller ala Marty McFly style and possibly a vampire hunter Frog Brother's style. Or I could find a pirate's treasure like a mutha fuckin' Goonie. 

The Magical Properties Of Grandmothers

This post is completely the result of a strange and magical dream I had in which I rescued Neil Gaiman (@Neilhimself) from a gypsy prison. Then hid him inside a bunk bed where we wrote a paper on the magical properties of grandmothers and the corresponding magical properties of baked goods as made by grandmothers. It was established that the only way to counteract the gypsy curse inevitably cast upon us was to employ the magic of a grandmother’s freshly baked bread. As neither Neil or myself had any living grandparents (This was a dream remember, I have no idea if Neil has any living grandparents in the real world. You’ll have to ask him about that.) we set out on a journey to find a grandmother in the forest and have her bake a magical loaf of bread in order to banish the gypsy curse.

Unfortunately I woke up before a resolution was found. The whole dream was reminiscent of the stories I used to write about The Rat Guru. As he would use baked goods to scry for the future. It occurred to me that maybe this dream was a little nudge to resurrect those stories. I do miss sitting in The Rat Guru’s garden sipping lavender tea and eating pineapple upside down cake while listening to satyrs and dragons tell tales of old worlds and new perils.

Here are some of the points of Grandmother Magic as discussed by Neil and myself in the dream (at least what I can remember of it):

1. Fairy tale Grandmothers usually have roles of power within the story. Even as the victim in Red Riding Hood she has the power of sacrifice.

2. The physical manifestation of the crone goddess- often misunderstood, as society places greater emphasis on youth. The crone is a powerful manifestation of womanhood at the end of life’s cycle. But only from her death/destruction can rebirth/creation take place. Therefore she has the most powerful role.

3. Grandmothers wrap their grandchildren in a protective cloak of love by means of knitted or crocheted blankets, gloves, and scarves... and sometimes the scent of cinnamon. Similar to psychic armor to protect the young until they have learned how to protect themselves.

4. The grandmother voice can invoke security, sleep, and wide-eyed illumination in regards to life. The sound of age and experience can calm a child, excite a child, and also discipline a child without more than a few melodic notes.

5. Grandmothers bake magic into their treats in order to infuse grandchildren with sense of freedom and invincibility. This is a first step in introducing independence in their young ones. Guiding them to be singular entities powerful in their own right.

6. Like a witch mixing a potion, a grandmother uses spices in their baked goods such as bread, cake, and cookie spells that are portable talismans against the evils of the world. By ingesting the spells, the full effects are infused directly on a cellular level.

7. A grandmother’s hug drapes her grandchildren with an aura of delight. Therefore disguising her grandchildren from forces of harm. Happiness, contentment, and joy are natural barriers from evil. Giggles are especially powerful charms to boost the happiness barrier.

In order to dispel the gypsy curse with grandmother magic it will take a very old grandmother and a very old recipe for a dark rye bread and a cup of freshly blended peppermint tea. The magic comes from ingesting the bread and tea ourselves while somehow utilizing the crumbs to encircle the gypsy encampment, trapping their curses within.

It seems that this dream has a good foundation for a story. Which I may write soon. But I have too many others in the works that need to be finished before I get to this one. I am intrigued by the whole concept of grandmothers as magical superheros.

My grandmother was certainly all of the things listed above and more. Her name was Leona and she was one of the most cherished parts of my childhood. She was magic. I bet no gypsy curse would have ever stood a chance against her moxie.

*This post is completely the result of way too much twitter.

My own silver ribbon.

I am posting a link to this blog simply because I have been struggling with similar issues.  

My battle with depression has been ongoing and silent. It is one that comes with a cost. Pride sometimes keeps me from acknowledging my depression for what it is. I touched on it in a few previous posts. But the truth is, the grip of this illness suffocates me at times.

I self medicate with social interactions. Sometimes becoming inappropriate with my friends. Trying to replace feeling with other feelings is a tricky business. I utilize my skill with herbs to alleviate the pain or lack of pain at times. But none of these things cures the disease raging inside me. It is an intermittent condition for me. As a medical professional, sometimes I forget I need to ask for help too. Being a nurse who works with mentally disabled elderly* can skew my perception of normal. Sometimes I get lost in the imaginary world I live and work in.

I do my meditations. I chant my mantras. I rub my ointments and oils on myself. But the only thing that has made a difference is time. Taking the time to allow myself to look into the eyes of the beast and let it run it's course. 

Right now, I am running with the beast. But I am not alone. I am not a slave to the beast. He is my companion, but he does not rule me. Once in a while he carries me more than I carry him. It is anything but a symiotic relationship. We are unhealthy for each other. But we remain entangled in each other's lives. 

I do not ask you to do anything for me. If you see me at the coffee shop or the pub, just give me a hug. That is my favorite medicine.

 

*For those who don't know, I work with patients suffering from Alzheimer's Disease and other forms of Dementia.