What Dreams May Come

I had that dream again. You know the one. I've experienced it sporadically over the last twenty years.

For me, the setting is the good 'ole days of marching band, although I'd wager some version of it will be familiar to anyone that has ever worked diligently to memorize any sort of arrangement.

The dream goes like this: I find myself about to hit the field—something I've done in real life more times than I can count—only this time, I can't remember what show I'm about to perform. I can't recall the music, the steps, or even the current year. It is like I've suddenly been transported back in time, but I'm still the "me" of the present.

Not an ideal scenario, as you might imagine. Can't we do the one where I win the lottery again? I like that one.

I don't have a uniform or an instrument. I have to mime holding a saxophone as I waddle aimlessly around the field in my street clothes. (At least this isn't the "naked dream." That's an altogether different adventure.) I don't understand why I still have to march, considering the fact I'm obviously a time-traveling 42-year-old experiencing what any rational observer would logically conclude is some sort of complete mental breakdown.

I've never understood this dream, but I've had it many times over the years. It is a startlingly realistic simulation. I wake up in a sweat, taking several seconds to reorient myself as to where and WHEN I am. 

It was only a dream. I'm okay. No one calls me "Chris" anymore. It was only a dream...

I wonder if Steph ever had this dream. I know she often dreamt of moving back into the house we lived in growing up, which is another single hot off my REM-induced greatest hits.

Weird, huh? What does any of it mean… if anything?

As someone who doesn't usually recall my dreams, these always hit me right in the gut. It is like I was really there. (I guess I was once, wasn't I? It was awkward then, too, for entirely different reasons.)

Oh, well. Here, in the waking world, I now have a very real problem...

…I can't get back to sleep.

The Star Wars Holiday "Special"

Every holiday has a legend.

Long before there was a LEGO Star Wars Holiday Special, there was... another.

A thing so remarkable, so legendary, so inexplicably special, that its legacy lives on — a tale whispered in secluded corners of disreputable taverns, or a spellbinding limerick melodiously sung by traveling minstrels who are hard up for booze.

This is an experience whose joy can only be surpassed by the likes of a flock of dentists simultaneously performing a hundred root canals, or a bloody nose lovingly gifted by your older brother.

Friends, it is in the spirit of this wondrous season, and the magic that is 2020, that I present to you:

The ORIGINAL Star Wars Holiday Special. With a generous side-order of 1970's funkadelic goodness.

***Best consumed with copious amounts of reality-altering narcotics.***

https://youtu.be/6hH8rxarVG8

P.S. This was where audiences first were introduced to Boba Fett!

The adventures will continue...

I got caught up with editing chapters so I completely forgot about last night's V.P. debate. With all due respect to American political theater, I think my time was spent productively.

But since we're talking about it, I do have a confession: the full-length sequel to last year's 𝘛𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘚𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘎𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘚𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 (specifically, the further exploration of mysterious events involving a certain little town called Wickertree) won't be ready by this Halloween, as was our original intention.

I promise we're still working on it. This year, you may be surprised to learn, has gone somewhat off the rails. Since A. M. and I are self-publishing, we have to do all of the leg work ourselves, and real-life stubbornly insists on occurring between the pages.

There is good news: the story is benefiting from these occasional hiccups. Seeing the events from a fresh perspective after a bit of a break has been fantastic for the narrative. Some extraneous bits have been deleted, while other scenes have been extended. There are some genuinely terrifying scenes this time, as well as my specific brand of awkward levity. The characters are beginning to live and breathe on their own (except, of course, for the dead ones). We aim to tell a polished story, and parts of it are definitely shining.

However — with our deepest apologies — it will be told a little later than originally planned.

The wait will be worth it.

Remembering September 11, 2001

Like all days that go on to shatter reality, September 11, 2001, started out deceptively innocent.

I woke up. I took a shower. I dressed for work. I turned on the news to see a live picture of the World Trade Center in New York City, with smoke billowing out of one of the towers. The caption said a plane struck it.

While that was terrible enough on its own, it wasn't until I got to work that I started to understand the full extent of what was going on. The scant handful of customers who came in all carried rumors of what was happening in the outside world. Some were true; others, mere hearsay. It felt like Armageddon was unfolding right before our eyes. I ran to the back room every break to check the television for the latest updates. It was an unreal nightmare; one which has never ended.

At the time, I was dating a girl from the African country of Uganda. When I saw her, she hugged me and said words I will never forget, because they sent a chill down my spine: “Now it's here in your country.” Her family fled a military regime to find a better life here, only to discover terrorism had reached our shores as well. (In hindsight, dating 23-year-old me probably wasn’t her greatest life choice, either.)

Every generation has a date that lives in infamy. For mine, it’s 9/11/01. It sounds strange now that I know so many people who weren't alive then… how do you explain to a younger person there was a day when everything seemed to fall silent? Smartphones weren't around back then. Social media was still in its infancy. All we had was 24-hour news coverage on literally every channel; including cable.

I lost much of my remaining childhood wonder and innocence that day. It has taken me a long time to get some of it back, but it has come at the expense of living largely in my own head. Granted, this is great for writing stories or imagining a better reality, but it isn’t so great for living here, in the real world.

That day and the day my sister died were two very potent days in the forging of me, as I now stand (well, sit) before you. I have resolved to be the best me, and to make the world in my immediate vicinity as beautiful and magical a place as I am able, because evil – real, actual evil – can change the world in a handful of seconds.

We need to shine as much light as we possibly can.

Reading to Write

Every so often, I'll read something so amazing, the words so perfectly crafted, I'm momentarily tempted to surrender all of my writing instruments and never compose another word.

After all, how could I measure up with the likes of [legendary composition/composer]?

But then I'm reminded what any notable Writer will say when asked how one should start writing.

Read. Then, once you've done that, read some more. For dessert, keep right on reading. Embrace a lifelong commitment to the printed word, because it will eternally be your most intimate companion.

I am privileged to exist in a time with unprecedented access to literature; to be able to learn at the feet of masters. (They, you'll be pleased to know, are consummate readers themselves.)

I can't say whether or not I'll be a "successful" Writer. Several of you seem to enjoy my scribblings, so in many ways, it has already been worth the parts of me that have been embedded into ink and pixels.

It is, after all is said and done, what my soul calls me to do...if for no other reason than to experience that electric feeling of creating magic.

The Hero of the Story

During a conversation with friends earlier this evening, I was once again reminded that I'm technically old enough to be a grandfather.

This feels especially odd, given that I don't have kids (critters notwithstanding).

It's also somewhat panic-inducing. 

A part of my day job involves editing and publishing obituaries. I see life after life summarized in two or three glowing paragraphs, detailing lists of amazing accomplishments, and family members left behind.

Because I have depression and think about death a lot, I sometimes try to write my own obituary. And that's where the panic usually sets in—because I have nothing to say. Do I even have a legacy, besides a mastery of sarcasm and an impressive collection of memorized movie quotes? I feel like I peaked twenty years ago, and the time since then has just been one long screw-up-a-palooza.

"He suffered from prolonged bouts of anxiety and depression, so he mostly stayed home, dangling things in front of his cats for entertainment. They ate his body when he died, which cut down on funerary costs and the need to buy more cat food." -My obituary, probably.

<<Side note: Whenever I die, somebody better damn well take care of my critters. I don't care *if* they ate me, you scoop my corpse out of that litter box and you love those FURRY LITTLE ANGELS. End side note.>>

I've come to realize it is human nature to see the worst versions of ourselves. How many times have I written something just to think "this is rubbish" (I think it in a British accent because of Harry Potter), before chucking it in the recycle bin? I've written many pieces I thought were crap, but it made someone cry. Not because of the poor writing quality, but because it moved something in their soul. (Art truly is the best magic.)

I envy people who know who they are, and are themselves with confidence. Most days, I don't even know which t-shirt to wear. I usually default to Star Wars, because those are my cleanest and have the fewest holes. (What about dress shirts, you ask? Who am I, the Pope? Calm down, moneybags.)

My point is, in my more lucid moments, I realize that this is just what being a human is all about. None of us are truly happy; not always, at least. Social media posts aren't the real story, kids. We make what we can with what we've got, and we don't always do the best job at it. I have several friends that I greatly admire that have confided in me that they feel much as I often do: worthless. Like they're failing at this whole "being human" thing. Yet—at least to my point of view—they are a hero, and an inspiration to me. They'd laugh if they knew this, but it's true. It's partly why I'm writing this.

Amanda thinks I'm the bees knees (my words not hers), and that keeps me trucking along most days. Many of you have said truly kind things to me over the years that I didn't deserve, yet greatly appreciated. Don't think I've ever forgotten that kindness, partly because I'm rather obsessive about it, but also because this world could do with a bit more love. As a wise man once sang, it's all you need. If it could pay rent, I'd be GOLDEN.

I know someone, right now, has their own personal demon whispering sweet "you-are-nothings" in their ear. You don't feel like you're doing it right. You feel like you messed up. Trust me, I feel you. Been there, got the t-shirt, and it has holes in it.

However, whether you believe it or not, you're a hero. Or maybe a villain, if you're into that sort of thing. I'm not here to judge; just cheer you on as you pass me wheezing on the side of the road. (Don't mind me.)

Remember this: none of us gets out of this alive, and some of us might get eaten by cats. Maybe we shouldn't take this whole thing quite so seriously?

The Ten Year Void

Imagine you are on a spaceship, far from the protection of a planetary atmosphere. Without warning, the hatch breaches, and all of the breathable atmosphere is blown out into space.

You immediately become aware of two sensations: First, the total absence of sound. Your world has now become a desolate void of permanent silence.

The second sensation is one of suffocation. No matter how hard you try, you are unable to draw breath. Part of you—an essential, important part—has been ripped out of you, leaving behind a painful emptiness that can never be filled.

Such are the sensations when someone you love passes away. A part of your world is gone, and you can no longer hear nor draw breath. The damage, I’m sorry to say, is permanent. (Time does not, in fact, heal all wounds. It scabs over somewhat, but it rips open at the slightest touch, raw as the moment it was first inflicted.)

Ten years ago today, my sister's voice fell permanently silent.

She was more than a mere sibling to me: she was a trusted advisor, a fashion consultant, a mentor, an inspiration, and a friend. I was her little shadow, trailing several steps behind. Her wing always protected me, even if she would have rather I had been born a girl. (She reminded me of that fact often.)

I'm older now than she ever was in life, yet I still feel like a bumbling, baby brother. No matter how long I live, she'll always be older and wiser...and I'll always need her guidance. I regret that she never knew how much I looked up to her while she was alive. But, she knew she was loved, so that brings a small measure of peace to my troubled heart.

It seems impossible to survive ten years in a vacuum, but time has relentlessly marched on. I think of all the things she has missed. I reflect on how things would be different if she were still with us. The world would certainly be a brighter place.

But such things are not ours to comprehend.

We just have to do what we can to honor one life by living ours, even if an essential part is missing.