In my dream last night I was a Japanese female who was in love with a Japanese male. We were both involved in an all-encompassing virtual world where you could do or be anything you wanted. Except in that world, he fell in love with an avatar, fell out of love with me, and began to ignore me. That part was sad!
On one hand, my heart was broken. On the other hand, the virtual world we lived in was AMAZING and it was the first time I had ever been somebody else so different (and so interesting) from my real-life self in a dream.
Though the dream was sad, it was also pretty damned amazing overall. I'd love to go back into that dream and live that life again, even though I'd have to dump my old boyfriend and find a new one (which, given how pretty I was in the dream, probably wouldn't be an issue).
I feel sorry for people who never remember their dreams. What incredible journeys I've taken while asleep! If only they were real...
Funny the things you remember for no apparent reason. In 5th grade, I lived in Radcliff, Kentucky. My ex-stepfather (also known as the devil) was stationed at Fort Knox. I attended an elementary school in Radcliff. Because I was a military brat,
we moved a lot and I ended up changing schools frequently. As a result, I met countless interesting and/or weird people.
One day I was on the playground with a bunch of other girls. None of them were friends, but instead, they were classmates hanging out and talking about silly stuff, as kids that age often do.
There was one girl who had shoulder-length, white blonde hair. All natural. She was what my mom called a 'towhead.' She had pale skin, too. I think her name was Kim, but I knew so many girls named Kim back in those days that it may not have been her name.
We were gathered in a circle, talking about spooky stuff – ghosts and the like – and she told us that, every now and then, she zoned out and entered into a trace, staring at nothing and not speaking or anything.
Of course, on some level, you figure it's a load of bullshit and she's likely making it up to scare us. But when you're sharing stories about weird and scary stuff, who cares? The goal is to terrify the piss out of everyone, including yourself.
We're all out there as a group of awkward elementary school girls, telling stories, laughing, and whatever else for a while. Then, out of the blue, Kim freezes. Her eyes stare forward. She's transfixed on something, though there wasn't anything interesting in front her. Nothing but a worn blacktop playground/basketball court and a bleak landscape, punctuated by the echoes of kids laughing and playing in the background. We tried to talk to her, but she was planted firmly to the ground, her skinny legs stalk straight and unmoving. She rarely blinked. She continued to stare at nothing.
A few minutes passed before she emerged from her alleged trance. Then, all of a sudden, she was back in the midst of the conversation, acting like she didn't know what we meant when we told her she'd zoned out. A couple girls shook her and asked, "Are you okay?" I didn't touch her, though.
Now, chances are it was fake and nothing but an act designed to creep us out. Kids do silly shit and play mind games like that. But still, with her near-white hair, pale skin, and staring icy-blue eyes, she was fucking creepy as hell. Bullshitting or not, she had the act down pat.
Not sure what happened to Kim (or whatever her name was), but maybe she grew up to be an actor and starred in horror movies or something. If she didn't, that girl missed her calling. Even today, decades later, I recall the blank, spooky expression on her face while her rigid body stood there, frozen, as she peered out into another world we obviously couldn't see. I still get chills over it.
Wonder where she is today?
Does she still live in Kentucky?
Is she still alive?
Does she remember that day on the playground?
Was she pulling our legs, or was it real?
My imagination wants to believe the latter, but my mind knows better.
Last night, as I battled another rough bout of insomnia and my mind wandered, I remembered that odd moment on the playground. And I shivered.
It's nearly May. As of next month, I will mark 21 years as a professional writer and editorial service provider. It's my life's work and always will be.
These days, I'm focusing on my own writing after spending a great number of years editing mostly other people's writing. I enjoy working with other scribes; however, I made a promise to myself the end of last year that, in 2018, I would devote most of my energy to writing for myself – not just for pay, but for personal gratification as well. It's a gift to myself, and I damn well deserve it.
I've always found solace in words. They're an unending source of comfort, they're my truest love, and they're an unquestionable rock of stability providing strength throughout my life, regardless of the trials or tribulations I've slogged through. From a young age, words were always there for me. They've never abandoned me, and they never will.
Wherever I go, words are with me. Inside of me. Living, breathing, and blooming from my heart and soul. If you read my words, you will know who I am, just as you will know any other writer/author from his or her words.
To delve into the psychology of any writer, read their poems, stories, articles, or books. Doesn't matter if the work is fiction or nonfiction. They all leave clues about their creator if you investigate deep enough.
My adopted father, Leo C. Walton, Sr., taught me the love of words and books from the time I was a wee girl. I had a beloved Dandelion Library, and he read to me every night. This is why I use Bev Walton-Porter as my primary author name. I made the decision to honor my father because, had he not taught me to be an avid reader, I'm not sure I would've had the curiosity or courage to become a professional author, freelance writer, and editorial service provider.
Many of the friends I have today started out as editing clients or students in my online courses many years ago. My life has been enriched by every single one of them. Turns out, I've learned more from them than they ever learned from me!
Why am I posting this? I'm not sure. Except that I feel gratitude toward the many people who've supported and encouraged me throughout the past 21 years. Even if it's in a seemingly insignificant way.
Nothing is insignificant when it comes to people and relationships, even if the connection is as slight and delicate as a gossamer thread spun by a random arachnid. For good or ill, every interaction leaves an imprint on your life and affects you in some way, whether you choose to acknowledge it or not.
So, as much as I claim to be a misanthrope, without people – and especially loved ones – there would be no Bev Walton-Porter. Or books, or writing, or publishing, or creation of anything.
For whatever it's worth, THANK YOU ALL for being my family, being my friends, being my enemies, being supporters/encouragers, being readers, being PRESENT in my life at some point, however peripheral it may seem.
Finally, thanks to all of those who DIDN'T believe in me way back in May 1997 when I took the first steps toward becoming a professional writer, author, and editorial service provider. Your cynicism and doubt helped motivate me, acting as powerful fuel over the past 21 years. I like to give credit where credit is due, after all. 😉
I'd be interested in your comments or analysis, if any:
Another nightmare last night (I tend to have nightmares and night terrors on occasion due to my PTSD).
In this dream, I was in a bedroom of an unfamiliar house. I was with my adopted mom, Shirley, and we were napping. Suddenly, we heard a loud racket downstairs in the basement. Someone was throwing things around and making scary banging noises. Mom was lethargic and didn't want to do anything about it, but I was immediately on alert and rushed to shut and lock the door. I told her she needed to get up, and get up NOW, because someone could mean us harm.
Eventually, she pulled herself off the bed and helped me brace the door with our bodies. By that time, someone was pushing the door open (the lock must've broken). I had my back to the door, pushing with all my might, and Mom was in front of me, trying to help.
Fear trickled through my veins and I was trying to scream, to yell, to make noise -- to tell her to push harder, not to let them in. But my voice wouldn't go louder than a whisper, and when I tried to yell, only a breathy utterance came out.
I've had this happen with my voice in other dreams recently. I'll try to yell because I'm in danger, and my voice won't go above being weak and whispery, with some of the words not even coming out so they can be heard at all. It's complete terror to be in danger and not to be able to scream or alert others of your plight.
Lots to unpack about this dream, but the voice thing is a new addition to the frequent dream theme of being lost in an airport, huge warehouse, or on a college campus where I'm supposed to know the way, but get lost over and over and can't find my way out or back to where I feel safe.
If I don't take my Trazodone, the dreams are worse and much, much scarier. My imagination runs wild in my dreams, and everything's intense and in full Technicolor.
The other night, I woke up and was scared to death. I didn't even know why, but I was hypervigilant. I reached out to touch Paul because I had to touch SOMEONE or SOMETHING to bring me back to reality. He was sleeping and never woke up. I didn't wake him up, either, because he's been incredibly tired lately, and it wouldn't have been fair to interrupt his sleep.
Thing is, Paul will tell you that, unlike most people, I don't run away from night terrors, I run TOWARD them. He's seen me do it countless times. I go on the attack toward whatever it is that scares me, I don't run away, and that's why he tells friends he's 'surprised he hasn't peed blood' because if he's in between me and IT (whatever IT is), I will try to go over or through him to keep HIM safe, too. Overactive imagination much? Yeah, you could say so.
During my first marriage, Gary was gone almost all the time and I was home alone with the kids, working and taking care of things. One night, I slept on the couch and I woke up and, in my mind, I thought I saw someone trying to crawl into the house through the windows in the dining room, which was in direct eyeshot of where I was sleeping.
Instead of running away, I rushed toward the window, grabbed whatever I could, and yelled, "Come on, motherf*cker, I'll KILL you!" In retrospect, VERY stupid. I mean...guns, right? What if that had happened and they had a weapon? But in my dreamy haze, I only knew there was a threat to me and my children, so I attacked.
When I was a little girl, my pediatrician told Mom not to let me watch scary shows -- not even Casper the Ghost! -- because my imagination was so active that it wouldn't take much to send me into a state of terror. But I love horror films and they rarely scare me. My dreams do, though.
My mind knows what scares me, and if I could pen all the stories it tells me when I dream, I'd never run out of material. How I feel about these dreams is typical for me: some days I dislike it, other days I embrace it. I can see the good and the bad in them. As with anything else in this world (or beyond), there are two sides to the same coin: dark/light, harsh/mellow, hot/cold, positive/negative. More often than not, I get most of my story ideas and characters from dreams.
If you think it's confusing being my friend and not knowing where I'm going to come from or go to next with my thoughts or posts, you can't imagine what it's like to be inside my mind. But because I'm a writer, I wouldn't have it any other way.