Entry Eighty-Seven

Tangible Nouns Intangible Nouns

Plate Fear

Tissue Anguish

Rope Hunger

Bowl Desire

Blanket Want

Sock Energy

House Love

Note Harmony

Clock Beauty

Mountain Understanding

Ocean Thought

Desert Excitement

Forest Foreboding

River Laughter

Stone Pain

Dirt Disquiet

Book Respect

So here is what I am going to do (or rather, this is what the writing exercise suggested I do).

I've made a list of tangible nouns and intangible nouns, as you can see. I wrote them all on little slips of paper and put them in two different piles. I drew one word from each pile and make phrases out of the. If you feel so inclined, add a couple of your own in the comments section!

1. A stone of love as in he/she felt the first stone of love sink to the bottom of his/her stomach.

2. A forest of hunger or maybe hungry as a forest? So far these aren't turning out as good as I hoped. But there are still many to go.

3. A bowl of harmony. I kind of like this one. You gotta eat yourself a big ol' bowl of harmony every morning to get you through the day!

4. A flower of beauty or a flowering beauty. This one is kind of unoriginal. But still nice.

5. A blanket of desire. I like this one. Especially if you think of a blanket as not a literal blanket but an object that covers and distorts everything else, as desire can. Especially when it is confused with love.

6. A rope of understanding. Hm...this one is tricky. I'm not sure I see it.

And now, here is how they are presented side by side in columns.

A plateful of fear or a fearful plate

A tissue of anguish or an anguished tissue

Ropes of hunger or a hungry rope

A bowl full of desire or a desire to bowl

A blanket of want or a wanting blanket

A sock full of energy or and energetic sock

A house of love or a lovely house

A note of harmony or a harmonious note

A clock of beauty or a beautiful clock

A mountain of understanding or an understanding mountain

An ocean of thought or a thoughtful ocean

A desert of excitement or an exciting desert

A forest of foreboding or a forbodeing forest

A river of laughter or a laughing river

A stone of pain or a painful stone

Dirty disquiet or disquieting dirt

A book of respect or a respectful book

Even better are how they match up offset by one on the list starting with fear and tissue

A fear tissue or a tissue of fear

A rope of anguish or an anguished rope

A bowl of hunger or a hungry bowl

A blanket of desire has already been mentioned.

A sock full of want and thats all I have

A house of energy or an energetic house

A note of love or a lovely note

A clock of harmony or a harmonious clock

A mountain of beauty (is not original)

An ocean of understanding

A desert of thought or a thoughtful desert

A forest of excitement or an exciting forest

A river of foreboding or a foreboding river

A stone of laughter or a laughing stone

Dirty pain or painful dirt

A book of disquiet or a disquieting book

And finally we have a plateful of r-e-s-p-e-c-t (I know what it means to me) or a respectful plate

Well there it is. A writing excercise that I exhausted. I hope you are all as bored here at the end of it as I am. Actually, the only reason I am posting thing is because I am NOT going to delete another post before posting it.

This will be posted and the only person who might read it is my mother. So mom, I hope you had fun.

Entry Eighty-Six

I have tried so hard to get this entry out. I tried "I Want", I tried "What If", and I tried feelings.

And every time I get anything down, all I can think is, "sometimes people read this. They don't really want to hear all my brooding thoughts.

Then I think, "Why should I care? This blog is for me."

"So then why make it public? Why does it even exist when you can do the exact same thing in a Word document?"

"Validation of 'Self'' of course."

And around and around I go. You see, I have had this argument with myself many times. And every time I do I think about deleting a blog. But I can never go through with it because I know I would regret it.

And so this is all there is for tonight. This entry has no purpose. I just felt I needed to put something. And stay up and waste time. What else am I doing with my life right now?

Why? Deja Vu, elbow, people swearing, giving in, what is the lesson I should learn tonight? Is there more than one? Which one it the most important? Why are there so many? What is wrong with me?

Live in the moment with the past and future in mind. You can't ignore those things that already happened nor the effect you present actions have on the future.

And yet, still, I fail sometimes.

Heh, now I don't want to hit publish because I know how depressed this entry sounds. It's just missing New Hampshire and being with 33 other people and feeling a little alone even though I am around people who are happy to have me back.

Don't mind me, please.

Entry Eighty-Five

First of all, I want to give a big shout out to my Mother, who almost always takes the time to come here, read, and comment. I could not ask for a better audience than her.

On.

The following is what I have so far in the only short story I have ever completely outlined the plot for. I know the beginning, the middle, the end. I just have to write it. That is challenging. I feel like I have no time. Oh well, I just wanted to get something posted but didn't have the energy to be in-the-moment creative. So I posted this-something I wrote a few week ago.

Enjoy.

ps-not sure how I feel about the title. But that's what it is right now.

“The Dream That You Wish”

Introduction

To create is divine. We each have, within ourselves, the capacity to harness this ability to create. We can paint beauty, sculpt love, and write compassion. These talents, given to us by God, the Universe, whatever you believe, were meant to be used. They cry out from our heart and souls, begging us to pick up the brush, the pen, the chisel. With these tools, we can shape the world into what we desire. With one line of text, you can soften the hardest of hearts. With a single stroke of color, you can inspire awe. The written word in particular has great power over the heart and mind. An imagination is the one thing we as human beings have that no other being on earth does. With words, you can fashion an image in another’s mind. You can place within their thoughts feelings of fear, love, doubt, happiness, grief, delight, and every other emotion known to man. With words, you cause others to create something from nothing in their own minds. Where there was no image, a character now resides. Where there were empty ideas, a plot has taken form. From there the person infers and creates for themselves a completely new world in which they can dwell for a short time. As a writer, not only is one given the tools to create for themselves, they are also able to put the tools of creation into the minds of countless others.

At least, this was what I believed. It was this knowledge that I could give so much more to others through writing that inspired such passion in me when I was young. I had ideals, just like every other college graduate. I had goals and plans. I was going to change the world one word at a time. I had just received my degree in English and Literature. I could have gone directly to graduate school and gotten a masters, then a PHD and taught the skill of creation to new and open minds. But changing the world that way would take too long. I wanted to write. I wanted to make a difference now. And so I took my degree and with it began to do the only real option to me.

I got a part time job at a locally owned used book store and began to put my talents to use.

Things began slow. When there is pressure to complete something for a class, that fire under your behind to get a good grade forces results out of you. On your own, you have only the deadlines you create yourself, and a completely free range of options before you. I was staring into an endless chasm of freedom and I was terrified. Should I pursue non-fiction? Write some dramatic, heart wrenching piece on the truth of this dark and twisted society in which we live? Should I go for a witty piece of fiction that caused the reader both to laugh and to think at the same time? No. It was May. I didn’t have it in me to write anything remotely dismal or frivolous. I was awakened and caught up in the swirl of life that surrounded me. The life of nature. That was the spring I took to the outdoors, getting my fill of every living and non living thing in the natural world that I could.

Everyone has a life changing event sometime in their lives. For some it happens when they are young and barely able to process it. For others it happens in the last quarter of their lives when there is little they can do about it. Some could say I was lucky to receive my life changing experience in luscious years of my adult youth. Yes, some could say that. But they would be wrong. To experience what I did in a time of such heightened emotional and intellectual being was almost more than my young and inexperienced mind could bear. If I had been a child, I may have been able to recover over the years. If I were a senior I might have been more experienced and prepared.

No. I was young, naive, and fully ready to lose myself to the wonder of what happened that spring. I gave myself completely to the experience only thinking of what I could gain from it. The result of the events of which I speak is this. The only work I have ever written and published. Take it as you will, for I know very well that the circumstances within it seem wholly improbable. But know this, for better or worse, to create is divine and those who use this inherent talent must someday come face to face with the reality of their creations.

Chapter 1

Like I said before, I was fresh out of college and enamored with all things natural. I was lucky to grow up in this small town and go to school nearby. I have since then lived my whole life here. It has the tangible charm of all small towns. Most days you can’t take 5 steps down the street without running into a familiar face. Waves and smiles are abundant and help is almost always a free commodity. And yet with all that talk of wanting to change the world and having ambitions, I never really left this place. I chose a college only an hour away and came home as often as possible. This place drew me to it like a magnet. I didn’t know why then and I still don’t really know why now-a mystery I think I will never solve. I don’t try to. Some places are singular in their appeal and this place was extraordinary in its ability to keep those who knew it. Not many have heard of it and those who haven’t spent summers wading its nearby creeks or fishing in its ponds have no desire to know more about it. But those who are already here seem to always find a reason to stay. The result is we don’t often get strangers (though we would welcome them if we did) and we hardly ever have to say goodbye to anyone for good (unless it’s in death). This suited us. Suited me. I could change the world from the comfort of the home that I loved just as many authors before me had. And even if I did have to leave for any extended period of time, the college was in a fairly large town an hour away and I could work there if needs be.

That spring, however, leaving was never a need and I was glad. As a child I had wandered the woods and played make-believe in the fields of this place. I had spent hot summers in sparkling waters and the winters on snow covered slopes. In college, writing papers and reading text books kept me inside more often than not. And so it was with excitement and joy that I took to the outdoors again that spring of frightening freedom. I found myself on grassy brook banks and sandy lake beaches. I dipped my feet in ice cold waters and reclined on welcoming beds of tall grass. But my favorite places to frequent were the shady paths of the forest. Some days I would let the trail take me where it would until I reached some patch of simple beauty. There I would sit and let words flow out of my pen. Other times I would brave the wild woods off the trail and find some untouched clearing. It was in one of these clearings that I met her. The little tree swallow.

Entry Eighty-Four

I am filled with something I cannot eject or escape.

I want to overflow past the brim of my limited mind.

I drink in the air. I feel it's welcoming touch. It only makes things worse.

The more I try to drown out the feeling, the stronger it becomes.

You can only run from something for so long, but it catches up to you and you find it has gained momentum since you last encountered it.

Life is too beautiful to write about death. Love is too elusive to try and harness it in words. Fiction feels like lying. Reality is of no consequence.

Everything has been done before. That is the titanium lid that is capping what wants to burst out of me. Could I do better than anyone else?

Entry Eighty-Three

There is no way out.

What have I gotten myself into?

I'm lost in my own brain. Great.

So, what now?

You Decide!

Should I:

A) Take a nap and when I wake up, hope that the door has come back?

B) Put on some more dream sunglasses and see if I can dream a way out?

C) Run around screaming until I have no energy left and fall into an exhausted coma?

D) All of the above?

Me, I would choose D. But because that would take much too long to type into some kind of story, I am going to choose for you.

I pick B.

I go for another blank pair of sunglasses. What better chance do I have of finding a doorway out of my brain than by going further into it, right?

I take a deep breath and slid on the eyewear.

The scene before me is all to familiar. At the same time it's a place I have never been before. Bob Evans. You know those dreams where you are in a place you go often but it doesn't look at all like that location in real life? It's like that. I have a tray in my hands with food on it.

In that instant I begin to panic. I haven't served in 8 months! What table does this go to? I don't recognize any of the dishes on the tray. What am I giving people? I look around the restaurant. There are no other employees. Just tables filled with people. There doesn't look to be an empty seat in the house. People all over the floor hail me with raised hands. The din of voices is deafening. There are more people coming in at the door.

What do I do? I can't even think straight and my feet won't move.

This cannot be happening.

With that thought comes understanding and the first sense of calm. Of course this can't be happening. I'm can't be working at Bob Evans. I am stuck in my brain. I just had a momentary lapse in concentration and forgot what reality was. I drop the tray which is now empty and watch as the guests melt away.

I am alone again, but still in Bob Evans. So where do I go? I'm looking for a door out of the right side of my brain. I don't know how long it's been or how much time I have before the way back into real life is shut. So there is only one thing to do.

Start trying doors.

The first one that comes to mind is the door to the walk-in. Without moving, I find myself there. Convenient. I grasp the handle and pull hard. Cold air rushes out and welcomes me in.

Instead of food, there is a snow covered forest. Beautiful and peaceful. Well, why not?

I step in. The snow is knee deep and still falling. Pines stand tall against the grey sky. Everything smells black and white. I'm in New Hampshire. Well, that's a step in the right direction. When I entered my brain I was in New Hampshire. If I can just find a door that leads to my cabin, maybe I can find a way back to reality. So I look around and take bearings. I'm in a part of the woods I don't recognize. And I have no coat or boots or anything like that.

Hey, maybe if I just stand here I will get cold enough that I will wake up. But as I stand the snow begins to melt. Everything that was black and white melts away into greens and browns and yellows. And everything gets warm. It's spring all of a sudden.

And then...

...How did I get to the lodge?

But there it is. Another door, another place. Further and further into my mind I go.

Handle, door, hinges, etc. The scene inside is well, I would say it wasn't what I expected, but I don't know what to expect anymore.

It's a version of my bedroom from years ago. A house I lived in when I was very young. The floor is moving. Little ripples. I place 1 foot on the floor.

*Crunch*

Um...

I put another foot down.

*Crunch*

Okay...

Meanwhile the ground continues to undulate in an unsettling away. I'm afraid to move but I don't have to wait long. Through a small hole, hundreds of spiders burst forth and begin crawling all over. I move. I move as fast as I can, trying not to freak out. I turn to go out the door I came through but it's not there.

These doors really need to stop disappearing.

There's the closet door. In crunch across the sea of spiders, wincing at each squishy impact of my feet.

In and out I go to the sweet bliss of no more spiders. Instead, I'm sitting in a chair. A desk to be precise. A small crowded desk and my old AP Lit. teacher is at the front of a small classroom. I am aware that it's college, and not high school which doesn't make sense. My teacher is looking at me expectantly.

"Well?" He says.

What am I supposed to do? He obviously sees the confusion on my face.

"To pass the test you have to recite the entire final act of Romeo and Juliet."

What?!? Not only is that unreasonable, that is one of my least favorite plays. No. I'm not going to do it.

"You will fail the class if you cannot. Sarah, we talked about this. I set this up for you because you said you could do it."

My heart sinks. I don't want to disappoint him. He's my favorite teacher. He's taught me so much. I feel like I am going to cry but then I am no longer in the body sitting a the desk. I'm floating above watching the scene and the girl that I was does break down and cry. The class all get up from their seats and converge on her giving her a big group hug. At that moment I would give anything to be back in that body. But I can fly so I might as well take advantage of that while I can.

I fly out the open door and look for one that I can open and go through to a new scene.

I fly and fly and fly...Going nowhere. And suddenly I realize that I am bored with this. Irreversibly board. Why is this still going on?

And I fall.

Jolted awake. I'm on the white floor of the dream glasses room. When I sit up and look at the wall across from me, I see the door.

The one I had been looking for all along.

It probably doesn't matter, I say to myself. There is no way that I got through all that in time to make it out of my head. I'm probably stuck in here. I better just go back to the memory room and lose myself in the good days.

I exit the room and prepare to sit in the chair to watch the memories that have already started streaming along the walls. But the idea of watching anything else in my mind tires me. I wonder if I can find the brain radio and turn it off so that I can sleep in the foyer.

When I open the door the first thing I hear is, "Mirrors on the ceiling, the pink champagne on ice and she said 'we are all just prisoners here of our own device.' And in the master's chambers, they gathered for the feast. They stab it with their steely knives, but they just can't kill the beast."

Wait...Maybe that song has been playing this whole time. But somehow I don't think so.

Did time move? Change? It is my brain. You can get lost in there for years and it be only a split second.

The phone rings. "The Downeaster 'Alexa'" plays from the old rotary phone.

I pick up.

"Hello?"

"Sarah." A familiar voice says. That British Harry Potter narrating guy.

"Yes?"

"Are you ready to come out?"

"What?"

"Have you spent a sufficient amount of time visiting the right side of your brain?"

"Last time you gave me a 2 minute warning."

"That was from the structured side of your brain. The right side has little structure and would not mind at all if you go lost in there for the rest of your existence. It's a good thing you got out."

"So..."

"Are you ready to come back to reality?"

"Yes."

Reality can't be any scarier than the stuff in my brain, right?

Entry Eighty-Two

What could it hurt?

There is no handle, so I just push on it and it opens. I enter into an expansive room about the size of a small gymnasium (to me it seems about the size of the gym of Blue Ridge Elementary). A light comes on the second I walk in. There are just the 4 walls in the room. And along the walls are row after row of pairs of sunglasses. At least that's what they look like. I turn to the wall immediately to my left. Each pair is hanging on a hook with a label below it.

I look at the first label. It says, "The one where I was a male goat." Next to the label reads, "The one where I was in the land of giant broccoli.".

Dreams. They have to be.

I look to the top of the column of these dreams and there is a large brass plaque that says "Really weird dreams/Misc." The column next to it is labeled "Out of control driving dreams". Next to that is "Dreams where I am in Love."

Part of me want's to put on a pair of these sunglasses. The rest of me is afraid of what will happen. Will I be transported into a dream world from which I can never return?

I turn my back on this wall and walk straight to the back wall of the room. A large brass plaque (larger than any of the others) labels the whole wall. It says "NIGHTMARES".

Morbid curiosity draws me to it.

I read some of the labels.

"The one where Naomi and I drowned."

"The one with the shark coming out of the floor."

"The one where my parents eyes glow."

"The one where Frisky kicked her legs off at me."

"The one where I got drunk."

"The one where I couldn't run away."

I stop reading. I know for a fact I will not be putting any of these sunglasses over my eyes.

I turn my back on this bleak wall and look to my right. There are more dream labels.

"The one where I am part of an orphan gang."

"The one with Bruce Willis."

And so on.

Finally I turn to the wall with the door. There are more sunglasses surrounding the door frame but there don't seem to be any labels. I walk to the wall and sure enough. Each dangling pair of eye wear is label-less.

What does it mean?

The most of me that was afraid to put on a pair of these glasses is overpowered by the curious part rest of me. I grab the first pair my eyes fall and on, and without hesitation place them on my eyes.

I draw a sharp breath in the form of a surprised gasp which resonates throughout the room because I am suddenly enveloped in complete darkness.

This lasts only seconds, however, because my eyes are then filled by an unrecognizable scene-blurry around the edges and not in any way tinted by the glasses.

I'm outdoors. The room is gone. I think I am in a forest, but as I gaze about at the trees and vegetation I recognize none of the plants that exist there.

Maybe that's how it is in a dream world.

I am afraid to move, to breathe, to do anything really.

I notice there is a weight in my hand. I lift it and see the familiar shape of a lightsaber.

No. Flippin. Way.

I turn it in my hand to search for the ignite button. (Every action I make feels familiar. Even my surroundings seem known to me now. Like I've been here before). I find the button and press it. Energy flows from the end of the weapon and through my arm. The blade glows a powerful and reassuring lavender (In all my fantasies my lightsaber has been this color). I feel a thrill go through me.

I don't remember dreaming this dream. So why does everything feel like a deja vu?

There is a rustle of leaves ahead and a figure emerges from out of the trees.

It is Luke Skywalker. A much older version than the on in Return of the Jedi, but he is unmistakable.

"Good, you are prepared." He says in a voice I recognize from the films I used to adore.

"Master," I answer without thinking. He ignites his own azure lightsaber and utters one other word: "Begin."

And then we are sparring. Every move I make feels like liquid and I can anticipate all the moves he is going to make before he makes them. I feel the force. Our blades crackle and hiss as the make contact again and again. I am grinning from ear to ear as I practice being a Jedi Knight with my master Luke Skywalker.

I notice that I do not tire even though I am exerting myself more than I ever have in real life.

Just as I think I could lose myself in this dream, there is a sound in my ear completely detached from the situation. It's a kind of buzzing. Perhaps a large insect. I try to push it out of my thoughts as I continue sparring.

The sound doesn't stop. In fact it's insistence increases until my ears are filled with it which causes the clarity of the scene to decrease. Exponentially.

In the next few seconds Everything has disappeared and it's dark again. I wait for the dream to come back. I doesn't. I remove the glasses and my eyes are pierced by the light of the dream room. I blink against it, letting my pupils to adapt.

That was...

...what was that? It seemed so familiar now that I think about it. Like I've dreamed it before. Maybe I had. Maybe that's what those unlabeled sunglasses are. Forgotten dreams.

I turn to the wall to place the pair in my hands in their place. It now has a label. "The one where I am Luke Skywalker's Apprentice."

I look at the wall for a long time. Wondering what other lost dreams there are. Debating with myself. Wondering if I should lose myself in another dream. I question vaguely how long I have been here. It seem's like hours.

I shrug and select another pair and put them on.

There is darkness again.

6 pairs of sunglasses (a nightmare I wish I had never relived, some tears of longing, Harry Potter, a maze of sock puppets, playing with the Cardinals, and the worst work stress dream of my life) later I decide that it's been long enough. I should probably think about leaving. I pull off the sunglasses after what feels like hours of working as a waitress. I would have done it sooner but my brains took far to long to realize that I was in a dream, it was so realistic. I replace the sunglasses and then turn to where the door should be.

Imagine my surprise when I see that the only thing on that wall are rows of sunglasses and nothing else. I look at all the other walls.

Sunglasses as far as the eye can see in a room the size of the gym at Blue Ridge Elementary.

There is no way out.

Entry Eighty-One

I live to tell another tale.

Apparently my life is not as dramatic as a Stephen King novel. I thought I was a gonner yesterday when I was plagued by a headache. But alas, it was cured by taking a small blue pill.

So here I am.

And I bought another ticket to celebrate. I could not procure any more monopoly money no matter how many black market properties I sold to the highest bidder. They were only using LIFE money. The exchange rate is steep and so it cost me a lot more to get another two way ticket into my brain. It will be worth it though because I go to visit the right side of my brain.

And so I shrink again. Through the eyes once more (they are a little bleary this time. I blame it on the tedious training I just went through).

And here I am in the lobby. This time, the live version of Hotel California by The Eagles is playing. I stand and listen for a bit.

"Mirrors on the ceiling, the pink champagne on ice and she said 'we are all just prisoners here of our own device.' And in the master's chambers, they gathered for the feast. They stab it with their steely knives, but they just can't kill the beast."

I remember that I have a limited time, and with the cost of these brain tickets going up I need to take advantage of all the time I have. So, ignoring the chrome door, I focus my sights on the one that is blue and wooden. Wasn't it green the other day? Oh well.

It looks worn. As if it has been used over and over again for years. If this part of my brain we a house I would guess by this door that it was a very old and lived in house. The handle is brass and tainted.

I grasp it and hardly have to turn and the door opens up to me.

Within is a small, dark room with a single TV and a squashy recliner in the middle. The recliner resembles the blue one currently in residence at my home.

I am, I must admit, a little disappointed.

I expected a lot more from my right brain. Maybe the creative side of me is exhausted.

Might as well see what's on the tube, though. Maybe there are some good channels into my mind.

I cross the short distance to the chair and sink comfortably into it. In the arm of the chair, the one that lifts up, contains a remote control. There is only one button.

It says On/Off.

I wish controlling creativity were really that easy.

With no hesitation, I pressed the button that said On/Off.

I am hit by a wave of confusion. And it's not even the TV that does this.

Suddenly the room is full of color and light. There are blurred objects whizzing by on the walls. At first I can't make out anything clearly and so I wrench my eyes from the chaos and direct my gaze to the small TV. Blazing from the screen is a familiar image.

It's a video of children plating London Bridge is falling down and other such games.

It's a birthday party. My birthday party. I can't be more than 5 years old. As I watch this video make it's progression (all the kids are laughing and smiling-it's a good time) the images swirling on the walls begin to slow and take shape.

I am at April Bliss's house. We have a play date and we are watching Sherri Lewis and Lamb Chop.

Next to this image I am on a pony at Two-Mile Prairie.

And over there, there I am being coaxed into a barn I have been told is haunted.

And right there I am sneaking candy from a house that is not mine.

These images scroll on the walls in a semi-jumbled manner. All the while that video of the birthday party plays on the TV.

As my eyes rove these memories, my thoughts flip to a different part of my childhood and soon the video on the TV has changed to one of me racing up and down the streets of Parks Edge Place. There is a rope tied to the handlebars of the bike and I am holding the rope pretending they are the reins on a horse. Along the expansive walls are images and memories all pertaining to that location. Butler getting attacked by that neighbors husky. The friends I had there. Most especially the hodges and playing My Little Pony with Sapphire. Trying to "sell" my drawings to people off the sidewalk. They were horrible.

The onslaught of all these memories are a lot to take in. Each time my thoughts stray to another topic, the TV shows another clip of my life. And then the walls are reeling with all other thoughts tied to that memory.

The images on the walls aren't always videos. Sometimes they are still photos. Sometimes smells are associated with a memory. The room will be suddenly filled with the scent of baking bread or damp forest. Chlorine. Dust and dirt. The ocean.

There is never anything tangible when it comes to these streams of memory. Only sights, sounds, smells...

I watch the TV and the walls for what feels like hours as the room sifts through my lifetime of events. Some make me laugh. Great billows of laughter that fill the room and cause my sides to ache.

Other times that ache becomes the one associated with the deepest sorrow. Those times I find my eyes wet. In these moments there is bitterness, guilt, grief, and longing.

As time passes I begin to feel a crick in my neck. I've been watching TV for too long. I tear my eyes from screen (it's now showing the time that I fell into a marsh in Rhode Island and Corey just stood there and laughed) and try to ignore the walls (they are showing other incidents like falling into the marsh in New Hampshire, tripping up stairs, getting my hand stuck in a tampon machine, etc. ). I give the room one last look to see if that's really all there is to it.

It's then that I see a crack of light near the floor about 12 feet away in the ever changing luminosity of the room.

I walk to the light and see that it's another door. Why didn't I see it before?

Should I go in?

Tune in next time and see.

(hopefully the next entry into my brain will be sooner coming than this one was)

Entry Eighty

I purchased a two way ticket into my brain.

I bought it with monopoly money.

I simply shrink myself and go in via my revolving door eyes.

I find myself in a rather spacious, but somewhat dimly lit lobby. 15 paces in front of me is a circular service desk, needlessly elaborate with gold finishing and silver fish patterns all over the marbled front. There is no one waiting there for me. No call bell, no computer. Just that empty desk with a single old fashioned rotary phone. Ivory and gold.

Calling all firing synapses.

Playing softly from the speakers is the song "Love Song" by Sara Bareilles. Why? Because it's my brain and there is always a song in it, whether I like the song or not.

On either side of this desk is a door. Two doors. Uncomplicated. Mordor, Gandalf, is it left or right?

I go left first. Because who ever really wants to visit the left side of the brain? The right side is more fun. But I'm saving it for last.

The door itself is chrome silver. Perhaps it's made of chrome. There is no door knob. Instead there is a combination panel to the side. There are the usual numbers. And then below that are 4 characters. A banana, a pillow, a music note, and an easy chair.

It's my brain so I know the combinations. The number combo is 0816. The character order is pillow, banana, easy chair, music note. There is a series of metallic clicks coming from the other side of the door because what self respecting chrome door with a combination panel wouldn't have metallic clicks coming from it as it opens? The door swings slowly inward, inviting me to enter. And so I do.

Within is a library. It's a bit smaller than most libraries. One room, about the size of an average size lecture hall. Wall to wall with a maze of bookshelves, crates of books on the floor as well as with free floating books scattered about. I have to pick my way through. There is no apparent labeling system. So I go to a shelf at random. There I see a book entitled "The Dark Crystal". Next to it is "The Labaryinth" and next to that is "The Never Ending Story." Next to that is "Krull". I reach for this last and pull it off the shelf.

A cascade of index cards come tumbeling down and fall to the floor. It is then that I notice that smashed in between every book is a little stack of these index cards. I bend over and pick one up. It has "Micropterus salmoides" written on it in smudged letters. It's hard to make out. On the other side of the card is written "Largemouth bass". I select another card from the floor. This one has the word "Puella" written clearly on one side and "girl" written on the other. There are similar cards now all over the floor with latin words and equations, and facts written on them. All the random little things I've tried to memorize throughout my life.

I pick a new shelf. I look up and down and see more books, only these ones say things like "Into the Blue", "The Man", "Scary Movie 4", and "Twilight". I shudder. Time to move on.

On another shelf there is Lord of the Rings and Star Wars and Harry Potter and Stephen King books out the Wazzoo. As I wander I find more and more movie titles. There are also books on TV shows (Including many multi volume collections for "Lost", "Supernatural", "The X-Files", and a rather dusty 5 volume collection for "Smallville"). There are also what appear to be normal books. Novels that I have read throughout my life. I scan some more and find a small little book entitled "Lord of the Rings card Game" and smile fondly.

Finally, after much more browsing, (I found a book on Leonardo DiCaprio and several volumes on M. Night. Shyamalan) I reach the back of the room. On the wall is a shelf filled with neatly organized series' of books.

There's a book on Plant Systematics, on physiology, on human dimensions in Natural Resources. Ichthyology, Botany, Entomology, Ornithology, Geology, Psychology, Russian literature, British literature. And towards the bottom we had several skinny books on algebra, calculus, and statistics. Statistics is clean but algebra and calculus are crusted in dust. I pull out calculus. Another avalanche of index cards falls out. I spot one that says something about Ronald Regan and a date. I flip through calculus and realize that many pages are missing or blank.

Yup, this is my brain.

I see the book "The Medium is the Massage" and smile as memories of English 1000 flow through me in ribbons. I reach out and pull the book forward and suddenly the well organized shelf of academia slides aside, revealing a small hidden doorway. Barely large enough for me to crawl through.

"Enter" the entrance seems to call. I comply.

I stand into a room lit with a single dangling light bulb complete with chain. In the small and cramped room are two rows of filing cabinets. The first cabinet says "Kindergarten", the second "First Grade", the third "Second grade" and so forth all the way until 9th grade. 10th-12th must still be awarded a placing in the more open reaches of the left side of my brain. In a few more years I imagine they will be shunted back into this little secret room. I open the 7th grade cabinet and find folders on math, science, art, social studies, etc. All those things I learned years and years ago that are barely a memory.

I want to explore this place more and see if there are other secret rooms but I know that I don't have eternity in my brain and I still haven't visited the right side.

I crawl back out of the small room and into the library again. I head to the exit and, without a second glance, leave the room. The slamming of the chrome door leaves a ringing in my ears.

Playing in the lobby is the song "Valencia!" by The Decemberists. Good song. It HAS been rattling around in my brain for the last week. There is still no one at the front desk, just that phone.

And so I go to make my way to the other door but as I do, the phone rings. Even though it's an old rotary phone, the sound that comes from it is a "Time is running out" ringtone by Muse. Should I answer? What will happen if I do? Who is calling my brain?

What the heck, what's the worst that could happen. It's my brain, right?

I pick it up.

"Hello?"

"Sarah. This is reality. The last open doorway out of your brain is closing in two minutes." This voice sounds a lot like the guy who narrates the Harry Potter books. He also narrates the Harry Potter games. That slightly sad sounding British voice.

"Two minutes is cutting it a little close don't you think? I haven't even seen the right side yet."

"I apologize but you were un-reachable in the left-side library. Remember that if you stay you will be stuck here until a professional can come dig get you out."

"Alright, alright. I'm coming."

I look longingly back at the inviting, green-painted, wooden door that is the right side of my brain and heave a sigh of regret. I'll have to get more monopoly money and buy another ticket on another day. My right brain will be waiting.

And so I walk slowly through the revolving door of my eyes, trudging the footsteps of the bitterly disappointed.

Once I am outside myself, I regrow and go on to face the day.

My friends, I have now written 80 posts on this blog. I predicted that the reason it took me so many tries to get through entry 79 is because I was meant to perish after entry 80. Be assured this does not mean I will take my own life to fulfill this prediction. I am simply being cautious. I would love to return here for entry 81 and continue the journey through my brain.

If however you never hear from me again, you know what happened.

I bid you all a very fond farewell.

Goodbye.

Entry Seventy-Nine

Attempt number 5 at entry 79. Apparently I am not meant to get to entry 80. Maybe once that entry is written I am meant to suffer a horrible and gruesome death.

That sounds like something that Stephen King would write.

How fitting because in this 5th attempt I am going to mention this critically acclaimed writer a bit.

I think it's interesting that books written by this author of all things unsettling should be the ones that inspires me the most right now.

No, nope. I will not start this entry over! I am determined! I will get through entry 79 this time.

Stephen King. Fearless. Cheeky. Personal.

He know how to hook you to his characters and make you love them. Even if you don't want to sometimes.

He knows how to reach deep down there and pull up thoughts and emotions you know didn't know exist. His fiction is the most believable collection of unbelievable stories ever written and I love it.

I wish I could be 1/15th the writer he is.

I will read "On Writing".

I am filled with this burning desire to finish. To get it done. To create!

This is all that I have. I had more but I had to leave and come back. That's why it has taken me so long to write this entry. Why it took 5 attempts. But who cares. I am posting this.

And after writing entry 80 I will prepare myself to die a romantic and unexpected death.

Entry Seventy-Eight

Oh of only things could be as simply wonderful as French Onion Soup.

Okay, I'm stopping now.

I am, however, still in a funk. Just not a French Onion Soup funk.

Maybe the fact that I was so close to getting some tonight and it didn't happen is part of that.

No. Can't be. I'm not that dependent on food to make me happy. Especially not savory, melty, oniony, hot, delicious, mouth watering French Onion Soup.

Maybe I have a problem.

Maybe that problem lies elsewhere and I am tying it to French Onion Soup.

Didn't I say I was stopping?

I think it was the text I got last night. I think I am missing home a little bit this week. In a weird way. In a way that is different to the way I was missing home a couple months ago. This is a deeper longing for the small things. Especially the small things that I loved about Missouri in the spring.

The evening drives with the windows down. Spring Thunder storms and finding the perfect place to watch the lightning. The smell of the flowers growing in peoples yards.

I miss Bob Evans. I know, I know! I can't believe I made it this far without missing that place. In Rhode Island it was a month before I began to long for the food and miss working with the people there. This time I lasted 4 and 1/2 months. I am so proud of myself.

I miss the university ward and it's security. I miss knowing that I would be able to go to church every week.

Out of all these things, what I miss most of all really is what I have missed all along and that is home.

But that longing has decreased and I can't decide if that's good or bad.

Everyone is figuring out what they are going to do after this. And here I am, procrastinating as usual.

Who wants to commit to something? How many people find happiness when they do that?

That was a rather down remark and I apologize.

And then this post ended just as it started: with no idea where it was headed or why it existed.

Entry Seventy-Seven

Hah.

I laugh.

I also cannot help but find the most mundane activities dangerous.

I also constantly ask people their medical history if they complain of eye pain or stomach aches.

Then I laugh again.

What is this place doing to me?

I am morphing into a new person with the old person still hiding deep inside. Maybe not deep. Maybe it's more like I am shedding off a thin exoskeleton layer of the person I used to be and the new me, who is still much of the same me, is emerging.

I don't like this metaphor.

Anyone else got a better one?

I've got three words. Three and that's it. I am in word poverty.

Those words are as follows: French.

I bet you weren't expecting that. I mean who would ever chose to have the word French in their word bank? They do have good food which may or may not elude to the next couple words.

Onion.

Well there is the food I was talking about. But Onions aren't really exclusive to the French. I bet most of you (who ever you are) know the next word. So lets all say it together.

Goog.

Hah! Fooled you! There is no way that you would have thought of that word. I didn't even know it existed until I decided that I was going to look up other ways to say "spectacles" in slang terms. But seriously. That's not the third word in my word bank. "Goog" is worth at least 50 words and I would be much richer if I had it.

Soup. That's what I was really going to say. Soup.

French. Onion. Soup. Three words that, alone, mean little. Put them together (Frenchonionsoup) and you have a word that makes no sense at all and is worth virtually and actually nothing in terms of words. Put those words next to each other but keep them seperate (as in French onion goog, I mean soup. French onion soup) and you have the most amazing thing ever invented in the food universe.

French onion soup has now officially replaced pizza as my favorite food. Don't worry though, Pizza. You are still my favorite breakfast leftover.

I am obsessed. I have now had French onion soup in 3 different locations in New Hampshire. I can tell you who has the best soup and who has the cheapest out of these three and I intend on exploring the French onion soup galaxy further. I think French onion soup only occupies a galaxy. As much as I love it I doubt that it fills a universe.

You have The Puritan Backroom Restaurant in Hooksette (it might actually be in Manchester but who can really tell?). Their soup is middle in the price range but ranks first in quality. You get a delicious, well seasoned and well portioned crock. The atmosphere in this place is also great but you are more than likely going to have to wait for a table. Even on a weekday. This place is insanely popular.

Next you have the Corner View Restaurant in Concord. Their soup is the most expensive but it also comes in the largest crock (even if it is only sloghtly (I did mean to type sloghtly. It's a smudge less than slightly. Yes, I did mean to type smudge. A smudge is an atom smaller than a smidge which is a word that Blogger tells me doesn't exist. And yet "Blogger" does exist. Of course that makes sense.) larger than the one found at The Puritan. It's very good but almost too much food in one sitting. The service there is mediocre.

Last there is the French onion soup at 99. Being a chain, you can't expect all that much. I mean, chains always taste rusty and are way too hard to chew. I have lost too many teeth. Anyway, their soup is good but not the best. It's whats to be expected is what I am really trying to say. You can get it in a cup or a crock. Putting it in a cup makes it hard to eat because you're trying to drink it the whole time and all that happens is the broth seeps around the cheese and you don't get any onions or bread. And the crock is huge. I mean, a whole crock pot of French onion soup? Killer. It's worth the money you pay though. (I'm sorry. I know I need to stop with the word play, it's just too fun. That's why it's word play and not word work).

And why have I taken you on this goog, I mean soup, peregrination? (Do you wonder if that word is tied at all to Peregrine falcons? Because I do and I have no answer.) Because I have nothing better to write about. That's not true but the truth is the other things I could write about would bore you much more than the soup talk.

Great, now I want to have a talk show called "Soup Talk" in which each week we learn about a different kind of soup and ways to make and prepare it.

I love soup. I would also love to have a talk show about pie but I don't know what I would call it. Who wants to tell me their ideas?

I love pie and soup.

Also, from now on I am going to type French Onion Soup with all three words capitalized because if French has to be capitalized, the other words need to feel equal. And so they will be. Someday.

Entry Seventy-Six

This is my life.

This is where I am.

This is WHO I am.

I can't say that for certain, of course. There is no telling whether or not I am the person who can best say who I really am anyway.

The combination of exhaustion, extremely sub-par food, and a general tendency to worry about everything has given my stomach cause to turn.

On the plus side, there is nothing better than a good two months to make things better one way or another.

Life is never perfect. We know this. Whoever "we" are. But the collective and ambiguous "we" phase in and out of stages in our lives. I have almost completely phased off planet "yup, that's him" and back onto the mother ship of rationality aka reality. Picture me in a Star Trek episode being phased up to the Enterprise and all you can see of me on the planet is a hazy outline and wave lines of energy.

I cannot honestly say that I will get me and my teaching companion back to our home safely tonight. Too bad his age prevents him from relieving me of the responsibility. Who came up with that rule?

They did. And we're not even going to go into who they really are.

Add to everything else a frustration at this keyboards inability to produce parentheses. I do love parentheses.

I try to be a good listener. It's true that "we" like to hear "ourselves" talk. It's a human flaw. But sometimes you want to have someone listen to YOU.

Too bad I choose the wrong people for that.

Oh well.

This wasn't very productive.

I miss family holidays.

Entry Seventy-Five

There are times that you feel you have no purpose where you are.

Yesterday was one of those days.

I sat. I read. I did nothing productive because there was nothing productive to do.

Then I considered "hipsters". Looked it up. How do they make me feel? Well, I will tell you.

I feel better about letting go because I know that hipsters do not lend themselves to being loved or coveted. They just don't care. And when they do, they don't consider the consequences.

Time to stop thinking about it self. Time to move on, because a person like that is not worth wasting brain power on.

Sadly, there are parts of the brain that one never has complete control over.

Am I really here? Yes. But it's hard to feel that way sometimes.

Existence is such a tricky concept.

Then there is hunger. For things I don't have. For things I lack. For interaction. For proximity. That which is missing.

Tell me that what I'm doing is right. Remind me that some things that I do are wrong. Hold myself accountable. I don't do this enough.

Time to end.

Entry Seventy-Four

There are things that you just have to learn to let go.

There will be no petty revenge on your end. No feelings of regret on his. All there will be is a mutual feeling of familiarity.

I know you, you know me. We knew each other once. And that was all. Nothing more to it.

It would do well for some people to realize just how much they still have to learn. I should remember that 22 year in the world makes me no kind of expert.

This is why I am here. Most of it is to work, to gain experience, to become a stronger and better person.

The rest of it is to get away. Not from family, not from home, but from an individual who, for some reason, plagues my thoughts even now.

A sad pathetic waste of time. Thoughts would do better if they were enriched. We each, all of us here that is, have a bridges we intended to cross in coming out here. My bridge is there waiting, inviting, because the road beyond has so many more options. And once I am over I can set fire to it's planks and support beams. As it is, I stand somewhere in the middle. I waste my time looking over into the water below. It rages. The water is my mind. And thoughts churn the foolish fancies that glisten. The fancies are fish. Maybe a tadpole. A crawdad or two. And these thoughts and fancies keep me distracted enough to prevent me crossing this bridge.

We all move on in this world seeking to find that connection which we lost after we went through the veil. We were so close to each other then suddenly we were ripped apart. There exist in my circle of acquaintances no one who I could see as that one person who will understand me in a way no one else can.

I wish that weren't true.

My heart, so eager to find that connection, gives itself wholly to any one that may make a fit. And then is left to wallow in self-pity and disappointment.

I need to stop.

Entry Seventy-Three

I wish I could say that my mood has much improved.

I am comfortable and warm.

I am surrounded by the warm glow of technology.

Beautiful music swells and falls.

Very soon all of this will be taken away from me.

I will be cold and uncomfortable. I will be in alien territory. There will potentially be no technology and no beautiful music. I will know no one.

This is what I go to.

I think the fear is gone because I have resigned myself to it. The uncertainty is still there. The knots are managing to stay away for the time being. I know that it will be great. It will all be okay and work out fine. I just need to get past that initial awkward stage.

And so I go into the unknown. Into a strange world called adulthood. I think I have been avoiding it all these years. But here, I have to grow up. I can't be the timid child I have been all my life.