One Dream and a Few Other Thoughts
It shows when you don't follow directions. I gave one of my students a number of tasks to complete between our sessions. Admittedly, it was a lot of tasks, but they were pretty simple and not very time-consuming. The tasks had to do with writing — specifically in preparation for completing a quality essay.
I was trying to write something focused, but I'm feeling distracted. I slept ish. I had a crazy dream that I was locked in some facility, and the overseers were deceptive and smarmy. I was a child—maybe a teenager. There were a bunch of other kids there with me. The overseers kept changing things: roommates, what was in your room, your daily habits, etc. All the while, they kept on pretending that nothing had changed, that everything was fine. Nothing ever really happened, and all I distinctly remember having was legos.
There is a lady just outside of Starbucks sitting at one of the tables. She's working on a computer; she has two phones sitting on the table beside it: a personal phone and a work phone I would wager. It's interesting how many noise-boxes we carry around. One of the biggest disses I think is when a person pulls out his or her phone when talking with you. I am guilty of this to be sure, so I put more and more energy into abstaining.
Do I want to write Michael stuff or Meadowvale stuff or something completely unrelated? I haven't written a poem in a while, and I feel compelled to write a spontaneous story. I dream of some day having a study: a fine, large desk with bookshelves all over and at least one large window.
I think... I think the spontaneous calls me. Michael was supposed to be endless spontaneity, but now he's so serious. Shall I break him out of his seriousness? Perhaps. I'll keep you posted.
I was trying to write something focused, but I'm feeling distracted. I slept ish. I had a crazy dream that I was locked in some facility, and the overseers were deceptive and smarmy. I was a child—maybe a teenager. There were a bunch of other kids there with me. The overseers kept changing things: roommates, what was in your room, your daily habits, etc. All the while, they kept on pretending that nothing had changed, that everything was fine. Nothing ever really happened, and all I distinctly remember having was legos.
There is a lady just outside of Starbucks sitting at one of the tables. She's working on a computer; she has two phones sitting on the table beside it: a personal phone and a work phone I would wager. It's interesting how many noise-boxes we carry around. One of the biggest disses I think is when a person pulls out his or her phone when talking with you. I am guilty of this to be sure, so I put more and more energy into abstaining.
Do I want to write Michael stuff or Meadowvale stuff or something completely unrelated? I haven't written a poem in a while, and I feel compelled to write a spontaneous story. I dream of some day having a study: a fine, large desk with bookshelves all over and at least one large window.
I think... I think the spontaneous calls me. Michael was supposed to be endless spontaneity, but now he's so serious. Shall I break him out of his seriousness? Perhaps. I'll keep you posted.
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