Behind the Wall of Sleep; or, Technical Difficulties at the Dream Theater

Tea: Blueberry

Music: Fulton Lights, "Breathe In, Breathe Out"

Time: Night.

(First off, I want to say to the rubber duck abandoned to spend a lonely winter in a drained city swimming pool ... I really would have scaled the fence to save you if the cop hadn't been watching. I'm still having a hard time looking my own ducks in their beady little black eyes tonight.)

Sometimes I wonder if there's a correlation between creativity in the waking world and an utterly whacked-out dream life. The duck episode was real, but wow, you should have been in my head last night.

No, no tornado dreams -- not lately, at least. (In case I haven't mentioned this before, I have recurring dreams of tornadoes. I've never seen one in real life, which my dream self knows. So I dream that I've seen one, and I'm all excited -- until I wake up and realize it was only a dream, at which point I get cranky.)

But why in the world would my subconscious have made up a YouTube music video of Asia in which John Wetton (playing a 12-string bass and wearing a shiny gold suit) delivers an incoherent rant at the start of "Only Time Will Tell" -- and what was up with Steve Howe's ginormous gold-tone plastic double-necked guitar?

I don't know how I managed the segue, but all of a sudden I was driving a car up a street that was either Southwest Boulevard here in KC or Second Street in my hometown. People I know kept stepping out into traffic, so I swerved to avoid them, and a policeman decided I should pull over. (I know ... the snoozy injustice of it all.)

So I started to pull over, and then I realized:

"Wait. I'm dreaming."

And I woke up.

Now, my dreams are sometimes vivid enough that I wake up wondering if they really happened. How, then, do I realize -- always in moments of distress and/or duress -- that none of it is real, and I'm free to go? (If no one's taken the word "dreamnesty" yet, I'm calling dibs.)

And why, once I have figured out that I am dreaming, don't I stick around and have some real fun -- a high-speed chase, a shootout with rocket launchers, a daring leap across the Grand Canyon in my steaming pile of Honda?

Mysteries all. Maybe I'll dream up a solution tonight. Or maybe it'll be that weird one about the 2000-foot black tsunamis again. I hope not. I'm too tired to dodge sharks.

Maybe I'll get John Wetton to do it for me.

Tonight's scary story: Robert W. Chambers, "In the Court of the Dragon"

Moderation in Moderation

Tea: Vanilla Lapsang

Music: Jayhawks, "I'm Gonna Make You Love Me"

Time: Night.

I'm trying to lose the phrase "It's the strangest thing," because -- well, really, how do you quantify that?

It's a strange thing, though: I'm becoming more efficient. I'm getting better at follow-through. I'm catching up on things I've been putting off for months.

Heaven help me, I may be growing up. Not that that's a bad thing, entirely. Has to happen sooner or later, I suppose.

It's not all bad, you know. Getting up early and staying up, for example, means I can get the routine things out of the way before they take over the day, thereby making me feel a little less guilty when it's time to slack.

What, you thought I was going all the way over to the Beige Side of the Force? No way. Sure, my inner child might have an earlier bedtime now -- but you can have my ratty Chuck Taylors, my cheesy monster movies and my rubber duck collection when you pry them out of my cold, dead fingers.

It's a balancing act, to be sure. Structure is good and necessary, but it can't take over my life. I need something of the random, the chaotic, the downright goofy -- or I'll die. Not physically, mind you, but the body is only a house for the self. And this self has to have the sparks, even if they must be a bit more controlled.

And now, time to hit the rack. Tomorrow, I get to organize the garage and make some calls on a shared story that's due next week -- and then I get to hang out with artists until well past dark-thirty.

I can live with that.

Tonight's scary story: Charles Collins, "The Compensation House"

I Can't Place the Accent

Tea: Mandarin Green with honey

Music: Aztec Camera, "Oblivious"

Time: Afternoon.

So after dropping the kids off at church for a weeklong mission trip to California (Missouri, that is), it was errand time.

First stop: Hobby Lobby, where "Selected Home Accents" were 80 percent off.

I have no idea what a "home accent" is. This stuff looked like knicknacks, geegaws and assorted -- well, stuff.

Call me strange, but I have never looked at a room and thought, "You know what this needs? A little wooden cow, right over there." (I suppose the pertinent home accent for that would be a Texas Panhandle twang.)

And I fail to see what enhancement a blue glass pumpkin or a large metal wall hanging of a key might provide to any space. (I'm sure my Philistine accent is showing now, huh?)

In my world, if a living room has books, a place to sit to read them and enough light to do so comfortably, I'm good. I'm not opposed to miscellaneous items placed in the right spots, but they should be functional.

(It must be noted that a piece of original art does not count as a knicknack. It also must be noted that big box stores might sell the materials for original art, but I've yet to see one carrying the finished product.)

In the kitchen, the important things are (a) cookware and utensils, (b) storage and (c) something on and in which to actually cook. (Yes, and food.) If you need a ceramic rooster sitting on your spice shelf to feel at home ... you need to get out more.

And don't even get me started on bedroom "accents" and "accessories." What in the world is a "pillow sham," anyway? If it's not a real pillow, why do I want it on the bed?

Maybe the people who thought up "home accents" are the same people who came up with different colors of tissue. I don't care if it's blue, green, white, paisley, plaid or tie-died -- in the end, it's just something to sneeze at.

As with any rule, there are exceptions to the Accents are Laughable Code. The following items are always suitable for display in any space:

Rubber ducks;

Geodes and pieces thereof;

Statuettes of Frank White and/or Gollum;

Fossils;

And other cool stuff like that.

(Full disclosure requires me to note, though, that there is a line of nonfunctional birdhouses along the windowsill in the kitchen. Sometimes I do know when to nod, smile and keep my mouth shut.)

Cup XXII: Coming-out Tea Party

Tea: Vanilla Lapsang

Music: Suzanne Vega, "Small Blue Thing"

Time: Late Afternoon.

As I sit at this wonderfully (other members of Clan Steve beg to differ on the adverb) cluttered computer desk, I turn my head to the left and see bags and bags of tea. Down a bit on the shelves, I see an orange notebook. Below that, more tea.

Eyes front: A paperweight, in the shape of the house-smooshed witch's legs and feet -- ruby slippers and all -- from "The Wizard of Oz." Eyes down a bit more, chocolate dipped ginger Altoids.

Eyes up, slightly right, and we find a small green stone, an eagle fetish, a Tibetan creativity symbol, two rubber ducks (one dead and one devilish) and a pen shaped like a cactus.

A bit more to the right, and more pens appear. One looks like a Holstein cow, one like a stalk of asparagus. Yet another has the Statue of Liberty atop, and it lights up when I press down to write.

So what do all of these things have in common (and in common, I might add, with the Suzanne Vega song)?

They all came to me from Seánan Forbes, who is -- in all conceivable orders -- friend, collaborator, co-conspirator, encourager (with both pushing and pulling connotations), and all-around undefinable kindred spirit.

Seánan is fond of saying that, "A good relationship expands worlds." My world, and those of my family and friends, certainly have expanded -- in all sorts of ways -- from this one. I can only hope that in some small way, I've been able to do the same in the other direction.

This is one way, I suppose. It's a daily note of acknowledgement, of thanks and of things for which there are no words.

Today's story:

Nathaniel Hawthorne, "Young Goodman Brown"