I’ve been trying every new recipe I can. I love learning new ways to cook.
I watch every cooking show on Netflix and Hulu. What I love about cooking shows are that there is no room for mediocrity or not caring or not adhering to well put into place rules. Cooking is science with heart and soul.
I love watching and learning what’s right and true. I love the black and white about it all.
I wish writing were the same.
I wish I could learn the certain rules and follow them and succeed.
I know that’s not how writing works.
I feel such frustration because I haven’t yet learned how to write daily no matter my mood. I know, it’s my own fault for doing this, yet how do I change?
Music, what can I say, my tastes are eclectic at best and tacky at worst.
As per the norm, I hear “new” music when driving. It’s new to me and when I look it up on YouTube I find out it’s from 2008. 😌
But, the reason I like certain music is because it touches me.
It either soothes or moves me like all classical or evokes strong emotions or just makes me wanna move.
This song by J-Kwon called Tipsy, just makes me wanna move.
PS: when I first heard it, I thought he was singing, “Everybody in the club getting tips.” I was like, ” Huh, that’s weird, but I’m really digging it!” 😌
since I’m not inspired right now to write anything
about Love or Life or Living.
I have been dreaming lately and that is a rarity.
I mean that i am ‘remembering’ my dreams.
I know that we all dream, blah, blah, blah.
I just lately have had some memorable dreams
as in BRIGHT COLORS
and STRANGE SITUATIONS.
In this dream, I’ll call it ‘The Blue Dream’, I am in a HUGE, MASSIVE, meandering house.
This huge house is apparently being ‘given’ to me and my children.
(my children’s ages vary and morph as the dream progresses)
In the process of moving in, the former tenants have left a LOT OF STUFF, weird stuff and the former tenants (picture The Brady Bunch times 10) the Brady Bunch are ‘helping’ me clean-up.
As they help me clean up they are also finding things they had forgotten and are happily taking them home.
This house is HUGE and one room has a red puppet theater and a white baby bed and lots of baby toys just lying around.
It’s night and the room is bluish in hue with lights dancing off the walls.
There are people pulling wallpaper off, sawing, hammering, nailing, taking paneling off, putting things in bags.
We move on into the kitchen. The kitchen is a jumble of carpentry, hardware, sawdust, no table or anything, just a weird metallic, greenish, harsh, undone, uninviting mess.
There’s white stuff everywhere.
Like, that white stuff on walls and ceilings, crumbly and powdery white.
There’s drawers lying on the floor filled with CRAP.
You know, that junk drawer you just throw little pieces of crap into. There are drawers scattered and tossed and filled with utensils and forks, knives, spoons, corn-cob holders, different colored rubber bands, tacks, tacks, tacks, little nails and all the little things you need to stick things to the wall. BORING.
I march/slither/slide upstairs, downstairs, all around, seeing rooms with bunk beds, seeing into bathrooms with clothes hanging everywhere and toothbrushes, toothpaste, pictures, children’s paintings, all sorts of things just everywhere. Stuff left behind, not worthy of keeping, but the Brady’s were realizing that there was some pretty cool stuff they’d left behind and so as I’m seeing into these rooms, I’m seeing the Brady’s picking up, sorting thru, laughing about, holding onto all this stuff they had forgotten about. They’re finding treasure as I’m tearing down to move in and it’s a chaotic mess. NOISE and MESS and NOISE and ripping and tearing and running thru the house.
I turn and step into an elevator. It’s a brown elevator. Wood with scratches in it. I step in hesitantly, I know I’m going down, I know I have to get in, but also I decide in this dream that I am NOT going to be stuck in this elevator. (I am SO CLAUSTROPHOBIC. As a child I wasn’t in the least, but as an adult, I am)
Suddenly, I come to a STOP. I’m at a dead end. No where to go forward. I step out of the elevator and am a bit relived because my lucid dreaming worked!
A cul-de-sac in the hallway. I’m standing in a hallway. I look to my right and I see sitting on a wooden crate a blond girl, about 5 or 6, wearing yellow shorts and top. She has pigtails and is just sitting quietly, solemnly on the crate in the cul-de-sac staring at me. Not moving, just staring at me.
I need the bathroom.
I turn suddenly and look straight ahead. I’m looking in a mirror. I’m in a bathroom.
I’m standing in a narrow, white enamel on the wall, white sink, light bulb hanging down with a pull string, bathroom.
I look in the mirror and I’m COMPLETELY BLUE. I’m covered in blue. Painted blue. A cobalt blue. My hair is a mess, all frizzy and sticking out and BLUE. My skin is blue. My gown is blue. My feet are blue! I look at the girl and feel confusion, I know I have to keep going. I look down the hallway.
I hear people laughing and I know there is a party going on.
I turn and find some stairs.
I go down these dingy, dark stairs. The whole house is falling apart/being redone. It’s got a 70’s vibe. The party room. Paneling, blue and green furniture, not too well lit. It’s dim, like a dying sun yellow.
It’s a party and everyone is happy and laughing and talking, but the colors and smell and feeling all say dank, dark, slime, oppressive.
I step into the room and see everyone dressed in groovy polyester pantsuits and dresses, chunky shoes and puffy hair. I see our neighbor from across the street. Miss Bea.
She and her husband, Mr. Andy, were my second parents. They had 4 kids, the youngest girl was a year younger than me and my best friend, my sister almost. We spent everyday together. Our mom’s would drink coffee and talk and we would play. We practically lived together.
Miss Bea.
She looks beautiful.
She’s smiling and laughing, wearing a lovely dress and she’s young.
I’m surprised to see her there because she’s dead.
She tells me that she’s with her daughter.
Her first pregnancy was a miscarriage, they named her Susan, and I’d always felt a sadness from her when she thought about Susan. I loved Miss Bea. She was very quiet, tiny. Didn’t drive a car. Her husband drove her everywhere.
Miss Bea, my sweet, mysterious, very kind, never raised her voice, LOVED romance novels, smoked like a chimney, my mom’s best friend, my second mom was telling me she was happy and with her daughter.
I was uncomfortable the whole time, of course, I’m in disarray. My hair is a mess and I’m covered in blue! I turned to look around …
novel (n.): 1. a fictitious prose narrative of considerable length and complexity, portraying characters and usually presenting a sequential organization of action and scenes. 2. (adj.) of a new kind; different from anything seen or known before
I watch every cooking show on Netflix and Hulu. What I love about cooking shows are that there is no room for mediocrity or not caring or not adhering to well put into place rules. Cooking is science with heart and soul.
