I tend to bask in these seasons when my nights are filled with vivid dreams I remember in whole or in parts when I awake. It is another existence in there, in my dreams. It’s extra life.
Years ago after reading a science magazine article, (Omni?) on the subject of ‘lucid dreaming,’ I took to suggestions from the article designed to help one take control of their dreams. For a couple of months I went around reading things in public places, on walls, billboards, menus, then reading them again. The idea is that a thing read will never read the same twice, in a dream. So, if one could make a habit in wakeful life of reading things twice, the read thing which changed would trigger the dreamer into knowing they were dreaming and hence, being able to take control of the dream, “lucid dreaming.’
It worked for me. I was in Japan on an Air Force base and I volunteered to coach youth sports while I was there. One day I was driving my ’81 Celica around on base when I got into a collision with the mother of one of my players. (The kid actually played for me three seasons in a row, soccer, little league baseball, then soccer again.) After damaging the family VW Beetle, I followed her and Todd back to their house on base and when I saw Kevin, (Todd’s dad,) he got angry about the car. He fretted and fumed a bit then he started acting like he was going to punch me.
I looked at his t-shirt, which said “Brooklyn Dodgers,” across it. Quickly I looked away and looked again. It said only, “Yankees,” the second time. I was dreaming and the dream immediately faded.
I was in a nowhere place for some moments as I pondered the fact that I was sleeping yet aware of my thoughts. In my dream I moved slowly about in an ether. I recalled the point of this lucid dreaming, and how the article had talked about the exhilaration of flying in one’s dreams. It had specifically suggested one could work toward flying by taking giant steps like they were on the moon, intending to float, which I did. I never did fly but I did take the giant steps though I don’t think it was in that specific dream. I engaged in lucid dreaming for a few months after which, I think I got tired of reading things twice in the daytime.
The floating was truly thrilling. I remember pushing off the earth and floating up and out and being amazed at what I could do and how it felt to my normally limited body.
More recently I have had a recurring dream wherein I levitate. Usually I am in a group of people and out of the blue I begin to rise into the air. Often I entice others, who did not know they could do this, to join me. No one is ever baffled at my ability in my dreams, rather they casually look then return to whatever they were doing.
Last night I dreamt I was writing a piece of fiction. In my story a 10-year-old daughter was telling her father the family should take certain steps, engage in conservation projects or write letters to soldiers, in order to support the war. The father was incredulous and asked his daughter what war she was talking about.
“The war on terror,” she responded.
“There is no such thing as ‘The War on Terror,’ dear,” the father chided.
He went on to explain to her that the war on terror represented a propaganda campaign and that people who fear will more readily support the side who both puts them in fear and purports to protect them, and that in fact, the definition of war was in flux since it had formerly implied troops were engaged in battle on a battlefield as opposed to the idea governments were secretly collecting information to thwart otherwise unknown would-be attacks and similar activities.
This was all just me, sitting at a keyboard, writing, in my dream. The idea stuck with me though, somehow. When I woke, I thought I had happened upon that one idea, the one I’ve been looking for, the one that will help me write fiction, the one that will help me finally write a cohesive story with a plot and narrative and a hero with an arc and redemption awaiting him in the end.
Yes, I have had the idea I had this idea innumerable times. Sometimes I think I am the idea of me longing for the idea, (while reading Lao Tzu, perhaps.)
I have often thought I do have one great idea, one great work in me. Less from ego and more from the need to feel like I have helped humanity, I long for this to be true. I think I want it to be true so badly I will happily sacrifice any notoriety or wealth that could conceivably come from a great work of fiction. I imagine it manifesting so late in my life, there is no time for me to enjoy it, or perhaps the work comes to light after my demise.
In reality, perhaps I merely need this idea to impel me through the everyday rigors of life. Maybe I need this specter of a higher calling realized constantly near me in order to change diapers and take customer service phone calls. I would be most pleased to be able to help, however meager. And I admire the men of one work. I love the greatest Mexican novelist ever, Juan Rulfo. (I know Gabriel Garcia-Marquez would never have existed without Rulfo’s inspiration.) I love Ralph Ellison, the invisible man of letters who painfully tried to make it happen again in his lifetime but could not, (or if he did, that second great work was destroyed in fire.) I would rather read one book, full of meaning and ideas and life, by a one-book genius, than 50 pieces of Stephen King tripe. (Apologies to King, he merits mention unlike many others on the popular landscape.)
Maybe I have this work in me? One would never know it today, based on my habits and my station in life. I do not have the ability to write fiction today. I am an expert letter writer. I correspond with the best of them. I write first person journal entries with some skill. (If you’ve gotten this far I will say I’ve proven that much, recognizing there are likely two or three of “you.”) Occasionally I can write something funny, a sarcastic essay or two but mostly, my efforts towards fiction have been flat.
Still, I have not yet said “uncle.” I try, sometimes. Maybe I will try with this material from my dream. It seemed much better while I slept. I saw it as such a great jumping off point. This idea would impel me through pages and pages, I thought. Before waking I saw myself working backwards from that conversation to the beginning, to the family, who they were and why the reader would look at them. I thought of the larger story and saw the arcs of the characters and bits of plot like stardust shuffling through my field of vision.
When I woke, it was mostly gone. I still see the moment. I understand I have some idea the girl changes from naïve to one who calls out the emperor for running around naked. I suppose the dad is heroic in a way, for enlightening his little one and maybe that makes the daughter Terra and the father me and maybe all dreams are fantasy. Or maybe I just need to learn how to dream more often when I am awake.
Saturday, July 22, 2006
Thursday, July 06, 2006
andre agassi
andre agassi will be missed, not because he is the last american to ascend to extraordinary heights in the tennis world, (with no others on the horizon,) but because he is and always was the epitome of class.
agassi has chosen a great time to retire. At 36, his athleticism is waning and it shows on the court, though not so much he is not competetive. he merely has not been able to play at his highest level, which he reached about six years ago. his knees and back seem to be troubling him some and against nadal, in his farewell to wimbledon, agassi did not even chase some balls he surely would have hunted down and returned with fury a few years ago.
such is life. the fact is agassi outlasted every single one of his contemporaries. when agassi lost the 1991 french open final to jim courier, it looked like he might never realize the potential he flashed as a brash youngster.
michael chang appeared to be headed for greater heights. courier was unbeatable for a season and wowed the french crowd that afternoon with a gracious victory speech in their native tongue. pete sampras was bigger and more powerful and possessed a serve and volley game that combined roscoe tanner's fierce serve with john mcenroe's touch at the net. mcenroe himself was still playing and despite technological advances in the game, he improved his serve and exhibited a grit that retained the hearts of american fans. even patrick mcenroe or todd martin seemed like they might have greater staying power based on their respective, obvious work ethics.
agassi, however, obeyed life's golden rule and stayed true to himself. it was ironic in 1992 when he finally broke through and won his first grand slam at the hallowed grounds of wimbledon. he won in five sets over goran ivanisevic and dropped to his knees, his hands at the sides of his shaggy head in disbelief. in that moment, tennis became cool - cool, rock and roll tennis, with flea and anthony kiedis in the umpire's chair and the nike swoosh pulsing around the tv screen in unison with the beat of andre's wicked ground strokes.
the work ethic agassi became known for was not evident in the early part of his career. the media and some of his peers questioned his desire to win or his desire to join the pantheon of tennis greats he undeniably belongs to now. but this was agassi being true to himself.
what 21-year-old kid wants to be so utterly dedicated to something he loses the ability to enjoy himself along the way? not to suggest andre was partying 24/7, but the comments he made in the press were off the beaten path.
when he disdained wimbledon because of the dress code, he did so because his youthful sensibility wanted or needed to make a statement about clothes not making the man. it was a quixotic thing to do but andre had some power as a draw in those days and his absence dulled the luster of the tournament albeit slightly. (wimbledon, being wimbledon after all, just carried on.)
after losing at wimbledon a few weeks ago, agassi said he looks forward to this next stage of life. he realizes he will not have the opportunity to spend as much time with some people as he has in the past, but he also realizes in this tennis pro stage he is departing from he never had the chance to spend vast amounts of time with his wife and children. (of course he did not have kids until recently but the point is,) he does not rue getting older. he embraces the present, which is perhaps the truest quality of any champion.
andre agassi has been one of the best role models in the sports world. as much as i agree with charles barkley that it is not the athletes job to be a role model, it is still a nice thing when they are, and i will be happy to tell my children some day that agassi was a class act. no more, no less, but one of those few examples of celebrities one feels comfortable making that determination about.
agassi has chosen a great time to retire. At 36, his athleticism is waning and it shows on the court, though not so much he is not competetive. he merely has not been able to play at his highest level, which he reached about six years ago. his knees and back seem to be troubling him some and against nadal, in his farewell to wimbledon, agassi did not even chase some balls he surely would have hunted down and returned with fury a few years ago.
such is life. the fact is agassi outlasted every single one of his contemporaries. when agassi lost the 1991 french open final to jim courier, it looked like he might never realize the potential he flashed as a brash youngster.
michael chang appeared to be headed for greater heights. courier was unbeatable for a season and wowed the french crowd that afternoon with a gracious victory speech in their native tongue. pete sampras was bigger and more powerful and possessed a serve and volley game that combined roscoe tanner's fierce serve with john mcenroe's touch at the net. mcenroe himself was still playing and despite technological advances in the game, he improved his serve and exhibited a grit that retained the hearts of american fans. even patrick mcenroe or todd martin seemed like they might have greater staying power based on their respective, obvious work ethics.
agassi, however, obeyed life's golden rule and stayed true to himself. it was ironic in 1992 when he finally broke through and won his first grand slam at the hallowed grounds of wimbledon. he won in five sets over goran ivanisevic and dropped to his knees, his hands at the sides of his shaggy head in disbelief. in that moment, tennis became cool - cool, rock and roll tennis, with flea and anthony kiedis in the umpire's chair and the nike swoosh pulsing around the tv screen in unison with the beat of andre's wicked ground strokes.
the work ethic agassi became known for was not evident in the early part of his career. the media and some of his peers questioned his desire to win or his desire to join the pantheon of tennis greats he undeniably belongs to now. but this was agassi being true to himself.
what 21-year-old kid wants to be so utterly dedicated to something he loses the ability to enjoy himself along the way? not to suggest andre was partying 24/7, but the comments he made in the press were off the beaten path.
when he disdained wimbledon because of the dress code, he did so because his youthful sensibility wanted or needed to make a statement about clothes not making the man. it was a quixotic thing to do but andre had some power as a draw in those days and his absence dulled the luster of the tournament albeit slightly. (wimbledon, being wimbledon after all, just carried on.)
after losing at wimbledon a few weeks ago, agassi said he looks forward to this next stage of life. he realizes he will not have the opportunity to spend as much time with some people as he has in the past, but he also realizes in this tennis pro stage he is departing from he never had the chance to spend vast amounts of time with his wife and children. (of course he did not have kids until recently but the point is,) he does not rue getting older. he embraces the present, which is perhaps the truest quality of any champion.
andre agassi has been one of the best role models in the sports world. as much as i agree with charles barkley that it is not the athletes job to be a role model, it is still a nice thing when they are, and i will be happy to tell my children some day that agassi was a class act. no more, no less, but one of those few examples of celebrities one feels comfortable making that determination about.
Sunday, July 02, 2006
freedom realized
this morning i picked up the phone and dialed 10 digits and my brother answered, “what up?” as if this was an every day occurrence.
for the past six years I have had to listen to a disclaimer about receiving a collect call from an inmate at a colorado state correctional facility before I could speak to tommy. those calls were limited to about 25 minutes-today we spoke for nearly an hour. today he was at his girlfriend’s house when we spoke. my nephew, (little tommy,) was nearby watching star wars episode 3. tommy had never operated a dvd player before and certainly had not seen one in a car, which he did when he was released from prison yesterday.
we talked about what he will be getting up to, job opportunities and such. we talked about my daughter, whose name tommy tattooed on his neck but whom he has yet to meet in person. we talked about my recent wedding, which prison kept him from attending. we talked about the child Faith carries in her womb, who that little person will turn out to be. we talked about little tommy and the challenges big tommy must face to help him steer clear of the mistakes his father made. we talked and talked.
it is hard to imagine how good tommy must feel. I guess he is worried some, too. i hope he values the thing he was deprived of more than ever.
i love my brother but that love has manifested itself to me in a way i would not have previously comprehended. people say they love each other and there are certain motions we can all be seen to go through, we stay in touch and talk about the weather, life’s travails, people, events, occasionally ideas, but there is and has been implied in most of my relationships, a distance born of insecurity.
my brother and i are men. there is a stoic, machismo-oriented sense about our interaction that feels like an unbridgeable divide. i sense it and i try to overcome it by speaking my mind but it is as omnipresent as the underlying pain and love we share.
tommy has lived in colorado for many years now, three times as long as this incarceration, i think. but the distance of free men is not comparable to that of one who is shackled. i visited him perhaps four times during the past six years and on one of those occasions, i traveled only to be denied access on the basis of a prison lockdown associated with an outbreak of violence inside.
life is not static. i was living and evolving and changing while tommy was behind bars and despite the constraints, tommy was doing the same thing. i know he does not hold it against me i did not visit more often. i know he appreciates the many books i sent him these last years. i can hardly wait to see my brother even though there is not a plan at present. it will happen.
the correspondence tommy and i have shared is an amazing thing. had he not been imprisoned, it never would have happened. in the letters we sent one another, we rarely practiced small talk. there was little in the way of weather discussion and only occasionally did we turn to what would normally be our favorite fodder, sports. (i should have known he would be paroled in a year when his beloved steelers won the superbowl.)
instead we talked about the big picture, about ideas and ideals, about raising a boy from prison, (or not raising a boy from prison,) about violence and racial tensions and revolt. in some of tommy's letters i saw him regress. i saw him put on his gang mentality like a cloak of invincibility, like a raging boy's defiance. other times i could see the man tommy nuzzling up to the truths i continue to see him embrace.
on his last night in prison he wrote me a letter, (mailed on his way out the next morning.) he wrote about an eerie feeling as if he was walking out to a death chamber. he wrote about the other men inside, men who would never ever leave those confines. he mentioned his tattoos and the state of mind he was in whenever he added one. it was fatalism he felt when he imagined he would never leave the institution.
tommy takes some pride in having endured. he is confident in his ability to convey his experience to others and in that, he feels special, and positive. in this letter he speaks of authenticity, of not portraying himself as someone he is not. he wrote, "...men like me, thugs, gangsters, beautiful losers, inmates, convicts and fathers, well, authenticity is of utmost importance to us."
i read that this morning and the urge to sob welled up inside me. he went on remembering having read about men who attract people by their way of life, ('beautiful losers.') i'm almost certain he is conjuring leonard cohen. my brother, the knucklehead, quoting leonard cohen. the power of art never ceases to amaze me.
tommy recalled his early days of incarceration and how devoid he was of any tangible sense of it ever ending. he contrasts that with the intensity of the light he sees at the end of the tunnel on this his last night of confinement, and how it mixes with images of his son and beautiful women and other things he has been deprived of.
as he readies to walk he reminds me i walk with him and he calls me and others his angels. he says we have accompanied him always. he says he has love to leave and love to receive.
this is my favorite letter ever. and the best part is how he signed it. i thought it represented a certain humility i think he will need. he wrote,
"Tommy
Parolee"
for the past six years I have had to listen to a disclaimer about receiving a collect call from an inmate at a colorado state correctional facility before I could speak to tommy. those calls were limited to about 25 minutes-today we spoke for nearly an hour. today he was at his girlfriend’s house when we spoke. my nephew, (little tommy,) was nearby watching star wars episode 3. tommy had never operated a dvd player before and certainly had not seen one in a car, which he did when he was released from prison yesterday.
we talked about what he will be getting up to, job opportunities and such. we talked about my daughter, whose name tommy tattooed on his neck but whom he has yet to meet in person. we talked about my recent wedding, which prison kept him from attending. we talked about the child Faith carries in her womb, who that little person will turn out to be. we talked about little tommy and the challenges big tommy must face to help him steer clear of the mistakes his father made. we talked and talked.
it is hard to imagine how good tommy must feel. I guess he is worried some, too. i hope he values the thing he was deprived of more than ever.
i love my brother but that love has manifested itself to me in a way i would not have previously comprehended. people say they love each other and there are certain motions we can all be seen to go through, we stay in touch and talk about the weather, life’s travails, people, events, occasionally ideas, but there is and has been implied in most of my relationships, a distance born of insecurity.
my brother and i are men. there is a stoic, machismo-oriented sense about our interaction that feels like an unbridgeable divide. i sense it and i try to overcome it by speaking my mind but it is as omnipresent as the underlying pain and love we share.
tommy has lived in colorado for many years now, three times as long as this incarceration, i think. but the distance of free men is not comparable to that of one who is shackled. i visited him perhaps four times during the past six years and on one of those occasions, i traveled only to be denied access on the basis of a prison lockdown associated with an outbreak of violence inside.
life is not static. i was living and evolving and changing while tommy was behind bars and despite the constraints, tommy was doing the same thing. i know he does not hold it against me i did not visit more often. i know he appreciates the many books i sent him these last years. i can hardly wait to see my brother even though there is not a plan at present. it will happen.
the correspondence tommy and i have shared is an amazing thing. had he not been imprisoned, it never would have happened. in the letters we sent one another, we rarely practiced small talk. there was little in the way of weather discussion and only occasionally did we turn to what would normally be our favorite fodder, sports. (i should have known he would be paroled in a year when his beloved steelers won the superbowl.)
instead we talked about the big picture, about ideas and ideals, about raising a boy from prison, (or not raising a boy from prison,) about violence and racial tensions and revolt. in some of tommy's letters i saw him regress. i saw him put on his gang mentality like a cloak of invincibility, like a raging boy's defiance. other times i could see the man tommy nuzzling up to the truths i continue to see him embrace.
on his last night in prison he wrote me a letter, (mailed on his way out the next morning.) he wrote about an eerie feeling as if he was walking out to a death chamber. he wrote about the other men inside, men who would never ever leave those confines. he mentioned his tattoos and the state of mind he was in whenever he added one. it was fatalism he felt when he imagined he would never leave the institution.
tommy takes some pride in having endured. he is confident in his ability to convey his experience to others and in that, he feels special, and positive. in this letter he speaks of authenticity, of not portraying himself as someone he is not. he wrote, "...men like me, thugs, gangsters, beautiful losers, inmates, convicts and fathers, well, authenticity is of utmost importance to us."
i read that this morning and the urge to sob welled up inside me. he went on remembering having read about men who attract people by their way of life, ('beautiful losers.') i'm almost certain he is conjuring leonard cohen. my brother, the knucklehead, quoting leonard cohen. the power of art never ceases to amaze me.
tommy recalled his early days of incarceration and how devoid he was of any tangible sense of it ever ending. he contrasts that with the intensity of the light he sees at the end of the tunnel on this his last night of confinement, and how it mixes with images of his son and beautiful women and other things he has been deprived of.
as he readies to walk he reminds me i walk with him and he calls me and others his angels. he says we have accompanied him always. he says he has love to leave and love to receive.
this is my favorite letter ever. and the best part is how he signed it. i thought it represented a certain humility i think he will need. he wrote,
"Tommy
Parolee"
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