Presidential jewels, pants optional, another weird dream

Because you people seem to get a kick out of my subconscious, I thought I’d let you know that I had one of those nights where the dreams came fast, furious, and bizarre. Did you know, for instance, that the time between the first morning alarm and actually getting out of the bed is called my caucus time? At least that’s what someone in one of my dreams told me. No obvious connection to Asian geography or political gatherings. Mine lasts anywhere from ten to fifteen minutes. Your results may vary.

The most memorable dream of last night, however, involved a parade, a ring, and president George H. W. Bush. Stop now if you’re squeamish or under ten.

I’m kidding. This is totally a PG dream. You might have to explain what chaps are and why someone would be wearing them in a jewelry store. Type that explanation into the comments so I’ll know too.

Partner and I were wandering the streets along the route of a large raucous parade. Where? Dreamland, I guess. It was no place I’m familiar with. What kind of parade? No idea. Big one. With streamers. And screaming. And costumes. But not a drunk one at night. Bright, sunny, kid-friendly daylight. After watching a few floats go by, we wandered into a store to do a little jewelry shopping.

Now, those of you who know me, will con to the fact that I don’t “shop” for much, especially not jewelry. The last time I went jewelry shopping was nearly fourteen years ago for the fourteen minutes it took to pick out my wedding ring. Now that I think of it, in this dream, I might have been wearing my wedding dress. Go figure.

Anyway, we wandered into a jewelry store, and before I could say “Hail to the Chief,” a young version of President George H.W. Bush walked out from behind the jewelry counter to greet us. He wore a brown polyester leisure suit with a creamy paisley shirt. Imagine the smarmiest seventies leisure suit with the most extreme butterfly collar. Yes. That’s the one. But his pants were the best part. 

Rather than regular trousers, the president’s “pants” were more like chaps, belled widely at the bottom of the legs, but open across the inside of the thigh and crotch. The better to show off his dark-greyish-green, snakeskin-print briefs that matched his pointy-toed boots. 

Yep.

After that? Who would remember what came after that? Not on purpose anyway.

10 Things: Caught

I planned this post a week or two ago, from a list I wrote a month or two ago.

Coincidence can be uncanny.

Today’s coincidence has left me emotionally brittle and sapped my usual table-stomping, hollering, 10-Things enthusiasm, so we shall go quietly into today’s 10 Things.

Write the first 10 Things you think when you see the word CAUGHT. I’ll meet you at the bottom of the post. 

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My 10 (or more) Things: CAUGHT

1. Playing tag

2. Run run as fast as you can, you can’t catch me…

3. Getting my hair caught on my curling brush when I was ten. Wishing I’d gotten a less tangle-prone curling IRON. But alas, ten-year-old beggars can’t be choosers.

4. Getting caught sneaking into or out of the house, at my house, at friends’ house. 

5. Getting caught returning to school late from a lunch break, covering with a story about my tire.

6. Caught napping

7. Caught on tape

8. Caught a fish

9. Caught a cold

10. Caught off guard

11. Caught on — figured it out, understood

12. Caught in a spider’s web

13. Caught in a net

14. Caught out of bounds

15. My sweater or belt loop caught on a drawer handle in the kitchen

16. Caught the ball

17. Caught by Navy SEALs.

Create some peace somewhere today.

10 Things: POKE

Need a little writing inspiration? How about a writing kick in the pants? 

Join me for a game of 10 THINGS-INGS-ings-ings.

Need a little refresher? Me too. I’m going to shout out a word and you’re going to use the writing instrument of your choice to scribble or type out the first 10 THINGS you think of. Ready? (I’ll meet you down at the bottom of the page.)

10 Things: POKE

Go!

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Here are my ten things for POKE!

1. Facebook. Poke. 

2. Poke in the ribs. A cousin of the nudge. 

3. Cowpoke.

4. The Pokey Little Puppy. Who didn’t actually do any poking or nudging.

5. I need that like I need a poke in the eye. Or the ribs. 

6. Pokemon. Pikachu. How is that even spelled?

7. Poker - Texas Hold ‘Em and the Corb Lund song, “All I wanna do is play cards.” (On the album Hair in my Eyes Like a Highland Steer. I’d link it, but it doesn’t seem to have an official video. You’ll find it.)

8. A fireplace poker out in my back yard, in the rain, oxidizing. Waiting to be picked up by a maniac, or perhaps by me, in self-defense, while gardening, to ward off the suburban lawn demons. 

9. Is it dead? Poke it and see if it moves.

10. Poke. “Ow, quit it.” Poke. “Ow, quit it.” You know, it’s a scene from The Simpsons. Poking Bart.

11. (Who says I have to stop? POKE ON!) poke poke poke poke poke poke poke poke poke poke poke poke poke poke poke poke (whatever you do, do NOT google ‘poke’ and then look at the images. No, stop!)

12. Poke -> Polk. You know, Polk, Andrew Polk? Can anyone name me anything about this president? Is anyone even reading this?

13. Poke the yolk and let it run onto your toast. (Do with this one what you will, but as I’ve gone through to link these, I’ve learned that ‘Poka Yoke’ is a Japanese term for fail-safing a system. Um, yeah.)

14. Some people don’t let children have knives, pencils, forks, or other pointy implements (pokers?) for fear that the kids’ll poke or stab each other or themselves. Or. We could teach the children HOW TO USE these COMMON and USEFUL tools. Ahem.

15. Poke and provoke sound a lot alike and are sometimes synonymous. Sort of like provoking me about prolonging children’s ignorance and then using the outcome to justify prolonging the ignorance. (Why do I want to put a ‘u’ in prolonging???)

Poke me with a comment and let me know what tumbled out for you. 

To Re-Read or Not To Re-Read: How to Resurrect Old Plots

I’m writing. Sort of. I’m really trying. I’m sitting here in front of the computer. My hands are on the keyboard. Words appear on the screen as I type. But there is no doubt that I am stuck. I have been for a while. There are words, but no story. Words, but no satisfaction. Words, but no fire. Not even a spark or a fizz.

I want a new story. The old stories don’t quite hold together. They are the bits and pieces of my learning process. Some better than others, none complete, all missing Something.

And then I have a brainwave. 

I think of my favorite story that I’ve written. Then my mind wanders over to my favorite bit from another story. And KAPOW.

These stories have nothing in common. Well, not really. Their protagonists share a certain clumsiness and curiosity. But that’s it. One is full-on, urban fantasy. One is more, what? Magical realism, I guess. Reality plus some subtle fantastical falderal.

Am I rambling yet? Yes? Ok, I’m getting there.

I can’t put the stories together. No. But I can lift that favorite element from one, and pour it into the pot of the other. I can skim off the detritus that rises to the top, and maybe, maybe I can get a good stew out of the whole thing.

Here’s my question for you, You thinking-, writing-, creative-types:

Where do I start?

Should I treat this story like a fresh idea, plotting out the parts and writing anew, with only my memories of those earlier plans to fertilize the growth of the new story?

Or

Should I go back and reread those earlier stories, taking clippings here and there for pieces that might somehow be revived and grafted together into something new?

What would you do? One of these approaches, or something different? 

Random Story Ideas

…some serious, some absurd. Some that I’ve worked on, some that just occurred to me.

Talking Yarn

The kid who can pass a precalc test while in a bizarre swirl of drugs, trouble, guns, unreliable friends. He can pass precalculus, but doesn’t always know what’s in his backpack

A chef who is no good with knives

A telemarketer with superpowers. This is the droid that you want.

A girl from New Mexico who wants to be a British pop star but ends up selling video games to teenagers

A writer, an only child, who has bounced from standup comedy, to acting, to writing, through a cocaine habit and three states, running from who knows what, and never telling his parents the truth about what he is doing.  His lies must stay one step ahead of their observation and interest.

A dog with the psychic ability to know when people are going to die but no way to communicate the knowledge to humans.

A middle-grade science teacher addicted to heroin.

A crossing guard who rides his bicycle six miles, four times a day to be at his post

A hot-air balloon pilot who wants to open her own restaurant

A kleptomaniac kangaroo

Gratuitous boob shot

A grocery cashier who is trying to write a novel, but mostly sits on the couch in her apartment above her parents’ garage and smokes cigarettes. She has Elvisy hair.

School librarian who hates to read and hates kids and smokes cigars/likes porn.

When it comes to finding a body in the trunk of your car, the first time is really the worst. (This idea is stolen shamelessly from @somnicide)

Football moments: the ball boy’s haircut, the mascots and their trash cans, the boys spitting from the top of the bleachers.

The revolutionary grad student who always ate at the 7-11 hyper-processed food, fried burritos.

23-year-old ethics officer for an ambulance chaser.

A compulsive drawer-rummager.

Bootleg tailors and the zoot suit riots (yes, this one reappears frequently)

What do YOU want to write about?