Life in the Middle Lane

I have three major “passion” projects that I should be devoting major amounts of time and energy to; the first is this blog, the second is Cosmopolitan Urbanist, and the third is my ¾th completed novel.

These three creatures gnaw at me. An idea for my novel will come to me when I’m supposed to be reading a report for work. A blog post for CU or an idea for a survey will come to me while I’m driving through some town or neighborhood.  Infinite ideas for this blog and other websites come to me as I hurl myself through my day at work, my home life with the GF or while I’m driving, talking on the phone, or cooking dinner. These projects are with me 24 hours a day, 365 days a year. Rain or shine, sleeping or awake. They haunt me.

My novel characters talk to me.  I promise them that their stories won’t languish on my virus infected laptop. That one day, I’ll at least compile their various Word documents into some semblance of order, change all the language from 1^st person to 3^rd, upload the whole damn thing onto Google Docs so that A. I can share it with my “editors” my BFF and the GF. (who are both waiting patiently) and B. so that I can work on it from work wherever.

I’m not kidding when I say I have notebooks and Word Docs and Google Docs galore of half-finished blog posts, and pictures on my phone, camera and computer of things I want to put on tumblr and flickr.

Every day at work I stare, (sometimes aimlessly) at the computer screen, absorbing inconsequential tidbits of news. I lament the fact that I’m an internet whore that just won’t quit. That I CAN”T get anything accomplished despite the fact that  I have these three things that are screaming inside my brain for attention. These things that I say I care about, but whom I neglect badly while I read the latest on twitter. I feel guilty. How dare I not spend my free time devoted to my work.

Now I think my subconscious is getting involved.

Over the past few weeks (maybe months) I’ve been having horrible, horrible nightmares. These are not my garden variety nightmares of devils attacking or me running from some unseen terror.  In these new nightmares, I’ve killed (or been privy to) the deaths of my siblings. Repeatedly. In these nightmares, I’ve watched them get attacked by snakes, lizards, a faceless friends, and finally, the unseen terror in the closet.  I’ve had dreams about going to weekend long family funerals, of someone being buried in the backyard, of multiple car crashes.  I had a nightmare that two of my uncles were fighting over money and somehow it was all my fault. Last night, I had two dreams.  In one, I was a dolphin in a dolphin family.  And in the other, I was fighting zombies like Lara Croft.

And those are just the dreams that I wake up and can recount. I have also had several dreams about transporting people in tubes across dimensions of space and time, and about medieval (or 22^nd Century) weapon technology, but I can’t remember all the details.

I, my therapist, and the GF, (bless her heart with infinite patience) have analyzed my dreamscape to death. Thank goodness that the GF is training to be a therapist since she’s had to listen to me talk about all the death and destruction that I go through most nights.

According to Freud, Jung, and the whole gang of therapy experts, dreams are our subconscious trying to tell us something about ourselves and our surroundings. Each part of the dream (even the parts played by other people) are symbolic pieces of ourselves.

After a bit of research, I was relieved to know that I’m not dreaming of the deaths of my siblings.  But I was horrified to know that I’m dreaming of the death or destruction of parts of myself.  I’ve taken some time to think about what part of my personality is represented by my siblings.  The answer came to me a few weeks ago as I stared at the ceiling in the middle of the night, refusing to go back to sleep after having a dream where I watched my sister get choked by an unseen hand from the closet. All of a sudden it hit me, I sat up in bed and using my cell phone light, wrote it quickly in my journal (scaring the GF half to death in the process).  My siblings are my legacy. They are the pieces of me that will live on after I’m dead.

My siblings are the reason I don’t want children. (And I mean that in a good way) As the oldest, I spent my childhood caring for them; reading to them, keeping them out of trouble, beating up their bullies, helping them with homework, making their lunches over the summers, making sure that they were ok. I consider them as much mine as my mother’s.  By watching my siblings die in my dreams, I witnessed the death of my legacy. Without them, no part of me lives on.

In one of the dreams, my cousin (who happens to be a a loud mouth) gives birth to a stillborn child, while I lay on the hospital bed beside her, unable even to birth the thing I could see moving inside me.  I think the dead and unborn babies refer to the unfinished projects and notebooks of ideas that I haven’t been working to GIVE BIRTH TO. My dreams are telling me that I need to stop talking, and start taking action.  It would be shame if my ideas die before I can do anything about them. I can’t depend on my siblings to be my legacy (somehow my mother thinks it’s cheating to consider them my children anyway). Only I am the master of my legacy.

Crazy, huh? The brain is a marvelous and mysterious hunk of meat.