Dream Sequence

The house is still, bathing in wilted sunshine that's filtering though the gauzy windows.  We stand together.  Fingers intertwined.

I know what is coming and I wait.  I've felt it before.  Seen it snake through the floorboards and infect the cracks in the walls.

I know it is coming and I wait.

Branches scratch the windows as the perfume breeze begins to blow.  The sickly sweet scent picks up the leaves outside and I see them swirling outside the panes. 

The door creaks with the dragon wind pushing through it.  I hold tight to the hand in mine.  It won't get me this time.

But I know it will.

The flurry outside begins to howl.  It breaches the unguarded doorway with force and begins its familiar dance through our house.  I watch as the outside comes twirling in across the floor, encircling our feet.  My hair coils around my face and my eyes stay close on the path this vile wind is taking, once again trying to upend what's mine.

It picks up strength and speed.  I stand strong, but I can't hold on without his help.  He's not letting go, yet I am slipping farther and farther away until I am swept across the room, crashing into a lamp, then a table, then the floor.  I see him still standing there, quietly, the dark gusts engulfing him from around the corner far away.  I need to get back to him.  I need to feel his hand in mine again.  I won't let him go.

I stand, feeling shards of broken glass and wood pierce my hands as I balance myself up from the floor.

"Why are you doing this?" he asks me.

I try to answer.  I'm not! I'm not!, but my exclamation is a mere whisper against the noise I've created in my mind.

"It doesn't need to be here.   Why are you bringing this in?"

I don't know. 

"Have I broken it?" I ask.

"No," he says.  "Just get rid of it."

I know what to do.  My steps are sure against the whirlpool of ill temper being waged in our home.

He holds his hand to me and I feel it once again in mine.  I reach out and slam the door.  It pushes quickly from my hand, crashing against the jam.  I bolt it shut.

The wind is quiet.  I hear it slowing down and moving away, back from where it came.

It will return again.  That is certain.

Next time will be different.  Next time I will have power.  I will resist the demons in my mind and we will not break.

When the sun drips through the windows, our fingers are once again intertwined and we are, as we should be, at peace.

Dream Sequence

I'm walking down a sidewalk.  Even though I've never consciously been on this street, I know where I am and where I am going.  There are no people.  There are no cars.  There is nothing.  It is quiet.

I am alone, yet not at all fearful.  I keep walking.  I turn a corner.  All of the three-story buildings that line the roads around me are closed.  The storefronts abandoned, though whether only for the night or forever is unclear.  Their grayish brown exteriors make the light close in around me.  It is getting dark.

I need to get moving.  I have things to do.

I am aware that a woman has taken up steps behind me.  She is not following me and I am not afraid of her.  Without turning to look, I know who she is.  She makes no noise as her movements mirror mine.  Her hand is  tightly closed on the bag she carries over her shoulder.  I tilt my chin towards my left to glance back at her.  I see her long dark hair.  I know who she is.

I turn forward again and step down off the curb.  The place that I am going is across the street.  I move that direction and she follows me.  I step up on the other side and move straight for the door to the shop in front of me.   I pull it open and walk through.   There is hardly a place to stand among the crowd inside.  I find an open spot and stop, folding my hands in front of me.

A man to the side of me greets a server coming to him from the back of the store.  She is carrying a tray and I turn to look.  It is lined with overlapping, small, brown paper sacks, each painted with the same purple and pink character design.  I am pleased at seeing them.  I know mine will look equally as good.

"Thank you," he says as he accepts the tray.

As I shift forward again, I see the dark haired woman who was following me.  She is seated on a couch next to where I am standing.  She is looking at me.  I hold her gaze, unmoving.  The noise around us falls away until I hear nothing but her.

"This isn't what I wanted for you," I say.

I bring my right arm across my chest and place my hand over where my heart lies beneath.  I pat it gently as I slowly shake my head.  The corners of my mouth turn down and tears fill my eyes. 

"This isn't what I wanted for you," I say again.

"I know," she says.

I drop my hand back down to my side.  She looks around the room.  She looks back at me.

"It's just so hard," she says.

I turn up the corner of my mouth and cock my chin a bit.  I slowly shake my head again.

"This isn't going to make it easier," I say.

I don't feel like she hears me.  I don't feel like she knows what I am trying to tell her.  I know so much more than she does, yet I can't make her understand.  She just keeps looking at me blankly.  Her face betraying nothing.

"This isn't going to make it easier," I say again.

We stay connected through our eyes as the others in the store move around us.  The silence of their presence wraps around my mind and I know there is nothing more I can do.

I wake up.

I wake up knowing exactly who I was talking to and exactly what we were talking about.  It all makes perfect sense and for the first time in my life,

I wonder if someone else just had the same dream.

Dream Sequence Revisted

A lot of people don't consider photography an art.  It's too simple.  They don't think that it takes the same talent or training that is required to say...paint a picture or throw a pot or blow glass.  Art is supposed to be creative.  Art is supposed to look like something that can hang on the wall or sit on a table.  Any Joe Schmo can pick up a camera and take a picture of a sunset or an ocean or a kid.  You didn't make it.  You didn't create it from nothing.  It was there in front of you and you took a picture of it.  What's art about that?  That's not art.  It's barely a hobby.

And I say this because I've given a lot of thought recently to this craft of photography and my participation in it.  There are so many different aspects to it, it's almost dizzying .  You can be a wedding photographer.  A portrait photographer.  A documentary photographer.  A journalistic photographer.  A sports photographer.  You can focus your energy on nature.  On color.  On the abstract.  Just last night on the news I heard some guy refer to himself as a wildlife photographer.  It's whatever you want to be.  If you want to make money, of course, you go with the wedding/portrait thing.  And those that do will tell you that it's not about art for them.  Photographing you is about capturing your best, and I believe that.  I've tried it and I wish I could do it.  But, that's not the kind of photographer that I am, because these images are my art.  And, as much as I hate the saying, it is how I express myself.  I look through the lens and I create something that no one knew was there.  Sometimes it's beautiful.  Sometimes it's weird.  Sometimes it's why would you do that?  But no matter what it is, it's mine.  It's my extension.  And I don't want to justify it, or defend it, or feel badly about it.  I just want it to be accepted.  And I want to be accepted for creating it.  And, I would love it, if only for a moment, it was thought of as amazing.