Cleanup in aisle 1995.

Last spring I wrote a somewhat confessional post about a really stupid yet angsty daydream that I had invented as a preteen.  I feel compelled to share another equally ridiculous fantasy that I just remembered (I was a really strange kid, I guess.)  I’m stranded in a grocery store.  Stranded is too mild – I’m held there against my will.  I don’t know who, or how, or why the heck this is taking place, I mean, I guess I couldn’t be bothered to imagine those particulars.  All I know is that I’m stuck in the grocery store after hours and I can’t leave.  And I’m not alone.  I’m not stuck there with the cute boy in class, that might have made some sense.  Usually I’m there with whoever my current hero is.  I distinctly remember this daydream playing out during my No Doubt Tragic Kingdom phase (Beck, you remember it!) and I was trapped in this grocery store with Gwen Stefani.  And of course there was a healthy helping of angst, served up on a cold deli platter.  “Why can’t we just leave??” I would half scream to an equally befuddled Gwen Stefani.  In a fit of what can only be described as pure adolescent torment I grab a can of spaghetti sauce off of the shelf and hurl it at the tile floor.  It shatters, of course, and the floor is covered in broken glass and cold tomato sauce.  I crumple into a ball and cry, and Gwen does what she can to console me.  Seriously.  What the heck was wrong with me?  The really strange thing is that I was pretty popular in middle school.  Middle school was actually the climax of my popularity, believe it or not.  Probably because people could not see what kind of uninspired culinary ska-pop melodrama was teeming inside my head.  I had normal preteen daydreams as, well, I swear!  I just can’t remember those.  For those of you who knew me back then, thanks for being my friend.  If my mom paid you, don’t tell me, I’d prefer to live in ignorant bliss.

Now, for those of you who are Wiederhoeft historians, you’ll be pleased to know that I have finally imported my old Blogger blog here, and I’m thinking about importing even older blogs, like Pacific For Now and Reign Blue Feign Blue (my now-offline California blogs) and maybe even the blog that started it all, the Xanga.  Of course none of us will ever read the blog that was tragically deleted that one fateful summer day (I still curse thee, Blogger!) but 5 out of 6 isn’t bad.

Advertisements

A compromise compromised.

Earlier this month I took on a challenge which was a self-designed compromise from the more daunting, national challenge of National Novel Writing Month.  I knew I couldn’t complete a 50,000 word novel this November, but declared I would, instead, complete two chapters of my graphic novel (which I now speak of rather freely… hm, go figure.  So much for self-propelling mystery!) Well, to put it bluntly, I was crazy.  There is no way I’ll have two chapters done by the 30th.  This story has been unfolding just fine at its own lazy pace and I would only screw that up by forcing myself to write words and draw pictures that aren’t coming of their own volition, when they have been doing so quite nicely prior to this.  Yes, it’s an excuse, but those are allowed on occasion.  I will hereby compromise my challenge and say that I would like to complete ONE chapter this month.  Just one.  It’s a compromised compromise, but it’s still a challenge.

All right, now that business is out of the way, I have a few other things.  First of all, don’t take this as sounding ungrateful, but I am really creeped out by how low gas prices are getting.  I drove past a station that advertised $1.85 a gallon today, which means that other places in the country are probably getting down near a dollar.  Yes, it’s great, it’s cheap, we can all dust off our hummers again, but it’s still freaky.  I feel like I’m living back in the late 90s.  And who the heck likes the 90s?? (Okay, Alex, I know you do.)

Next, I had another dream about my late cat Pepper again last night.  This one was a different kind of sad, though, because of how realistic it was.  Usually when I dream about her (which is often) she has somehow been resurrected, enjoys full health, and seems perfectly unaware that she was ever dead, to both her and my delight.  But last night she was weak, small, and frail, just like she was in real life before she died.  In my dream she barely had the strength to jump up onto the bed, so I picked her up and she crawled under the blankets where we cuddled.  Just like real life.  I feel like I write about these Pepper dreams every time they happen (which is often) but I did a search to link to some past ones and couldn’t find any.  Maybe that is a good idea for a blog-reader-challenge.  Locate the Pepper Dream Posts!  Whoever finds any wins… a photograph of Pepper.

I had a few other things to say but I think I’ll save them up for days when I have nothing.  Which, you’ve come to know, is most of the time.

Rapunzel, you jealous fool.

I had my first jealous dream last night. I’m actually surprised it took as long as it did to creep into my subconscious, but it found its way. It made me feel really crappy, and came along at a time that I was already beginning to question my ability to sustain a normal human relationship, so that was cool. A friend and I used to debate whether or not jealousy is a sin. I tried to make the case that it isn’t, but Galatians 5:19 makes it pretty clear: “The acts of the sinful nature are obvious… hatred, discord, jealousy, fits of rage…” Fortunately I’ve kept my fits of rage to a minimum, but as for jealousy, it creeps up now and again. I tried to argue that jealousy can be justified, and I still think it can, but I guess there is also something very stubborn and self-interested about it. I guess it’s easier to look at it from the reverse angle–is there such a thing as healthy jealousy? Jealousy that makes you feel good? The answer to that pretty much has to be no. And I’d gladly agree to never have another jealous dream again in my life, but unfortunately I don’t have too much control over my subconscious (never quite figured out that lucid dreaming trick).

Writer friends: should my punctuation go inside or outside of the parentheses? If it boils down to a matter of preference, I think I prefer to keep it outside if the parenthetical is contained within a larger sentence, (like this). Or keep it inside if the parenthetical is a self-supporting, don’t-need-no-man-to-make-me -complete, single mother kind of sentence. (Like this.) What are the rules?

I need a haircut pretty badly, but I’ve been holding out until it’s long enough that I can donate it to Locks of Love. I’ve had it in the back of my head to do this for a few years now, but this time I’ve finally let it get to the length that it needs to be, and not a moment too soon. However, today one of my friends tipped me off to the fact that Locks of Love is actually overwhelmed with hair donations, and that much of the hair donated doesn’t get used to make wigs for children after all. I said, “No way! Hilary Swank donated her hair to Locks of Love right on the Oprah show, it must be legit!” She sent me this article. So it seems that Locks of Love, still a really wonderful organization, may very well throw my ten inches of hair into the waste bin, or, since it’s pretty healthy, might sell it to a wig company to cover their expenses. So, big whoop, I guess. If they want to sell it, why not? It will still make slightly more difference than sweeping it into the compost. I think, though, that after reading that article I will donate to Pantene Beautiful Lengths instead. Which, upon visiting the website, is actually the organization that Hilary donated her hair to. My mistake.

Choose to bruise.

Somewhere in my dreams last night I had a thought about free will, which was piggybacked by the thought “You should write about this when you wake up.” It seemed so vivid in its brilliance last night, but like so many dreams upon waking, it has since lost some of its luster. I think, though, that after such an effort to remember this, I owe it to my subconscious to report.

So here. In the dream I was talking to someone (who?) about concepts surrounding God. We came to free will, and I must have explained (although I don’t remember this part) that God created us with free will because he loves us and desires for us to love him back because we want to, not because we have to. The response from this shadowy person was something like, “That’s stupid. If God really loved us he would have omitted free will from our design. Better to be robots who are happy and free from pain and suffering. Better to be robots in tune with their creator than lost and wandering free thinkers.” He went on to explain, “What is the alternative to free will? If we were programmed to obey God and follow his commands we wouldn’t be capable of sin and would never have fallen away from God. We would not need a savior to attain God’s desire for us–eternal fellowship with him–because we would already have it. We might not have chosen it, but everyone would have it and if God really loved us he would want that, he would want to make sure that we were all polished up and neatly put into our places at the end of the day. Instead God has given us the right to choose, putting our salvation at risk, along with our earthly wellbeing: free thinkers dieing of murders, war, cancer, famine, rape, neglect, abuse, disease, poverty, depression, loneliness, suicide–all a result of our choices. This is where our free will ultimately gets us, and maybe some will still choose to seek God through all of that, and to one day spend a perfect, painless eternity with him. And they have chosen to, which pleases God, but isn’t that a rather expensive cost? To turn his eye from so many others, because they wouldn’t tell him what he wanted to hear but he refused to make them tell him? Isn’t this just selfish, on God’s part?”

In my dream I didn’t have an answer, I was more intent on committing the idea to memory. I could come up with a response right now in my wakeful state but it would feel defensive and contrived. My subconscious wanted me to present this side of the argument right now, which is strange because I don’t agree with this side of the argument, and I have never really heard anyone suggest this side of it. The person in my dream genuinely wanted to be a robot! I expect people to say “It’s my life, I can do what I want,” and “If God can turn a blind eye on suffering then I don’t want anything to do with him.” Those are sentiments I can understand, not the desire for programmed response. Who despises their freedom, and the God who gave it to them? Apparently some facet of my subconscious does.

On another day I’ll write my response. I’ll write a love poem about free will–a sonnet, maybe. I think it’s a wonderful thing, although it makes life much more difficult. I think to love someone, you have to let them choose.

It is snowing again. I’ll mention every time it snows, it’s a reflex. You’ll get used to it. I’m trying to get in the habit of using tags, but I think I’ll throw the “weather” tag out the window. I mention the weather a lot, but I don’t want people to get the impression that this is a blog for meteorologists (in case you were starting to wonder). So long weather tag.

Fee Fi Fo Fum.

We are all quick to share our dreams because there is an understanding that we have no real control over our subconscious, so who can really blame us for the twisted stories we conjure up? Daydreams are another matter. Those are entirely willful, and more often than not they are also embarassing. But I think there is a ten year clause in which you can freely confess daydreams from one decade prior without any risk of scorn. After all, who wasn’t silly ten years ago? So now I will tell you about a strange series of daydreams I would invent when I was in middle school. Of course there were the typical daydreams involving the cute boy in class (whoever that was at the time) but I also favored another brand of daydream. These were strange. I remember daydreaming that I would wake up one morning and be a giant. Not some mythical jolly green type giant, but a normal pre-teen girl who had gone to bed measuring 5’3″ and awoken to find herself 7’3″ or thereabouts. This sounds like the premise to some campy Rick Moranis movie, but in my darling little middle school imagination it was far from it. It was a serious matter. In my daydreams the giant-me would find that, despite her unnatural growth spurt she was still required to go to school and attempt to conduct a normal social life. In my daydreams most of my friends were not disgusted by my freakishly increased stature, they were fascinated by it. It catapulted my popularity. But it was not all a glorious ascent to celebrity. Suddenly I was moved into the center position on the basketball team. The pressure on me to perform athletic heroism was very intense. Of course, why wouldn’t they expect great things of this newly mountainous girl-star? But the pressure was too much. I never asked to be this tall! I want my normal life back! Such were the angsty comments my daydream giant self would spout forth at the climax of the daydream. No one understands!

And I had complete control of my brain the entire time, as daydreamers do. I don’t understand my pre-teen self.

  • Subscribe, y'alls!
    Breena Wiederhoeft
  • Categories

  • Blog Stats

    • 35,977 hits