Ready, Set, Done: A Daily Post’s Daily Prompt

The Daily Post’s Daily Prompt

Ready, Set, Done

Today, write about anything — but you must write for exactly ten minutes, no more, no less.

Last night’s dream was amazing and stimulated by a Writing 101 assignment in which description took precedence. My step-aunt, a psychology major at the time, told me back when I was a teen that dreams can be altered, that if I thought about what I wanted to dream about I could control elements of the dream–even stop the dream in its tracks and say, “Hey, wait a minute!” The same day she told me this, I dreamt a demon was chasing me on skis and I stopped and said, “You can’t get me!”

That was that. No more demon. From then on, actually, I did all the chasing in my dreams; I was a demon annihilator.

Dreams lately have been nightly and vivid. Many of them have kept me restless. In slumber last night I found myself at 1 Logan Place just like I’d written about in Day 1 of Writing 101: A Room with a View. Accompanied by my maternal sister E., we were outside the green door with fans’ scribble on its face and the surrounding wall. For some reason I tried the door handle and it opened up to the garden where we stepped inside.

The dream was entirely about Mary, the love of Freddie’s life. She is the person who resides at Garden Lodge, the one Freddie gave his assets to and I have a strong feeling this is because he knew she loved him like no one else ever could or would. I am intimately familiar with a similar situation, a bittersweet, unrequited love that can never be reconciled due to the death of one partner. Yet, Mary’s love for Freddie, and vice versa, was something else. Even if I don’t know whether Mary could move on fully or not, in my own life I am finally going forward. I know she married after Freddie, but it didn’t last. I cannot imagine being surrounded every day by this mansion and garden, the decorations much the same as Freddie had left them. The mixture of love and pain, grief and longing would be heavier than anything else.

My sister and I wandered around the garden while I told her what I knew, surprised to find there were boards leaning here and there against the inside brick walls and privacy screens absent from the top wrought iron fencing on their top half. Being in the garden penetrated my being with pangs of grief that I’ve experienced in other dreams about searching for someone (this person died in real life) I was told was still alive, but I could not find him.

We went up to the door. Even though I was dreaming, my feelings were intense and knocking was difficult. I didn’t know what to expect, but could hear television or radio inside. A curtain of shame loomed over me as I am not one to pester celebrities or bother anyone who wishes for privacy. I’m not an autograph beggar or selfie-with-celebs fan.

I really didn’t want Mary to think I was there to harass her.

A young man opened the door. In some way it was as if he’d expected us. The door swung wide and he stepped back, so we walked in. The foyer was warm. The colors on the walls rich and inviting. There was a wall ahead of us, but slightly to the right were a few steps leading up to an open dining area where Mary sat.

I asked to speak to Mary, but saw her subtly shake her head in the background.

But I held on.

I am inside, I thought. This may be my only chance to ever tell her how I feel.

“Please,” I said. “I want to share something with you, Mary.”

She smiled briefly and approached. She was elegant, slender and tall, compared to me. She looked tired.

We were alone together in a room. A bathroom, it seems. Every word I shared was laden with emotion, so much so that today I cannot recount the words exactly. I felt like a swollen reservoir bursting. How would I ever convince her of my genuine caring?

I told her, I am sure of this, about how beautiful she is and let her know that her pain is obvious to me, that I know of a similar pain. I thought I felt her loneliness.

We hugged. My insides were melting as if all the grief I’d felt in my past hit me at once.

She had an appointment to keep, so my sister and I walked with her out the garden and through the green door.

“May I write you a letter, Mary?” I said.

“That will be fine.”

From Wikipedia: Love of My Life is a ballad by the English rock band Queen from their 1975 album A Night at the Opera.[1] The song was written byFreddie Mercury about Mary Austin, with whom he had a long term relationship in the early 1970s.[2] After performing the song in South America in 1981, the version from their live album Live Killers reached number 1 in the singles chart in Argentina and Brazil, and stayed in the charts in Argentina for an entire year.[3]

Day 2 of Writing 101: Commit to a Writing Practice

Today’s prompt is quite fitting, darlings:

Write about the three most important songs in your life — what do they mean to you?

Today, try free writing. To begin, empty your mind onto the page. Don’t censor yourself; don’t think. Just let go. Let the emotions or memories connected to your three songs carry you.

Today’s twist: You’ll commit to a writing practice. The frequency and the amount of time you choose to spend today — and moving forward — are up to you, but we recommend a minimum of fifteen uninterrupted minutes per day.

Bohemian Rhapsody

Some of us need more than a symphony. More than a rock song. More than a ballad. Heck, we need them all…at once. We need a song that does what they say cannot be done, a song that keeps on into the wee hours, plays beyond the cessation of every other song we are used to hearing.

Some of us need the Rock God Opera. It’s the only way we become rock gods ourselves.

If a song is right, if it is true, we will listen. No matter what critics say. No matter what’s considered the norm. We will listen and interpret and reinterpret that song as many times as we feel like it.

The critics are oft wrong.

Such is life: the struggles, grief and trials. Our shamefulness. Our joy. All the moments terrifying and strange mixed up with all those moments rapturous and exciting.

Anyway the wind blows…

How does one see his-/herself truly, without blinders, and grasp the right combination of reality and fantasy? Can life be like our favorite songs? Perhaps our favorite songs echo our lives and that’s why we’ve chosen them.

Don’t Stop Me Now

When the light has faded and everyone’s gone home, there’s a chill in the air and, at times, it’s difficult not to wonder what’s the point. But, just listen.

I’m a shooting star leaping through the sky

Like a tiger defying the laws of gravity…

Music has me by the throat, so the best way for me to be successful in everything, from day-to-day, is to listen to what speaks clearly to my heart, or soul–if you will. I’m not one to deny that a song may influence my work in a wealth of ways. Music spurs thoughts and creates a backdrop, a sort of ballet dance, that fuels creation. A song takes me high or brings me low.

I have no trouble getting low on my own, thank you. I’ll stick to what I love, what makes me feel good and causes me to reflect.

Don’t Try So Hard

When your problems seem like mountains

You feel the need to find some answers

You can leave them for another day

Don’t try so hard

Some tasks cannot be avoided. I set out to conquer these with a smile on my face, albeit the occasional grumble resulting from stiffness in my bones.

But I have often asked myself if there’s a point in which pursuing something becomes a lost cause and I have found the answer to be “Yes!”

Many of life’s problems are not my problems, but worries I have taken upon myself. They do not belong to me and I needn’t feel guilty about dismissing them. I cannot fix what is not mine. I can grieve a bit, recognize there’s nothing I can do and move on.

Time waits for no one.