Explosions in the night

It happened again last night. Around 2am I woke and walked into the bathroom and the creepy tangles of my subconscious tickled the arches of my feet. I'm about to admit something to the Internet in the hopes that I am not entirely alone in this.

So here goes. In my sleepy mind I fear that an earth-ending explosion is imminent. I brace for it in a collected manner similar to someone extremely high on mushrooms forcing themselves to believe that the hallucinations are just that, hallucinations. Flushing the toilet triggers this feeling of impending chaos and it makes zero rational sense to my awake brain when I remember it later, but it happens nonetheless.

Imagine how you would feel in a haunted house as you approach a closed door. Come on! You know the scream is gathering force in your throat as you go to turn the knob. Now inject that spike of adrenaline into your veins and try to go back to sleep. The craziest part about all of this is that I am perfectly fine walking through my house in pitch black at any other point. Wake me up and ask me to go pee in the middle of the night though and I just might become hyper alert to the nothingness outside and think a nuclear bomb is set to go off in the col da sac. 

I've also had a slightly different version happen to me where I fear the collapse of everything around me. Stuff like the walls beginning to hum and out of the darkness comes an ear-piercing wail of a spirit from some realm unknown to mankind. I'm weird I know. I blame it on being told to be creative. Letting go and thinking about the irrational is fun sometimes though. 

Jesus figure in the sand

While climbing along on some wind-swept refuse on my lunch break, I had an odd encounter that might be worth sharing. I make it a habit to walk the ten minutes down to a small beach front on days when the sun is out. Strong winds from the night before lined the shoreline in smooth timber and junk. A rough looking man was digging about, separating and unwinding the sun-baked and awful smelling clumps of sea grass.

Distance has always been difficult for me to judge and this vantage point, nestled comfortably underneath the tendrils of a tree hardened by the salinity of the salt, I sit and look out on the islands. Western Washington University's campus slumbers peacefully to the east like a Goliath tucked and comfortable on the hill with its brick toes jutting out from low-hanging fog. To the west I often lose myself in the scale of color gradient that is Lummi Island, but now we are getting off topic.

So this man, he comes to me. His beard is a mixture of white and gray hair that is maintained at a short length. A center ring of of dark coffee-colored whiskers perfectly matching the outline of his lips provides juxtaposition. He is kempt but also holding a majority of his life in a trash bag.

Anyways, he is excited at his find of a Jesus figure in the mess. Look look what I found man! Looks like someone carved this from a solid piece of wood. I say to him that I find it odd that the arms are missing. He laughs and asks if the owner would mind if he kept it. I tell him probably not. This man, being the talkative type, begins to tell me about the bowling ball he once found on this very same stretch of beach. A bowling ball I asking him incredulously. He says yeah man. People on the islands are known for shooting bowling balls from cannons out into the bay. I am laughing now but not at him. I like what he has to say and how excited he is about it. He quickly ends his sentence about the islanders blasting these balls and hurries in the next sentence about how this bowling ball was probably from some rich fucker who missed a strike on his yacht out in the bay and threw the ball overboard in rage. He tells me this like he had been waiting to share this story with someone for years. It flows off his tongue like he had been rehearsing it. He hit me with the setup and then spiked the ball over the net all without me knowing what happened. Thinking back on it, no wonder he was so excited—he finally got to tell someone that little thing that made him laugh when he first thought of it.

Bruxism

Bruxism (Noun): the habit of unconsciously gritting or grinding the teeth especially in situations of stress or during sleep

I notice it immediately. A person who wishes to label everything with textbook definitions would call it "bruxism." The masseter muscle quaking at the back of the jaw; thoughts hard at work. It's not unattractive when I catch someone unknowingly doing it. I just wonder how pitted their teeth must be.

Cairn

Cairn (noun): a pile of stones that mark a place (such as the place where someone is buried or a battle took place) or that shows the direction of a trail

After having been on the trail for three weeks, she was excited to review the photos she had captured of her solo trek across the Peloncillo Mountains. She relived the highlights, smiling as she clicked from frame to frame. This photo, she thought to herself, is one I don't recall taking. Her skin became flush with heat. In the foreground, a small cairn of rocks with her white underwear like a snow-capped mountain sat waiting for this moment. An eerie touch to an already creepy photo of her sitting at a campfire. She was unaware a stranger had lifted her camera, taken this photo, and returned it to her pack. She sat staring at the screen as waves of unsettling fear came over her. She had not seen another person the whole trip.

Bivouac

Bivouac: Noun - A temporary shelter or camp

In the black of night he illuminates the altimeter strapped to his wrist. It reads 7,000 feet. This reconnaissance mission hinges on stealth. As he counts down the seconds before pulling the cord, he gathers his bearings. Hostile forces are bivouacked on naked bluffs overlooking a serpentine canyon 40 degrees north. In the cold winter air, light pollution from their camp glows through a haze of campfire smoke in the sky below him like crimson bioluminescence in the late summer ocean. 

Firmament

Firmament (noun)- the vault or arch of the sky : heavens

It's early in the morning. He sits in a shallow clearing of tall grass some distance away from the back porch. Everyone is inside but he sits in the dew and takes clumps of wet grass to his face, roots and dirt and all. The shrooms he ingested are fully awake in his gut. He is supine and looking up at the flat firmament filled with green neon gas bubbling as if a cauldron of toxic waste is lodged between this world and one beyond, wondering how it would feel to drown.

If you're interested in writing a few sentences around this word feel free to post it.

Tailorwise

I thought it would be fun to find a random word and use it in a paragraph. This way my vocabulary expands AND I have a reason to write. Not that I don't have plenty of content to write about, it's just that I am reeling back on the personal stuff.

So the word here is "tailorwise" and yes I use it immediately. Fight me about it I don't care.


The lone figure sits tailorwise; his right leg interlocked and woven tightly with the left. The crew demands blood and throw garbage at him. Call me what you want, but blind to liers I am not. With his back towards them, he is comfortable waiting out the riot. You're doing a terrible job at walking the plank, one of his shipmates yells. I ainght apologizing nor going swimming with the sharks so hoot and holler all ye want but I'm sitting right here, he replies.

Morgan Freeman teaches you how to make a fireplace fire

I was looking around on Youtube for some tips on how to make a great fireplace fire and stumbled upon this video, which is mildly amusing. I'm not going to try and fool you into thinking it's gold or anything. Morgan Freeman has his hands in just about every part of existence. Tis all I have to say about that.

In the dark my eyes become irritable and sensitive to light

In the night I wake sometimes with sensitive eyes.
Please excuse the following flop of words as I attempt to explain what I mean by "sensitive" eyes.
The room is always dark.
The time of night fluctuates.
I wake from a dream and am aware of how badly my eyes are sensitive to light (in the same way as coming out into a sunny day from inside a building).
My eyes are still closed at this point but are acting as if I am staring directly into the sun.
I must open my eyes to settle my mind.
The darkness helps.
I close my eyes and return to the blinding uncomfortable feeling.
Flashes of light fill my closed eyes as if lightning is striking just on the other side.
I open my eyes and close them numerous times to clear the flares.
This can go on for up to an hour.
I fall asleep and forget to write it down.

This is not a new occurrence.
I have a vivid memory of a younger me (less than 10 years old) in the bed at my grandmother's house. I am there and so is my aunt and cousin.
I have one of these light shows happen and take it as a sign from God.
I freak out.
As I am screaming and running to the bathroom to get away from the reach of whatever ethereal presence just wanted my attention, my aunt looks at me with a "what on earth is going on" look.
I should explain that my grandmother was an extremely religious individual.
It was not uncommon to get up to use the restroom late in the night and find her reading the bible at her kitchen table.
My less-than-developed brain thought God himself had reached down through my eyelids in a blinding display of power and that her house was a beacon for all things unexplainable and downright freaky.
I now know it's not God doing this to me.
My running theory is that I actually sleep with my eyes open and that after many hours they become so dry that closing them is painful.

When you hear a siren, say nothing

If this is you when hearing a police/medic siren: "I have to run, they're coming for me"  or even worse, "You better run, the cops are after you" there are some things I want you to know.

You're not creative. It's not funny. KNOCK IT OFF!

Those around you only acknowledge the words for the same reason trophies are given to young children in sports—so they feel better about themselves for putting on a uniform and being "on a team." Many Americans are too polite to tell you to shut that mouth of yours in person. Me included. So I will do it here. Shhhhhhh. Just don't say it. Let the sirens go by without a word and maybe I'll buy you pizza afterwards.

The only team you're on is the team I wish we could strap megaphones too so that you're stupid voice blasts in your own ear for a year straight. Say it one more time and it will be two years.

LOL. That is all

Did you lose a GoPro?

A few weeks back I mentioned finding a GoPro. I've just now found the time to post an ad on Craigslist about it. I will post the emails on this page when they come in. Hopefully someone responds...or someones respond.

Here is what the ad looks like.

I recently found a GoPro and would like to return it to its owner. The only fact that I will reveal to the weird world of Craigslist is that the GoPro was lost two years ago (according to the files on the memory stick). Okay, maybe I will also say that it is a Hero2 and the case has a loop of course twine for a handle (which clearly did not suite you well).

What I would like for you to do, if you think I have found your beloved GoPro, is to send me an email with what you were doing that fateful day. Be specific with information on: where you were, what actions were taking place, and whatever else you think might help me decide if this is indeed your GoPro.

Maybe you're a friend of the GoPro owner. Show this posting to him/her and have them email me.


In the mountains I wind
frigid and serpentine.
Peer under and take a closer look,
you'll see the rocks never stop.
Tempt me with an offering
of less than a sober mind,
I will swallow them whole
as I am not one to decline.

How long can you hold your breath?

Two nights ago I was in bed like people do when they're tired. Random is as random does and so I held my breath for as long as possible.

After the first attempt, which I thought went on for a respectable amount of time, I decided to time the next go on a stopwatch. In my younger years I swam at the pool quite a bit so holding my breath underwater the length of the pool and back was something I would practice. Anyways, to make a drawn out story shorter, I held my breath for two minutes.

I was elated that I held my breath for that long. I searched for the length of time the average person can hold their breath and was a little shocked to see that it was roughly 30 seconds. I've held my breath before and ended up falling somewhere around 45 seconds. What was different this time around? I incorporated a technique I overheard many years ago, which is to almost hyperventilate before attempting to hold your breath. The principle is similar to what cost Lance Armstrong his titles. The blood becomes super rich in oxygen, therefore allowing a longer period of time to lapse between needing to inhale. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blood_doping

So I researched ways to increase lung capacity and breathing exercises. One article I found said that you should expect to pass out during the exercises and to have people around you. It went on to comment that the average person might not see breath holding as a competitive sport. Maybe you've heard of free diving records (the deepest world record attempt in 2013 by Nicholas Mevoli was 236 feet. He died as a result...not from drowning, but from surfacing and losing consciousness).

This is an usual topic, don't you agree? So of course I dug a little deeper. Do you remember when David Blaine did his record attempt? He lasted 17 some odd minutes. Thinking about my midnight go at it and reaching the two minute mark with my lungs burning, I wondered how the record is set at 22 minutes? Turns out that you're allowed to hyperventilate on pure oxygen before attempting a world record.

And so concludes the topic of breath holding.

Please excuse my ignorance

I really don't understand the need for complex passwords online. I'm thinking about a specific website that makes me update my password every so often and it cannot be similar to a previous code and needs to contain two numbers and one symbol from the approved list and that symbol must come after the fourth letter but not following or proceeding a number. Okay so I made some of that up but I cannot be the only person frustrated with all the different password requirements.

If the point of a password is to protect me from people guessing my account, what's the deal with requiring such a specific password that I myself cannot remember unless I write it down? Am I crazy or isn't it all USELESS if you are the target of a keylogger (who will find out your password no matter how complex or simple you make it by tricking you into secretly downloading a program that allows them to see everything you type).

I may not fully understand how easy it is for someone to guess my password, but if I'm to protect my accounts from a random person using the computer after me, or even in my immediate area and close enough to spy on my fingers whilst I type in abc123Ihatepasswords...how are they capable of guessing my secret code? The possibilities are endless.

What I am getting at is that you aren't safe no matter how complex the password is. So if someone wants to "hack" your Facebook account, they're probably smart enough to do it and there isn't shit you can really do about it. So why do websites make you go through all these hoops (that ultimately drive me insane) to make me feel "secure" in the complexity of a password?

Just let me choose something I can remember and if I choose to involve numbers and symbols, let that be my choice and not a demand!

I also want to point out that the original designer of the password strength indicator that sometimes follows the input of a password to tell you how shitty your password is, is a DICK. I get the point. It's there to show you how little you tried. You can do better! But what if I don't want to? I guess I can always ignore it. But I live in America and god damn if I don't get offended at the brutal honesty of a single word like "weak".

I'm inviting you to educate me.

Why the American Bald Eagle is an asshole

So you know that bird that's the representation of all things America? I forget its name. Hold on, let me turn on Fox TV. No wrong channel. Just a bunch of meerkats eating beetles on that channel. Ah here we go. The Discovery channel. The "is running out of ideas channel" has a program they've been running for far too long now called the Deadliest Catch. Quick side question. How do you think fame has affected some of the egos on those guys? I can imagine that some are still humble but some are giant Macy's Day Parade floats with heads as distorted and bulbous as Goofy...or worse—Pikachu! That thing is almost pure round. HA

So my father knows some of the guys from that Deadliest Catch as he is in the marine electronics field up in Dutch Harbor. I bring him up in context of that show only for the geographical reference (okay secretly I like to snicker when he says Sig is a nice guy).

Here is what Alaska is like

I called him on the phone today and in between the lag that happens when two cell phones communicate from that distance he told me a story that made my eyes water with laughter.

RETURN OF THE BALD EAGLE! So he tells me that yesterday he was walking from building to building in town and had his hat and glasses ripped from his head. The way he described it is what made me laugh. Let me take a quick detour and explain my father. He is simple and humble. Okay so he tells me this bird smacks him in the back of the head and he thinks to himself what the heck. Given that this is not his first year up in Dutch Harbor he quickly assesses that the thump was the result of talons from an eagle grasping at his hat. The bird flies off but not too far. It perches itself on a light post and my father proceeds to wait. In his wisdom he just waits. He knows the bird will eventually release his hat and glasses from his clutches. Plus he really likes that hat (which to add further depth to his character, you need to know was free...maybe 10 years ago).

I laugh at this part as I imagine this bird (do you fully grasp just how large bald eagles actually are? Try an 8 foot wing span) looking down at my father and almost taunting him. He takes the hat and glasses into one foot (what do you call bird feet? When I think of feet I certainly don't think of several inch-long razor-sharp talons) and dangles it. I got yo bitch ass hat Todd, what you gon' do 'bout it?

The bird eventually drops the items and they both go on with their day.

He then tells me about a person who was attacked (let's face it, probably the same stupid bird) and badly. This time the eagle used those talons to dig into the scalp of this poor person and did some work. Anyhow, the person goes to the hospital and gets stitches. On the way back to their house the bird strikes AGAIN. I laugh but also cringe at the thought of a 15+ pound bird dropping down onto my head a fierce battle cry and hot serrated blades.

This is my father. Bald Eagle for scale.

Because shit is funny

Did you miss me?

I'm back from a writing hiatus. Insert a terribly trite metaphor of explosions and flames to welcome me back, only slightly modified and supercharged with a gurggle of lasting unburnt fuel in the exhaust system of a new Corvette Stingray (because DEAR HIGHER POWER that car is excellent looking). 

I have new ideas and several directions to test out. If you know anything about me though, you might know that my commitment level to creative idea is about as lasting as seasonal allergies. I sneeze out ideas and keep sneezing until there is a waste bin (thank you brother) containing all the wonderful words that came to me. Then I let them sit and stew. The warm runoff bleeding through the fibers of individual pieces and adhering to one another, through the bonds only clear snot can achieve, like layers of an abstract art piece I think about making but don't. This process is important to me because it's during this stage that I romanticize my crusty tissues, only to abandon them once the season of headaches and itchy nose has passed. Ahhhh....Summer!

So over the past two months I have traveled. 

I pulled off many memorable Hemmingways (my newest favorite way to drink wine and nap in the sun). 

I visited San Diego and saw some fish and managed to calculate out some dance moves at my childhood best friend's wedding. 

I've thought about what I want to be and how I want to live.

I failed at coming to any conclusion(s) on the above mentioned topics.

I watched a very good friend of mine graduate from a Nursing program, which my girlfriend will be starting in the Fall, and began composing a speech for her day of graduation (that she is very excited to read).

Lucas and I went on a few hikes and runs.

I thought of the perfect way to commit suicide. Don't worry, it was just my scumbag mind toying with me. I know I'm not the only one that this happens to.

I watched all of Wilfred and enjoyed nearly every second of it (minus that awkward bit when the dog and Ryan make out).

I've been inspired by the people in my life.

I came to the conclusion that I hate writing for others but must do so to earn money.

I fell more in love with my girlfriend by exposing both of our weaknesses and putting in work.

To welcome me back I've hired Eminem to do up a song of his. 

Cloudy Bellingham

This past week I capitalized on some free time and went for a bike ride on the Raleigh. Ski to Sea is coming up in less than a month now and my legs haven't peddled a bike very much in the past year, so I swapped the clipless pedals from the Cannondale and put them on the commuter for a work out. Riding is a relaxing time for me but doesn't get to happen all that often anymore. I have become a "fair weather rider" which means I am lazy. A few years ago when I was riding religiously, I would BLOW past someone I thought looked like a fair weather rider as fast as I could to prove a point: I ride more than you. When I was in shape it made me feel good to spot someone in the distance and make it a goal to pass them in a certain time (there isn't much to really entertain a person when you're on a bike for 3-4 hours) and then actually pass them. I am getting too far off topic though.

So the other day the sun was out and I was on the bike. Happy. When I ride, and this has always been true, I look around. The experience of riding along a country road outside Bellingham, with cows munching the greenest grass in a field that undulates in no particular set rhythm, Mt. Baker in the distance as a scale for size, one isolated tree for shade in the middle of nowhere, and the pulse of a hot road giving off heat in waves. It's splendid isolation.

When the clouds are out, which is nearly every day, I look at those too. This brings me to the reason for this post. I was on the bike and close to home when I spotted a cloud formation I had not ever seen before. The kickstand went down and I parked the bike on the side of the street, grabbed my phone out of my pocket and turned down the music. The wind quickly ruined the formation, and by the time I got home it was gone altogether.

Clouds are magnificent. Bellingham has an endless supply of variety and after seeing this formation I want to study and know the different types of clouds. It sounds a little odd and possibly really dorky to know the different cloud types, but that's okay. Some people know the stats of a football player (who am I kidding...these people probably know the stats for nearly ever person in the league!) so why can't I know what causes our atmosphere to produce an array of different clouds. Yeah...still dorky. HA

Tongue biting 101

It's time to raise awareness for a thing that I have not ever heard of anyone else suffering from. Here is what I want you to do to raise awareness. Go ahead and bite the side of your tongue as hard as you can. Drawing blood is preferable, but not 100% required to be the fullest raiser of awareness.

Great! Now that you have done that, wait a day or two for it to swell. After your tongue has turned into a perfect mold for how your teeth look when they mash down on soft skin, go ahead and try to eat food. Any type of food will do, as ever single thing you put in your mouth brings you close to tears. It's the motion of tongue rubbing on teeth that brings the most accurate feeling of what I go through. I guess it is a little unfair of me to ask you to knowingly do this to yourself, as my tongue biting happens at night so I don't have to psych myself up...it just happens all on its own.

Definitely without my permission too I might add. I mean, who willingly signs up for this?! Certainly not any creature that needs to drink water in order to survive. Today at work I was carefully drinking water, you know to keep it on one side of my mouth, when a little got over to the red zone and I almost lost my mind. It hurts so very bad. My spit factory went into hyper drive and the cool water from the Nalgene quickly turned into the warm familiar fluid I swallow every 30 seconds when I have a chunk missing from my tongue. 

I've been quiet at work lately and let me just say that if you know someone who is quiet, cut them some damn slack. Maybe they just bit their tongue and in order to save face, they keep their mouth shut so that drool doesn't pour from their face like a hose leaking warm clear saliva. Okay I realize they could be a "quiet" person for a multitude of reasons. Some people are just that way and you should be okay with that.

Another terrible side effect of this tongue lashing is not being able to kiss my girlfriend. If my eyes are watering from my own tongue occupying the tiny space in my mouth, I would legitimately go insane if her tongue was in their too. I showed her this picture before posting this and she told me it was, "The single most unattractive thing I have ever seen." That says a lot coming from her as she is a CNA. She's literally seen some SHIT.

I remember the first time I suffered from this terrible luck of biting my tongue. It was back in middle school when I tried to bunny-hop my bike up a curb and goofed the bunny-hop part. I don't remember how the biting went down, but it was the worst biting to date. Bad enough for me to still remember it for cry eye!

The only thing that helps get ride of it is mouthwash. Now if you have ever used mouthwash, on a normal day it sort of burns...right? I want to remodel the walls of my house with a fist when I swish that hot blue pain around my mouth. The pain radiates down the roots of my teeth and punches me in the jaw bone and the only thing I can do it clench.

So I am going to set up a link on my blog. You can donate money to me in this desperate time of need. HA HA

How my uvula acts like chicken skin is the same as Hagfish snot

So I want to share something with you all. It's sort of a problem I have, and whenever I think about surviving on my own in the wilderness, this annoying biological reaction keeps me grounded in the reality that I could very easily starve to death.

I can't eat chicken skin without gagging. 

Go on. Laugh. But I seriously cannot do it. Let's get one thing clear. I cannot do it because that dangly thing in the back of my throat LITERALLY won't let me. It does a good job. I cannot complain that it saves me each and every time someone tricks me into thinking I can eat the skin part. I think to myself yeah I can do this. And it's like no way man. Do you want to look like an idiot in front of all these people? Oh you do? Okay well try and eat it. I am thankful for having such an over protective uvula thing.

It's not like I can't do it because eeewwwww. No...I can't do it because I am in the statistical category of people who would not be able to survive if chicken skin was the only food product left on the planet in an apocalyptic world. While I am at it, I might as well add steak fat to the list too. I JUST CAN'T!

Recent example: I purchased a whole roasted chicken. I ate would I wanted and saved the carcass for my dog. After a week of sitting in the fridge, I took a fork to it and got as much meat off the bones as I could. It had been sitting in the fat drippings the whole time so the skin peeled away from the wings and legs like a thin layer of clear film. It made me gag. I wasn't even putting the skin in my mouth and it made me gag! Just holding it my fingers made my uvula send a message to my esophagus to prepare for overflow.

By "clear film" I am reminded of the snot of a Hagfish

 Another you say?








It's the texture that does it for me. I am a civilized man living in a modern age and can recognize that there are just some things I cannot put in my mouth. Some people can put whatever they want in their mouth. Not me. I'm okay with this. For both them and myself. I guess what it boils down to is knowing your limitations and when to say "no".

Not sure if creepy, or charming.

Dream Sequence #14 Peeing A Yellow Comet Into A Bathtub

This is a three-part dream I had the other night that stayed with me.


Act One:
I was floating down a river somewhere in South America with a group of girls I had crushes on at one point or another in high school. 
I don't remember a whole lot from this part of the dream.
We were without canoes or boats and just floating in the pull of the river.
We reached a sand bar that hooked around to the left and some locals were out in the river with their children.
I was underneath the water at the time and facing the opposite way of the river's flow (so I could watch the sand pass beneath me backwards), when one of the men from the tribe began to yell. 
He did not want us running into his child who also was playing in the river. 
I remember the child wearing a diaper, which I thought was weird for such an indigenous looking man to have Pampers on hand.
It was at this point a paddle -one single paddle- appeared in my right hand. 
I did not use it to steer, as we still had no boats, but had to bring it close to my side as we passed as to not whack the child with it.

Act Two:

I was with my brother in a town that I am not familiar with. 

He had just purchased a vehicle at a small dealership and we were driving away in it, just the two of us, when he noticed something about it he did not like. 

The dealership took it back and let him search the inventory for another one of his liking. 

He finds the exact car he drives now in real life and we head out again. 

Now we are looking for a building that he needs to clean.

I should say that as a small part-time job to pay off debt, my brother has a cleaning job in real life.

Okay so we are driving and come to a very large body of water.

The road slopes down and out onto that water in a way that I don't know how to describe, other than to go all R.R.Martin on you, so I won't.

What you need to know is that there isn't a barricade to stop us from driving off. 

So my brother drives off. 

It was a graceful impact.

We are sinking and I tell him we have to wait for the water to rise above the windows before trying to open the doors. 

So we wait.

The music is still playing.

I remember how little panic there was between the both of us.

So the car is completely under the water now and I get out before he does and am swimming up to the surface.

He is still close to the car for some reason, that at this point is sinking incredibly fast into the dark water below. 

I remember swimming back down until I saw him, and the two of us swam to the surface.

I did not think I had enough air in my lungs to make it, but for a reason I do not understand, I would release oxygen and become entranced in the rising shape of it all. 

I reach the surface and that first draw of air in my lungs feels orgasmic.

(It's no wonder I wake up so often with the blankets on the floor next to my bed, when I have dreams like this every night).

I look over at my brother who has just surfaced and tell him that it looks like he will have to pick out a third car. 

He laughs.

Act Three:

Next thing I know I am in the bathroom somewhere. 

I have no idea how to describe the location so I will just focus on the man in the bathroom pulling on the dicks of men urinating. 

Now I have no clue why he is doing this, but it appeared to be a game. 

He would stealth up to someone peeing and try to grab their junk.

He did it to me and I pulled back and kicked him into the little divider between urinals.

He looked at me with a confused face. 

I told him to knock it off, and he turned and began to stalk someone else. 

What was noteworthy about the bathroom scene, other than the odd man, was just how much I had to pee. 

I pee'd so much that the urinal turned into a bathtub in which I was peeing over the side into the basin.

I remember looking down at my pee as it changed from white, to yellow, to a pearlescent orange, and back to yellow. 

One more thing about the pee scene and I will drop it. 

When I was peeing into the tub, the colors of my stream produced an abstract comet of color and I remember thinking to myself that I needed to remember how it looked so that I could paint it later on.

Next thing I am outside the bathroom and it feels like I am inside a mall, but also inside a high school. 

People are walking by and I pay them no attention until I see a real life friend who lives near Seattle.

I tell her, "Hey Christina, I have a story to tell you. Don't let me forget."

She looks at me and says, "mhmm" but in such a way that she is clearly blowing me off. 

A random girl who happened to catch all of this calls Christina on her blowing me off, and the two disappear behind a door.

My mom is there now and is stressed out. 

She is spitting entire paragraphs out at once. 

No need for sentences, or even separate words. 

She hands me a pair of sunglasses and tells me I need to try them on to replace the pair I just lost in the car with my brother. 

She tells me that it will take weeks for a new pair to come in, so I tell her that I am the one who was in the sinking car, not her.

She needed to calm down.

There is more to the dream but I am done writing now. Like my dear friend Forest, "I just want to go home now."

Jules, A.K.A Jacques Cousteau

One summer, when I was in middle school, I took a trip to an island off the coast of San Diego called San Clemente. The San Diego natives, or anyone who has read any travel brochure for the area, should be familiar with its neighboring island, Catalina. Catalina is to San Clemente what the Hilton is to, let's say, Motel 6—both serve the same function, just with different amenities.

What makes me think back on this trip are some photos I recently unearthed. I had long since parted with the memory of the cool water and sharp barnacles, but stumbling upon these relics brings me back to a time where I felt like a modern day adventurer.  

Directly behind me you can see where the Pacific meets the island. Large boulders that crashed into the ocean bordered this side of the island and it is between these enormous obstacles that we would launch into the cool water. With a snorkel and fins outfitted, I would wait for a small swell to lift me and pull me out. In a dash I would navigate my way around the sharp rocks as the receding water propelled my small body at incredible speeds out and into the crackling bliss of snorkeling nirvana. It should be noted that not every launch went smoothly. More times than not, I would bang against the sharp barnacles clumped to the side of the boulders, or get dragged along the top of one by the sucking water, leaving my stomach or back streaked with stinging cuts. It was worth it though. The waters were a new world to me. I would swim until the shivering got to be too much, return to a warm rock, like in the photo below, and wait until I was warm enough to go again.

One man, whom I had never met before this trip, would take me out where none of the other young Scouts were allowed to go—beyond the kelp barrier that circled the island. His name was Jules.
Side note: The towel in this photo is one that I still own. I stored it in the depths of my closet for years, and use it from time to time when I give my dog a bath. He cannot understand the poetry of it, but using it to dry him off makes me smile.

Jules was a kind man. He had a New Zealand accent and was put in charge as Life Guard for the younger boys. He witnessed the endless parade of my attempts, and deserves credit for capturing these moments. I believe Jules saw how the water transformed me. As I would warm up on a rock and go through all that I had just seen in my head, reliving the sounds of the ocean, he would smile and tell me a new bit of information on the local flora and fauna. The orange fish were called Garibaldis he would say. Every chance he could catch me warming up on a rock he would teach me something new.

It was a few days into the trip that he assigned one of the elder Scouts with Lifeguard duty and took me out to the edge. I had never experienced anything quite like it, and still to this day have not had the same opportunity to literally crawl, on my hands and knees almost, over such thick kelp. There were brief moments of panic when my hand would push through as I made my way. The world turned a little dark as the slimy kelp swallowed me, but Jules was always right there to fight back the tentacles. Once we pushed through and swam freely on the other side, he would point to something under the water. We would both surface take off our snorkels and Jules would explain what it was. We would tread water, talk about it, and then move on. It was like having Jacques Cousteau there as a teacher in an oceanic classroom, with just me as his student.

While we were on the island we got to eat dinner every night at a mess hall. The hall was used by the Military. What the Military does best is make chocolate pudding! To fuel my tiny body, I would load up on this pudding. Two, three, sometimes four servings of the chocolate goodness. Oh my goodness was it delicious. I cannot remember why the Military owned the island, or how the Scout Troop I was in got permission to stay in one of the barracks, but at the time I did not care. So long as I could eat pudding I was happy.

The trip wasn't all about snorkeling though. On one afternoon we took a trip to the other side of the island in a white passenger van. The roads on the island were paved for the most part. The landscape was a beautiful tawny flow of shrubbery that moved with the wind, and as we drove along, the van would bob over the uneven surface. We rounded a corner and that magnificent azure water went on for infinity. The shoreline was very different on this side of the island. It was gradually slopped down to the water's edge, and even the ocean was gentle. It blanketed the cove like a comfortable shirt.

I cannot recall the lesson we were taught that afternoon about the Abalone but I do remember the beautiful colors. I was enamored with how a creature could decorate the inside of its home with such amazing pearlescent colors. This, as a child, was mind blowing. It rang inside my head like church bells. My mind would drift away from the colors, and like clockwork, the bells would chime inside my head, and how it looked when I held it in my hand would come back to me.

There is one last thing I remember about the island worth mentioning. A large part of my childhood was spent outdoors, and a favorite thing of mine to do while outdoors was fish. The island had a pier that went far out into the ocean, about 15 minutes away from the snorkeling spot. I would walk there with my fishing pole and cast bare hooks into the water. Sometimes I would get nothing, and other times get lucky and snag one of the thousands of bait fish that used the dock as a safe haven from larger fish. Jules was also a fisherman and I found him at the pier that day casting out a line. He told me about the "flying fish" and asked if I had ever seen one. I laughed and said he was a funny person. In his Kiwi accent he replied with a serious answer that he was not pulling my leg. Flying fish were real!

To hear him explain that these fish used flight as a way to avoid ending up as food for a larger fish was impressive to me. He explained to me that they were not good eating, but were fun to observe. No way! I kept repeating. He nodded his head and said "Mhmm!" We laughed and that's how I learned some fish can fly.

Those days spent on that island, free and able to swim as much as I wanted, hold a special place in my memory box. If I could find Jules and tell him that I remember the trip and all that he said to me, I would tell him thank you.

Take Me Home Country Roads

I've wanted to write about my upbringing for years but the words have never felt right. I feel like the best way for me to mountaineer the expansive snow-packed mountain range of growing up in a military family, is to begin by separating experiences into categories. Make sure I am only bringing along the essentials, and keeping the goods for a different trip back at base camp.

My father served in the US Navy for something like 22 years. I can't remember the exact amount of years he was in the service, not because I never cared to remember it, but because many of those years I had no idea what he was doing. He was gone quite a lot during my childhood, off cruising the world on a Destroyer, and collecting different types of wood from ports in countries I will never see even as an adult.

Side note: From time to time I can remember him telling us how other sailors would visit the strip clubs and hookers while in port, and he would head out and buy pieces of wood not common back in the States. My father...the wood collector. HA

Growing up in a military family meant that we moved around the United States more times than I can remember. No really, I cannot remember just how many times we moved. My fifth grade year alone our family moved three times. From Virginia to Rancho Bernardo, California, and then to San Diego. I am not holding this against my father. I am actually saying thank you.

One of the best parts about being in a family that moved to a new house, on average once every two years, is that I have memories spread all over the country of homes that I may never see again. Here is what I want though. I want to see these homes I lived in as they stand now. To see how time has treated them.

The words are easier to type out than it is for me to set aside the time and money to visit each of the homes though. One of them, the duplex in Guantanamo Bay Cuba, I will never see again in my adult life. Unless I fly from Canada or get a fake passport.

As for the rest, I wanted to write out what I remember.

The apartment in San Diego. AKA the first time we lived in SD: The training grounds for German Shepard K9 units. The hillside of Iceplant leading down to highway 15. 

Colchester Illinois: The abandoned house along the walk to school my father claimed was haunted. The train tracks where we placed coins to be flattened. The small patch of skinny trees behind the home that I never got to explore in the snow.

Cuba: The bunkers in the hills behind the house that the Navy Seals would come practice in. The beach where we had a birthday party and my sister wanted to pet the large iguanas. (This home serves as a staging ground for any home in a story I read that holds the same feelings in words, as I felt as a child).

Virginia: The church I attended school at. The house behind ours where an old man lived that paid me to fetch his golf balls he accidentally would hit over our fence. The garage where my brother fell out the window.

Rancho Bernardo: The pool where we swam when we wanted. The road out in front of the apartment complex where my father told us why you should never trust something that looks like trash in the road while driving in a car (like how a brown paper bag is really a small muddy boulder that will mess up the exhaust when you run it over). The auditorium in the school across the street where I attended Webelos.

San Diego: The canyons across the street from both of our homes. The baseball complex down the street. Countless other small memories too numerous to list.

I see now that writing it all out has shown me the list is not terribly long, and very doable. An English professor in one of my classes at WWU once told me that writing a paper means surprising yourself by the end at what you have discovered along the way. What I am saying is that I am surprised at how this journey I want to take one day is not all that far-fetched. 

And here is the John Denver song that lead to the thought for this post:

Timon

This morning I woke from a dream.
Wait, I should provide back story first.
Yesterday my mother made the decision to finally put our 19 year old cat to rest.
It was not just her decision, but being that she is the only one in the house with this cat, it rested upon her shoulders to end her suffering.

The permanent kind that saves her from the pain of constantly throwing up her food, undoubtedly from a stomach that stopped working.
Her bones.
Oh man, her bones!
When you would go to pet her, you had to be gentle as she had no fat on her body whatsoever.
The bones were what you would feel under a loose pelt that slid along the curves of her back.
It reminded me of moving a small area rug over antique wood flooring.

Anyways, so this morning I wake from a dream and in the dream this cat has meowed.
She meowed a very loud meow and I remember telling her, "Momma! What a meow that was! I haven't heard you meow like that in quite some time."
It was as if she was saying a goodbye.
I thought about this on the truck today while I was en route, and decided to write it down instead of keeping it to myself.
I guess a certain part of me wants to remember her, even though I am not that type of person to ever forget.
It's more like me acknowledging her in the dream and saying that I can't let myself forget.
A reminder I suppose that one day, some time down the road, I will have a moment where bringing her up in conversation will feel right.

The video attached is one my brother took Christmas day 2013.
We knew she wouldn't make it for much longer so he filmed her in stunning HD.

A snippet of an interview with a man who died and came back to life

"Folks. We have someone on the line who we think will change your day. He has a story to tell us," the first announcer says.

"He claims to have traveled to the other side," a second one interjects. "Tell us what you think after you hear him speak."

The first announcer puts the caller through. "Go ahead," he says. "Tell us what it was like on the other side of the curtain."

A voice comes over the airwaves. He is doing something in the background and does not hear the announcer address him.

"Hello, caller?" the second announcer says. "You still with us?" He snorts a laugh out of his nose.

"Yes. Hello? Yes I am here. Sorry, I was just opening up a can of food for my cat. Other radio stations and newspaper reporters have been contacting me all week wanting to hear my story. It doesn't happen very often, you know?"

The first announcer answers the man with a straight forward and serious answer.

"They tell me it was one of those Giant Pacific Octopuses," the man begins. "I don't remember how it came at me, but with arms wrapped tightly around my mask it managed to sever my regulator." He is acting all of this out on his end of the phone call, but only to better help him sound like it did the first time he told the story.

"Now I am an experienced diver and have learned from other small mistakes not to dive alone. I thank a higher power everyday since that day that Shannon was there."

"Now Shannon is who exactly?" the second announcer asks.

"My partner," the man replies.

"About the only thing I remember from that day, aside from seeing my body from a distance, is how crystal clear the water was. "

"And you were diving in the water off the West coast of Cuba, correct?"

"Correct. We had chartered a boat that day, the "Slice of Life" I think it was called. I made the observation on how beautiful the water was down below the equator while I was putting on my wetsuit. One of the few things from that day to survive through my death."

"What do you mean, 'survive through your death,'?" the first announcer asks. As an experienced interviewer he knows when to stop the conversation and interject questions like this to flush out the best story.

"It's just how I say it. To survive. I don't know how else to put it. Anyhow, the feeling came to me and it was liquid-like. How else can I describe it really? I was separate from my body and looking back at it. As a diver you are constantly aware of your depth, but in this instance the depth of the ocean was not something I was aware of. It couldn't have been more than 50 feet down as I can still visualize how stunning the rays of sunshine looked as they cut through the blue above. It was spectacular the way the white hot light from above twisted and danced through the cobalt blue. The euphoric feeling still comes to me at night in my sleep."

"And what was it like to see your own body. Was it being attacked by the octopus when you saw it?" The first one speaks up again.

"I felt at peace. I felt... I felt a lot of things to be honest. In a moment I had all the answers I had ever been searching for. You know? No the octopus was not part of this vision. People keep asking me that and I don't have an explanation for why it was not there."

"You a spiritual man?" The second one asks.

"Not before that day."

"But you are now it sounds like?"

"I am without label. The colors and feelings I experienced make me want to believe. The euphoric feeling of being watched over also makes me want to. Truth is, that I can also speak in very scientific terms of what happened that day. Neither one feels better so I stand in the middle."

The first announcer interjects. "Wait, what do you mean in 'scientific terms'? Are you implying that your vision can be answered by science?"

"Yes. To be honest, I am a little tired of telling this story already. The essence of what I mean by having science explain it simply means that the brain is a functioning organ. It needs oxygen-rich blood to function. Without that oxygen, my brain started hallucinating. I can remember the sharp yellows and oranges mostly. A few spots of purple from some of the plants swaying in the current. The magnificent outstretched arms of the coral. Schools of bait fish over head that blocked out the light. It was all so beautiful."

"Interesting," the first announcer says. He recognizes that the word sounds like it discredits everything the caller just explained so he quickly jumps gears. "Would you mind if we answered a few phone calls?"

"Go for it."

"Okay we are going to take a quick commercial break and be right back with your story in just a minute. Stay tuned. This is KBJK 1832, home of the Classics."

Dream Sequence #13

It's been awhile since I've had a dream fluid enough to make it to the blog. Well today I have two!!

#1
In my dream,
I was poolside.
The atmosphere was negative as I think my wife in this dream (whom I have no idea actually is) and her friends were talking about the world ending or something along those depressing lines.
I had two little girls with this woman and one was around seven years old and the other was under two.
The seven year old is splashing and playing in the pool by herself.
The under two year old (I say it like this because I am terrible at guessing someone's age) wanted to swim.
I took her with me to the edge of the pool, without any arm floaties on and jumped in before her.
I wanted to see how she would do without the the arm floaties (in that way a parent tests their child to see if maybe she is the next Michael Phelps, so that way if she did end up being the next greatest swimmer, you could say in a ESPN interview that you knew at an early age she would do great things because of this exact moment.
Of course you would leave out the bit about being irresponsible with her young life.
Anyways, she jumped from the side and into my arms and the feeling was wonderful.
Here was my baby girl enjoying the water much like I did when I was her age.
In my head I was living through her and thinking back to my mother and father doing the same for me in real life.
So I let her slide down my legs and swim beneath the surface.
At first she startled me, with her movements, along with the sudden voice in my head saying she was drowning.
She didn't swim though.
Her arms stayed by her side and she sank to the floor of the pool and she stood motionless.
Now as a kid I would do this exact same thing in the pool at Miramar Air Base.
I can remember taking a deep breath and diving to the bottom where I would sit for as long as possible; most of the time I would tell myself a story or simply listen to the water; sometimes even scream or make "beat-boxing" noises to hear myself without anyone else being able to hear me.
So my daughter was motionless and her eyes open.
In my mind I knew nothing was wrong because I watched her look around the pool at the legs of people around her.
I thought to myself that she is exactly like me and just wants to observe others from a new perspective, one where they don't know you're watching them (or in better words...parts of them. Not in a perverted way either!)
The one thing I remember most from this dream is that ominous feeling combining with the negative feeling from the conversations taking place, and making the pool water at the deep end turn a very dark color that I can only explain as being the "deep ocean."
I was under water with my daughter watching this all and feeling so impressed by her, and so very proud at the same time.

#2
I was with my wife (a separate and still unknown figure) in the doorway of our house.
She was upset about something and I wrapped my arms around her and told her that I loved her very much.
We sat in the doorway and I expressed to her how much I loved her, and within the dream I felt a very deep kind of love.
Something I have never felt before.
I told her that her and the two boys we had together meant more to me than anything else ever.
The house we were in was ours I told her and that after the renovations were complete downstairs (there was an actual contractor down there working at the time too) that we could focus on putting money into the windows.
Eventually, I told her, we would see what other things the home needed to make it ours.
A legacy.
She agreed and we picked ourselves up off the floor and made our way to the front porch.
As we were walking to the door I told her that our eldest boy was turning eleven and our youngest was nearly six, so we should spend more time going on vacation and trips with them.
She agreed and thought it was a good idea to expose the boys to new adventures.
We opened the door and the dream switched gears (this will be a pun....just wait) and my real life girlfriend was standing beside me saying, "go ahead and make the noise. I know you're going to."
She was referring to the parade of classic cars driving along the street right out in front of the house.
I made the noise I make in real life when I see a car I like and my girlfriend was satisfied.
I was too as I watched old Beetles and other classic cars roll by.
Each with something odd about it.
Like the Super Beetle that had large fiberglass fenders up front and back which left enough room for me to see that it was lowered, of all things, by Gatorade bottles acting as air bags.
I could see the water being used instead of air and it made me chuckle.
She asked me what was funny and I told her that she wouldn't understand and that it would take too long to explain and that I would miss the other cars.
She said, "whatever."

The word this week was "cabbage"

To keep me writing, I have convinced some writing friends to complete a weekly writing activity. The word "cabbage" was chosen at random from a word generator and below is what I came up with.

Some Haikus:

It's funny to me
how the soft word "cabbage"
sharpens to "sauerkraut"

And that's when she told me,
"I use the term 'Cabbage Patch'.
It sounds better."

How Red Hot Chili Peppers would use "cabbage" in a song:

Like a serpent's tongue
heavy breathing
underneath a glowing hot sun
he loves she like she loves he
heavy breathing
the cards dance and the king laughs
he's got a new lung and looking for fun

They sprinkle and dance looking for a new romance
hot like cabbage and sharp like kraut
they do the dance and God kicks them out

They sprinkle and dance looking for a new romance
hot like cabbage and sharp like kraut
they dance in the Garden with their privates out

Riding in the Cadillac
underneath the glowing hot sun
the lovers burn and turn and turn
until they reach the tide
she slides
he slides
into some hot and heavy breathing.

Good morning March 7th, 2014

I woke up this morning with Motley Crue's "Home Sweet Home" song in my head.

No idea how it got there. I once heard that the best way to rid a song from your head is to invite your closest friends to join in on the suffering. Okay so maybe the suffering isn't really "suffering" at all with this song, but join in friends!!

Anyone else wake up with a song in their head this morning?

There is a thought that I have and it comes to me while I drive

I have not given up on writing. The blog has fallen silent because I have become consumed by video games.

With that being said, this posting has been on my mind for maybe two weeks or so. An idea comes to me nearly every time I am in the van on the way to go pick up a donation for work (I pick up donated goods people want to give to Habitat for Humanity). I can feel part of my mind escape and come back to me while I drive. It's this part that has endless ideas for art or something that might make a good short story. Frankly, it drives me nuts! It never stops. For awhile I thought that entertaining it and writing everything down would relieve me of some of it, as I knew nothing would ever make it fully stop, and for some time it worked. Now though, it has come back to me as if it is a creature all in its own.

Sometimes the idea for a story seems intrusive in my mind and it was the other day while driving down the highway, zoned out and thinking about how I could twist the plot of a story I once wrote to incorporate a new idea I have, that it dawned on me: I know why some writers commit suicide at some point in their life.

A thought occurred to me within a thought, and an idea for a poem about a sailor who had to bury his love and return to the sea came to mind. It was going to be a metaphor for how I feel. The sailor out at sea was me and the love I buried was the creative side of my brain. I wanted to convey that although I am out at sea, I am also thinking about what is back on land. I began to weave detail and then decided to delete it. Now the idea for that poem and the thought about why some writers commit suicide happened all within a few moments of time.

From the small amount of effort I gave to entertaining the idea of the poem, I had some clarity as to what makes great writers go insane. There is simply too much!! Now I am not comparing me to any great writer. Not ever will I do that. All I am saying is that If I were to explore every idea I've ever had, I would have a perfect mold of my body pressed into the padding of my computer chair. simply put, I would become an entirely different person.

I simply cannot do that so I let things go for awhile. The guilt builds up and I try and write again, but quickly delete everything. So the cycle continues.

I am fine and strong so there is nothing to worry about, and I don't have any real reason for writing this down other than to write it down and store it somewhere else other than behind my lips, but I have gained a small understanding of what others have gone through.

I know that there are more genres of people that commit suicide than just writers, but speaking from this new found insight, I can relate and see why some writers do....especially the good ones.

"If I'm being honest, it scares me" a poem by NPFK

I raised the glass of tap water to my lips and thought,
"I still have ideas. I might never stop having ideas."
It's a liquid battle that comes and goes like the seasons do.
It ebbs and crashes against the front of my mind
a little more often than I would like to admit.
Its presence is much like Winter in that all I want to do
is bundle up and forget the nasty weather.
"It's okay to not write them down though, right?"
Yes yes yes I tell myself.
I am my own judge and jury
listening to new circumstantial evidence that proves one thing:
I might be going crazy.
"It's okay so long as you return to them in time. Never let them not be."
This is the voice I hear but don't want to listen to as it leaves the most guilt.


I set the glass down in the sill of the window
and study how the rays bend and burn on the far wall
all bright and hot.
I know they can never become fixed;
it's an impossible task for such energy to stop and focus
and I wonder if a writer, a true writer, should possess this focus.
"This is what I fear, if I am being honest with myself."
I try and be as honest as I can with myself
but it scares me that the writers I most look up to
ended their own lives...and for what reason?
"It's the moving on and leaving nothing to show for it but a dried up puddle,"
I say out loud as if I've arrived at this point before
and forgotten all about it.

Prince Avalanche

I want to keep this simple.
Prince Avalanche is a 2013 movie starring Paul Rudd and Emile Hirsch.

Why you might be interested in watching Prince Avalanche:
-Interested in watching a film that showcases the life of a simple man, in a simple environment, that explains the difference between being "lonely" and "alone" to a young teenager that just wants to have sex with girls and party?
-The colors are crisp. It's not all too often that colors in a movie pop out as much this.
-It has the perfect amount of silence, letting the scenery talk. It reminded me of Cast Away and who doesn't love that movie?
-Paul Rudd explores a different side of his acting abilities. Of course he still weaves in some of classic Rudd, but within the character's restriction.
-I know I said the word "simple" already but that's the best word to use to describe many elements to the movie. Like the plot (not a whole lot happens and it's wonderful). And how many actors get screen time. 

Things that could have been different:
-Only one thing bothered me, and that was how much Emile's character needed to convey the polar opposite teenage archetype attitudes, compared to the older Rudd character. This is not something major, and only came to my attention once or twice during the film.
-The old man. He was either a bad actor or I simply didn't get his character.

The move is on Netflix right now and it's worth your time. 

Dream sequence #12

In my dream,
I was in a car with my mom and we were pulling up to an unfamiliar house.
I think the house was hers because as we were pulling up, she pointed out an animal pen under the Oak tree at the end of the driveway.
I remember being confused and a little frightened at the sight of a baby elephant that was in the pen.
My mom goes on to explain to me that the elephant is no ordinary elephant.
This one is unique in that it was breed to have longer tusks for fighting.
As she was explaining this to me I had a terrible feeling of pure evil hijack my brain and all the noise disappeared from the world.
Everything became soft and dark.
The whole time this was happening, that little elephant in its pen under the Oak tree was motionless and looking directly at me through the windshield of the car.
Then we were pulling up to the garage of the house, and the elephant was gone.
Now along side the driver's side was a new pen with a wolf in it.
The wolf had its fur shaved down so it looked rough, but also sleek and full of muscle.
I think my mother cropped the wolf's ears because they were too sharp of an angle to be natural.
At this time the car is in front of the garage and the side window behind my mother in the car is rolled down enough for the wolf to reach over its pen and climb into the car.
I was terrified at the intense feeling this manic looking wolf gave me but my mom assured me it was a safe creature to be around.
Next thing I know, my real life dog Lucas is running around the pen where the elephant is and I freak out.
I start telling my mom that this is the worst situation to put my dog in, with the wolf being around and all.
She tries to tell me everything will be okay but I am not listening as I know what Lucas will do once he sees the wolf.
So I take this hunk of muscle and gnarly teeth around the corner of the house, while Lucas is distracted by the elephant, by its collar and try to force him into a tin shed.
It doesn't work because in real life Lucas always follows me where ever I go when we go for hikes.
So he is sprinting along side the house and I can hear him coming, full of excitement to see me.
To his surprise though I have this wolf that I am now trying to kick into the shed.
The two look at one another and my heart begins to pound in my chest.
It's on.
The wolf tears down the door of this shed and the two begin to fight.
I'm freaking out because Lucas doesn't take shit from any dog but I know this is a losing battle for  him.
I separate the two somehow and then we end up in a second shed with the wolf outside.
He busts in, still hunting Lucas, and as the wolf goes to attack my dog, I pull Lucas close to me and spin the both of us around right as the wolf lunges. 
I don't know what to do and Lucas is growling and trying to break free from my arms to fight on his own.
He's crying his dog cry and I don't know why but I take him by the muzzle and bite down on the soft flesh of his nose.
He yelps and the next thing I know we are outside the shed and I have a shovel in my hand.
The wolf has Lucas pinned on the grass and has ripped his throat out.
I can see my dog on the soft green grass, breathing heavy, with open flaps of skin sucking in and out with each panicked breath.
He is motionless except for the breathing.
His eyes are closed and his tongue hanging from the corner of his broken jaw.
The sight was similar to a video I once saw of a man who had his side ripped open by an explosion.
He was brain dead but his breathing kept going for a few seconds on its own.
So I take the shovel and begin to beat the wolf with it.
First I go for its hind legs and I remember pinning the wolf to the ground and bending one of the legs with my hands until it snapped.
He cries out, and right as he goes to get up, I swing the shovel down and end his life.
I wake up and notice that I am breathing heavy, oddly enough, in the same way I see Lucas doing when he dreams.
He is next to me in bed and it's four something in the morning.
I pet him for a few minutes and text my girlfriend who is already at work about the dream I just had.
The end.