Dream of El Condor

I have to write this now before I forget it all. I had yet another dream today. I kept seeing the rare spirit animal, El Condor, as a messenger in the skies. Both times, it hauled around a classic vintage truck, blue in color, resembling my father’s truck.

It had been a normal day and I went about it as if I saw nothing rare or to boast about. I was at home, in my room dancing and singing like a fool listening to music and getting ready to go out. I had gone out to an all-white garden party with co-workers for some reason, at a recurring white mansion I dream of often. We were all having a good time, getting along. The strange part was this:  sitting next to the table adjacent to us,  was a very enthusiastic woman.

She was greedy with attention, loud, voluptuous, a fiery spirit. She wore red and had large swollen red lips from a case of plastic surgery gone wrong. She was more a symbol, a recurring one at that throughout my dream. Nevertheless,  she was singing in Spanish,  loudly. Was she singing along to Selena? I don’t quite remember but it was getting distracting and I remember looking over and my whole table stopped the conversation and looked over at her too. And her response was, ” I am just enjoying life!”

A part of me admired her, her freedom and enthusiasm. So when I saw her again, on the sidewalk of my home, I thought that she was an angel, a messenger of some sort. However, it gets stranger.

Also on the curb of my sidewalk, parked in front of the Pomona House fruit trees, was a damaged and dented truck claw delivered by El Condor himself. El Condor is a spiritual species, a large bird of prey, nearing extinction, that many indigenous people highly valued and sought after as messengers of the spirit world. Ana, my sister, and my pup were with me at this point and I remember telling my sister, “That is El Condor, a spiritual messenger from the skies.” She saw it too, hauling around a blue truck from its claws. I thought that the red woman being there on my curb was no coincidence, in fact, this whole dream is no coincidence. I felt that she had something to do with El Condor revealing itself to me and I was certain she was about to deliver an answer. The answer I have been waiting for.

I spoke to her and said, ” I remember you, who are you? and what does El Condor want to tell me?”  As she reached into her bag, I thought, “She is going to reveal something to me,” and in that, two giant feathers fell from the sky. They were large, black and white feathers, sharp like an arrow and I knew that El Condor summoned them.

As I went to reach for them and pick them up, I jolted! The wind was knocked out of my lungs to see a black and white snake tossed at me by the voluptuous red woman. I feared for my sister, Ana, and I yelled at my puppy to go away. But when I ran from this vicious snake, it chased me and I knew that it was only interested in hurting me. When in that,  I remembered, I had two large feathers sharp like swords, I must use. As I ran to the side door of the Pomona House, I closed it quickly behind me. I gathered myself and looked down at my weapons as my possessions, two large feathers, sharp like an arrow that I must use. And in that, I woke up.

I woke up scared to move. What does the snake mean? The red woman? My father’s truck? El Condor? What does it all mean? I have great fear in my heart, but I feel great adventure too.

As always,

your very own and respectfully yours,

 

your one and only,

 

bluebird

 

Dreams of the Ocean

I have 30 minutes to try to remember this dream- these dreams. These past two nights I have dreamt of water, the ocean, the shore. One where a group of us flew in by plane, through skyscrapers and city, into the flat horizon of the ocean. Upon landing, there it was, there I was, in my white sleeping gown again, ready to dive into the water. When in that, a wave the size of a large hand cloaked me, moutained over me, comforted me and then just like that, was swiftly gone. My friend, who was with me said, ” It does that from time to time.” And I in awe, turn to look at the vanished ocean turn into a small insignificant pond or puddle of water. But apparently, it does that. I left and turned away but before abandoning the shore, I gave a slight wink of an eye and a hand gesture that spoke without words but said to the puddle of water, “I’ll be back, I’ll be back to play.”

These bodies of water, these shores were playful, joyous and cheery. I couldn’t describe it another way. They were as if there were a child, a free child, wanting to play. Did I forget to mention the pair of black Pheobe birds and flight? The next dream the following day was slightly different.

I was on foot on the shore. It was daytime and all I remember were shark fins in the distance, penetrating the surface of the water and a couple, a distant couple, that I was acquainted with somehow. I sat there and again, the waves were playful. As if they were asking me to join it. The waves, like an outstretched arm ready to greet, stretched toward me asking me to take its hand. And the waves would reach me and envelope me with its playful joy and like that dragged back to its body vanishing before me once more. There I stood upon desolate sand and what was a sea but only its remains, a tiny puddle. But somehow I knew,  that it was pulling a prank, a joke on me and it is bound to return and come back as an ocean.

In neither of these dreams do I allow myself to be overjoyed, to be enveloped by the body of water. I refrain. I hold back, and I don’t know why. Do you?

I fancy the thought that my dreams are my counselors, an inner voice of the subconscious world. They can be teachers if we listen.

Journal Entry

Rarely do I share my journal entries… but today is another day and well, why not?

I wrote this this morning, while on my first cup of coffee.

I was feeling mostly moved by the man who picked recyclables out of trash cans and was saddened by the fact that we turn away from these sights. If we see a homeless man hungry on the street, or a less fortunate man, we turn away. We pretend they are not there. We have become numb… myself included. So, in honor of that man, the least I can do is share what I wrote about him today and even then it is not enough…

Here is to that man without a name.

 

people are painting a picture and I am not part of it.

The old clock tower rings in the distance

The old ladies walk with their fine dress and big hats

some carry shopping bags and

others converse about how to cook purple potatoes

Mothers walk with their strollers

and children are crying for milk

The sun is shining, the skies are blue, everything is so polished

The man in a business suit hold his dry cleaning off of one shoulder

and checks to see the time on his gold wrist watch

All of them paint a perfect picture

and I am no where in there

nor is the man with a black trash bag collecting recyclables off of every trash can

To everyone else he is invisible

To me, he is the only living being, true, and real in this picture.

 

It might be that I am too damn sensitive. I could cry over an injured bird or a butterfly with a broken wing. But, I was made this way. So, if I could shine any light to it, I will. If I can do anything, I will. My voice is my instrument. So the least I can do is write about it.

 

Cheers, salute, salud, y sante

 

your very own,

 

bluebird

 

Dream of the Horizon

I don’t know why but today I am remembering a dream… a dream I fondly remember. It is a reoccurring dream where at times I am running, walking, chasing. The most recent one I had, I was even riding a bicycle but I swear, it always feels like I am flying.

It kind of reminds me a little of Salvador Dali’s painting of a melting clock in the orange sunset sand, kissed by the deep, warm orange light of the setting sun. All I see is the Southwest terrain, perhaps even cacti on either side of the path. Ahead of me, is a straight and clear path leading me to the horizon and for some reason I feel I can touch it, reach it, and take hold of it.

I feel blissful just staring at it. Happiness is at my reach and I am always so willing to chase it. I don’t have a reason for this chase now but when I am dreaming I know what is at the end of my journey… something gold, fluid like honey, prosperous… these are empty words I am using to try to explain what the promise of the horizon gives me.

I am always alone in this journey but I never feel empty, rather I feel whole. I am completely and utterly contempt living in the present, in awe with the view in front of me. I am in the moment and completely focused in on the view of the Southwest geometric rocks of red and the contrast of the dark outstretched shadows. It almost feels as if I have entered another dimension.

When I am dreaming this, I not only remember the dream as one I have had before, I know what is at the end of my journey. However I always, always wake up before I reach it. Last time, I ended up with a flat tire and searching for a bike repair shop. I wounded up in a cave with a nomad couple who happened to own a bicycle shop and had offered to fix my bike as a form of gratitude for seeking the light, the horizon and chasing the sun. They had given me a sort of blessing to continue my quest, whatever it is…

I’ve had a rough couple of days lately, because as of late this chase of mine, this dream of mine, seems almost unreal, hopeless. I doubt. I fear. But all that aside, like Paulo Choelo puts it…I am a “warrior of the light,” and I’ll die chasing the sun if I have to. Yes, I will doubt. No, I will not surrender. It is  only this I know and I’ll do my best to seek it, to chase it, to find it.

yours truly,

 

Bluebird

 

 

 

 

Wish me luck!

I will be singing tonight at my local wine bar and I am feeling rather nervous. It is so humbling to be on stage. But you know, It’s not very often I am on stage so I am going to enjoy it as much as I can and remember why I sing, for who I sing for….

The songs I cover are so close to my heart and many peoples hearts because they heal the soul somehow. They provoke emotion of some kind and even go as far as touch the heartstrings of your soul. At least that is what it does to me. I want to be able to transcend such emotion. If I have done this than I used the stage and microphone for a good purpose and I did not take my time on stage for granted.

 

Wish me luck please! I sure do need it.  I am facing fear head to head and I think I’ve got a chance!

be courageous and face your fears, good things always come after it.

 

Always, always,

 

your very own,

 

Bluebird

Grandfather’s Clock Tower

Hello Ladies and gents,

I thought it fine time to do some revision on a very old poem. Any comments or thoughts are appreciated. Here goes nothing…

 

Grandfather’s clock,

from births hour,

sings tick-tock.

 

Tick-tock,

Tick-tock,

her heart beats

for Neverland,

strikes the first hour.

 

Tick-Tock,

Tick-Tock, and

she dreams of flight,

and of life’s magical delights

strikes the third hour.

 

Tick-Tock,

Tick-Tock,

there is peter pan’s

crocodile, and

she swallows an alarm clock,

and pauses time,

on lovers rhymes-

strikes the sixth hour.

 

Tick-Tock

Tick-Tock

Big-Ben’s Clock Tower

her rhythm, grows fonder

but Peter Pan’s pixie dust,

collects on grandfather’s

old tower clock-

strikes the 9th hour.

 

And on the 12th hour

Neverland, never comes

her heart beat stops

and the grandfather’s clock

gears, rust.

 

Much love, always.

 

your very own,

bluebird