Dreams

Spent most of my life afraid of dreams. Dreams meant hope, hope disappointment. First big dream—recover from rheumatoid arthritis. Dream dies: Despair. Years and years and years. Then dear Emily's feathered creature flutters. An infant hope emerges as a dream of independence. Tentative steps forward. Surgeries. Therapies. A class here, there. Dream fades, then flashes bright. Holding my breath, I leap. Land in Berkeley a gray-haired, cellulited, twenty-nine year old teeny-bopper. I rush in all directions, arms wide to welcome my possibilities. But independence is no dream; it's a multi-colored paint pot: reality. It can slip into the shadows. Dangles carrots. I bite. Carrot turns to stone. Also a rose. So I put it between my teeth, dance with it, drink in its perfume, and fight. Fight Demons of self-doubt, fear, Demons that make dreams illusive and nightmarish.

The dream to write. The secret dream expressed only when appropriate: term papers, letters, inter-office memos. On the sly, furtive jots in a journal wearing its Psychology notebook disguise. A request for an anecdote about medical experiences creates a satirical piece. Dream flutters. I say quietly to myself—you can write. Out loud: "Uh, babe, uh, honey, umh could you, I mean if you're not too busy, you know, if it's no bother, would you mind reading this?" "Wow", he says. Demon laughs: SO WHAT? You're crippled. You have to make money, honey. If you don't make money, you're worthless. Dream folds its wings, gets neatly packed into its silver box and tucked away behind the lace garters for a special occassion.

Be an adult: Get a job. Educational materials development. Sounds grown-up. But how come I keep writing fiction? Okay. Educational fiction. Sneak my first full-fledged short story to a local anthology. Maybe I really can write. Demon smirks: But deary, you have an MA in Psychology. Cop out and write little stories no one reads or get a job that pays, has benefits, raises. Christ, you're thirty-four and still working for minimum wage. Wise up. You sure ain't getting any younger. Dream limps home licking its wounds.

A real job. A title: Counselor-Coordinator of Student Affairs of CIL Computer Training Program. Ride 'em in. Let 'em out. My own business card and windowless office. Almost make enough to start weaning myself from welfare's big teat. Exhaustion. Cut back hours. More exhaustion. Quit. Work on book of interviews with Crips, sharing their dreams and struggles. An editor likes my work, encourages. Ah yes. ENCOURAGEMENT. Dream zooms from prison, flaps crazilily around the room, perches smack between my eyes and will not leave.

And there it lives, tinting and toning my reality. Writing progress is slow and comes in awkward spurts. A poem. Another. A short story or two. Confidence tips its hat or shakes its fist, but does not stay to dine. I still need encouragement. Yes, yes, encouragement. So I add my voice to Wry Crips. Demon licks its lips: Wry Crips. Give me a break. What the hell is Wry Crips? A disabled women's theater group. Women taking power. We're dreamers with nets.