dream poetry

Posted on September 22, 2011 by Annie Neugebauer

Originally posted on February 6, 2010 at 5:11 PM

I’ve blogged before about thinking of poem ideas as I’m falling asleep. But last night, for the first time, I realized that I actually write poetry in my sleep. No kidding.

When Kyle got up this morning at 5, it was still midnight-dark outside. The soft sounds of his getting dressed woke me directly from a dream… about which I was composing poetry in my head… while still asleep. This is hard to believe even as I write it, even though it happened to me. I’ve never experienced anything like it in my life.

I was sort of composing as the dream progressed, being inspired by the things happening to me in my mind. Either that or I was writing in my head and dreaming images to go along with it. But I think it was the first one, because I have the impression of searching for phrasing that would match perfectly.

I was dreaming about a close friend from high school that I eventually had to give up to loss. She was giving me a necklace that my brother actually gave me when I was little: a gold chain with a little ballerina on it. This girl was in dance with me, so it makes sense. We were under this enormous oak tree in a field I didn’t recognize, lying on our sides together on the old sleeping bag/blanket that my parents used to use for stuff like that.

The field was the most amazing shade of green, the exact color in my favorite bridal picture. The whole scene was green and gold from the sun, the leaves of the tree were a deep, rich burgundy. She was behind me with her skeletal-thin arms wrapped around me, the one beneath me coming up under my armpit and the one above me wrapping to clasp her other around my neck.

The leaves from the tree started to fall, detaching loudly and scattering softly. I knew it was time to leave. When she felt me start to sit up, she wouldn’t let go of me; her arms tightened too much. The weight of her on my shoulders became lighter. She started to dissolve a little while she grabbed me, like some profane swamp thing trying to suck me down.

I remember this wording so vividly: She was like an old house that I used to inhabit, but it was time to move. I stood in the overgrown yard and looked up at the windows, like black, vacant eyes, and knew if I didn’t leave I would never be happy. I made the choice. I turned and ran from that house, and I never looked back.

When I woke up, I jumped up and wrote it all down, thinking it was so amazing. But the poem is useless; it makes no sense. It’s a misguided brain jumble with beautiful phrasing… a disjointed creation of my uninhibited mind. But it wasn’t a totally lost cause, because waking up brought me to conscious awareness of my mind’s poetic mood. Before I went back to sleep I wrote a real poem (about something else) that I love.

How many other poems have I created in my dreams that never got written down? I remember when I started taking German in high school, my Grandma said that you know you’re really fluent when you starting thinking in German. Does dreaming in poems mean I’m fluent in poetry now? Have I crossed some barrier that I never would have realized if Kyle hadn’t woken me up? Cool.

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(non)fiction

Posted on September 22, 2011 by Annie Neugebauer

Originally posted on February 1, 2010 at 8:10 PM

My best friend and my mom both seem to prefer nonfiction to fiction: memoirs, biographies, and autobiographies mostly. When I asked Kitty why, her answer was, “because it’s true. When I read fiction, I know it didn’t happen, so it’s less valuable.” Okay, so maybe that wasn’t an exact quote, but it’s the gist of it. She needs to know that what she’s reading is valid, possible, and worth something.

I’m not a big fan of nonfiction. When I read an autobiography, for example, I find myself questioning the outlandish things they say happened to them. They’re exaggerating for comedic effect. They’re lying, to sell copies. They’re claiming more importance to mundane events than they actually feel, to connect with their readers. All of these thoughts and suspicions knock me out of the story. I can’t enjoy it if I think someone’s misleading me.

With fiction, there’s an automatic suspension of disbelief required to even start reading. There’s no “this wouldn’t happen” syndrome, for me, because none of it happened. I don’t feel cheated or lied to, because I know going into it that none of this is claimed to be true. I can get over that before I even start reading, and off I go into a highly entertaining read that doesn’t once make me wonder, “Is she making this up?” I can follow the story for its own worth.

I think the primary difference is one of belief. How trusting are you? How willing are you to accept words for absolute truth? If the answer is “not at all,” like me, fiction is the way to go. If the answer is that you generally believe people are honest, nonfiction might be more suited to your tastes.

When it comes to human nature, are you a believer or a skeptic?

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Happy birthday, Mr. Poe.

Posted on September 22, 2011 by Annie Neugebauer

Originally posted on January 20, 2010 at 1:33 AM

I’m writing this in the last technical minute of Edgar Allan Poe’s 201st birthday. It seems fitting to wish it at midnight. Ann Rice perhaps, I would say happy birthday to at 3am–the witching hour–but for my dear friend Poe, the 12th toll of that old ebony clock seems the most appropriate, don’t you think?

I discovered that sacred old orange copy of the collected works of Poe on the top shelf of our bookcase when I was only in grade school. I believe that he was the first author I read on my own that I truly, passionately enjoyed. I still do, more so than any other author. Poe wrote horror before horror was a fad. He was elemental in the creation of the gothic genre. He wrote scary when quality was still a prerequisite. These are obvious reasons that I love him.

Poe was a poet before my namesake was even born (his name’s in the word, people). He’s a master–and my artistic inspiration. “The Raven” is still, to this day, the best poem I’ve ever read. Kyle says I get so into it when I read it out loud that it’s really, really frightening. I like that. “The Raven” is the reason that I dare to write horror poetry. I’m sure there are others, but I have never met anyone besides me who attempts what he attempted.

Did you know that Poe was also the creator of the detective story? Seriously, without Poe there would almost certainly be no Sherlock Holmes, Nancy Drew, or even Dr. House. Many people recognize him in big ways in the science fiction genre as well, which I dabble in. Poe was also a literary critic, something I can see myself doing in the future. But perhaps most importantly, he was the first famous American writer to write as his sole career. He paved the way for me on many fronts.

I’ve decided that the best way to honor this literary forefather of mine is to reread some of his works. In 201 years, I don’t expect or even hope that anyone will grieve me as a person. But if they can read some of my work and get pleasure from it, I’ll be a happy ghost.

The good little children (like my sane husband) are tucked safely under the covers dreaming of puppies. But we… we goblins are out in abundance tonight. There’s magic in the air, folks, and I’m going to go revel in it.

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On the New Year and Resolutions

Posted on September 22, 2011 by Annie Neugebauer

Originally posted on January 3, 2010 at 5:45 PM

Happy New Year!

I’m a big believer in resolutions. I don’t think there’s anything magical or sacred about the New Year; I think it’s a reminder. An annual reminder that goals are an important part of life. For me, it’s a chance to take the time to step back, examine my progress, and decide where I want to go from there. All year long I’m conscious of what I want; often, I don’t follow through and promise myself to do it until New Year’s Eve.

This year, my main resolution is pretty obvious: I want to be published. Technically, my goal for myself is to be under contract or published in at least one way. Poetry, short story, novel, whatever. Published or on the way there. It’s happening. This year. I can feel it.

I think the trick to setting successful New Year’s resolutions is to make them long-term goals. I could tell myself that I’m going to sit down and write for an hour a day every day no matter what, but the chances are pretty good that I would mess that up within a short period of time and consider my resolution blown for the whole year. Then where’s the motivation to try to keep it up? If my resolution is the ultimate goal, that leaves me room for error. I can have little blips and still succeed, making me less likely to give up.

The hubby’s resolution? He wants to be able to run a marathon by the end of the year. He’s following along my same principal: promising himself that he’ll work out every day or whatever won’t last, but training for the ultimate goal should get him healthy and in shape, just like he wants. Pretty smart, huh?

So what’s your resolution? It’s not too late to make one for 2010. I think it’s a year of change and stability, two seemingly conflicting ideas that fit together quite nicely. Just don’t forget… think long-term and make it achievable. Here are some great quotations about risk, resolution, and success to inspire you:

“Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far they can go.”
–T. S. Eliot

“Always bear in mind that your own resolution to success is more important than any other one thing.”
–Abraham Lincoln

But my favorite one, that is now on my office window with my resolution, is this:
“We will either find a way or make one.”
–Hannibal

I resolve to be under contract or published by 2011.

I will either find a way or make one.

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NOW we can all start celebrating Christmas!

Posted on September 22, 2011 by Annie Neugebauer

Originally posted on November 29, 2009 at 7:15 PM

Last night I decorated inside, and today Kyle and I put up lights outside. It really took me back to my childhood, with my dad cursing grumpily about the strands that were fine until he’d already wrapped them around the column or whatever and then go out. Find the loose bulb! And of course, you have to match up the male and female ends of the strands ahead of time if you don’t go in order, assuring at least one “redo” per project. Ah, the holiday spirit.

A lot of people spend an inordinate amount of time trying to be happy. They read self-help books, do things that are supposed to make them happy, seek out particular people, jobs, etc. They take medicines, go to shrinks, try to puzzle out what’s wrong. Why aren’t they happy? Call me crazy, but I don’t think there’s anything wrong with not being happy. I mean, if you’re never happy, that’s a different story that probably does need treatment of some kind, but just because you’re not predominantly happy doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you. It just means the world demands an unrealistic degree of happiness.

There’s a lot to be happy and sad about for me these days. I’m incredibly stressed, and I still feel overwhelmed by grief sometimes. But I also have a lot to be thankful for, and a lot that does make me happy. Sometimes it’s hard bouncing back and forth, but I’ve decided that I’d rather do that than ignore them both and be numb all of the time. Numb’s okay too, by the way. Sometimes. Like when your wedding is three weeks away, you miss your dad, and you have too much to do to look forward to fun all of the time. Numb is good.

But putting up lights made me happy in a melancholy way. I (maybe due to being a poet?) have a knack for enjoying “negative” emotions as well. I can find a certain type of joy in being sad. Bittersweet, perhaps, to have fond memories of my dad, but that’s better than all bad ones. Or no memories at all. So when Kyle dropped a fairly shocking string of obscenities when he realized he’d flipped a strand and stapled it up, I could only smile. I was cursing under my breath, too, at the stupid metal stakes along the sidewalk, and hadn’t realized how funny it was until he did it too. I mean, it’s not really Christmas until someone drops the F-bomb.

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