[stylist] not a poet, I just blow it

[loristay at aol.com]

Huh?   (see Jim's question at the end of this.)
Last night I was writing a story in my sleep, thinking I had to do a report 
for a class.   I was typing away on my old haunted Olympia Portable 
typewriter (which an antique dealer stole from me.   Don't ask!), and when David 
woke me, I could still feel myself typing.   Here's what I wrote:

Boyd Street 
Lori Stayer

It was not a street I wanted to linger on.   While I sat in the car I 
witnessed two beatings and a robbery...
i was supposed to be writing a paper defending our armed services for 
social studies, but whatever I wrote came out as fiction, even when I could stay 
on topic.

The handwritten paper for social studies said, "...wiping tears on Dad's 
khaki shirt..."   Fiction!   He was out of the Army by the time I was born.   
I also mentioned my brother and his service record.

In a confrontation with my English teacher to explain why i hadn't done any 
work for her, she asked me what my creative talents were, as it was obvious 
dancing wasn't one of them.   I asked what she wanted.   She said, 
"Ideally, a book!"   Relieved, I told her that I would deliver one of my books to 
her the next day, right before the deadline.

As I tried to type, i realized that the ghost had taken over the keys of my 
Olympia typewriter, and I had to struggle to keep her from adding her own 
stuff.   I said sternly, "No!   I'm not finished!   I have to present this to 
my teacher!"   The ghost had put a line of capital X'es on the page, and I 
had to start over.

I had originally written something bland following an outline.   I realized 
I hadn't fulfilled the assignment, so I started handwriting it in the 
parking lot of the library, then decided to type it.

The book for English was due Monday.   The teacher said she'd gotten stuff 
from others, "And then there's you, Loraine!"
 
the idea of handing over one of my books filled me with relief.   When she 
told me that's what she wanted, and asked if I could come up with it, I 
said, "Of course.   I'm a writer!"

So what about Boyd street?   I visited it (that is, I started typing it) in 
the middle of the page for English, and saw a body in the doorway to a 
store.   Saw some people, men in their twenties, fighting.   That's when David 
woke me.   I kept my eyes closed a few minutes more, and felt my fingers 
moving on the typewriter keys.

Hmm.   Interesting dream!   The Boyd street part reminds me of a book I 
started reading called "Manhattan love song," written in the 40s, in a genre 
called "Noir."   (N o i r--black)   I had to stop reading it.   Too dense.   
Too dark.

The dream probably refers to my coming surgery (Boyd/Body), and what is in 
store.   I truly wish it weren't necessary.   One of my cousins is trying to 
get me to get a second opinion.   I have.   The operation isn't a terrible 
one, but it's general anesthesia, and I'm a bit nervous about it. (Thursday)
Lori

In a message dated 1/19/10 7:55:58 PM, n6yr at sunflower.com writes:


> 
> maybe you, Lori, need to figure how to get the freedom of sleep when
> you are awake to write poetry?
> jc
>