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Funny that this close to moving back into the house, I would start having dreams of my grandparent’s old house on the lake in Minnesota.  And not just dreams taking place at the house, but dreams about buying the house and living there.  Dreams that seem to take place not in any imagined past, but in the here and now, or at least as here and now as dreams can ever seem to get.

It’s four in the morning, and now I’m sitting here in Oregon, wide awake, when only minutes ago I was resting under the shade of the pines, looking across the slope at the house, wondering out loud with some people on whether or not I could actually live there.  Telling the people the history of the house, about the time I spent there as a child, about my family, and all of my aunts and uncles and cousins who would congregate there, and about my grandparents themselves, who lived there year around, holding it all together so that the rest of us could enjoy it, and eventually remember it, as a home away from home.  From where I sat, I could see the entire profile of the house, the sweep of its sidewalks as they came around the hill, each step down edged by a row of identically sized, round stones. 

To my left was the hill, and although I couldn’t see it, the gravel drive, softened by so many years of falling pine needles that cars seemed to move almost silently through the woods, as the drive curled its way between rocks and trees and eventually slipped between two, six-foot tall pillars of stone, set in place more then seventy years ago by grandfather’s hands.  The pillars marked the edge of the property and welcomed you in, and it was from there that the driveway curved down and around to bring you to the house, tucked comfortably into the side of the hill.

And to my right was the lake itself, the sheen from the water glimpsed from between every tree, as far left and as far right as the eye could see.  Houses, dotting the far shore, are barely visible, and I blot them out, one by one, just by holding up my thumb in front of my face and moving it slowly along the horizon.  The house, sitting there amongst the trees on that hillside, never ceased to amaze me through all the years, and when you were there, held tightly somewhere within the strength of it, looking out upon the lake with it, the house made you feel like you were part of the lake, and part of the house, all at once.  It was as if the logs in its walls hadn’t forgotten what it was like to be trees, but now somehow needed you to be their roots.  They reached out to you in a way that most houses can’t, pumping all of it’s energy and will to live directly into you, so that when you stepped outside, and walked across that sandy hillside, or skipped stones along the lake, listening to the water lapping up against the shore, you were just as much a part of the house as you were a person.  And when you breathed, the house breathed, and when you took in everything around you, the house took in everything around you.  And between the silence of the lake, broken only by the lonely call of a loon or the whispery quiet of reeds rubbing against each other in the breeze, and the feel of the pines reaching all around you, there would be only so much you could take in all at once, and it was then that the house called you back in, to help ease you of the burden of so much life.  Back inside, you could release everything, and the house would absorb it all.

I am glad to be reminded that dreams are sometimes nothing more then the past becoming all tangled with the present.  And that sometimes dreams are just like taking in life along Bay Lake - there is no way you can do it all.  There’s just too much there for one breath, or one dream, so you do your best to take it in, and then do your best to let it out.  Dreaming, after all, is a lot like breathing, and a lot like living, just a whole series of small, insignificant ins and outs that all add up somehow to something much bigger.  You can’t get caught up, thinking about one dream, just like you can’t get caught up thinking about one breath.  It takes them all to make any sense.  It takes them all to make a life.  You draw everything in, then release.  Draw in, release.  Over and over and over.  And if you’re lucky, you’ll recognize the house, or person, or thought, or god, or even just the simple hope, that is big enough to absorb all of that life that is too much for you to hold inside.  And if you’re lucky, you’ll let it all out, so that you can step outside again and again, each time with the strength to draw in just a little bit more.

This morning it hit me - the reason why it is taking me so long to write.  I don’t know why I didn’t see this all along.  The problem, you see, has nothing to do with my desire to write, but rather my method.  But I’ll get to that in a moment, first I need to talk about a dream I had.

I was just about to leave a shopping mall, and was climbing up a flight of stairs leading to the door, when I looked back over the railing and saw that Florence Henderson was giving a small presentation at the foot of the stairs.  She had a small table set out in front of her and a very tiny, portable room right behind her, which I guessed was to hold her props.  Well, I can’t miss this, I thought to myself.  Besides, there wasn’t anyone standing around the table at all, and Florence was just talking and talking, giving her presentation as if a large, appreciative audience had really gathered around.  She would even pause sometimes and smile, like people were clapping.

So I hustled back down the steps and got out my camera, thinking I would get a picture of Florence and post it here, on my blog.  This, I’m almost positive, is the first time that my blog has slipped into my dreams.  Anyway, I’m about to take the picture when I realize I need something as proof that this is a real picture of Florence Henderson, and that I just didn’t snatch one off the internet somewhere.  I searched my pockets and found I was in luck, pulling out Headless Lawn Man.  Now this is an odd thing to happen in a dream, because I know for a fact that I hardly ever take Headless Lawn Man to the mall.

I hold up Headless Lawn Man at arms length, trying to line him up just right to give him a nice perspective in relation to Florence (remember, he is only 3 or 4 inches tall), when suddenly Florence darts into the tiny room behind her.  She has gone on break.  What rotten luck.  But a television set, mounted into the wall of the room, begins playing video of what I can only assume are clips from Florence’s life.  Pictures of her living room (which I don’t remember) and long, drawn out scenes from Florence Henderson’s extensive doll collection.  There’s a pink room and a white room and a blue room, all filled with hundreds of dolls.  This really doesn’t interest me that much and I’m about to put Headless Lawn Man back in my pocket and forget all about the picture, when the show on the television changes to what I think is a relative of Florence’s who has a strange and disturbing talent for being able to produce thousands of gallons of saliva in a single sitting.  A woman in her early twenties sits down on a chair, opens her mouth, and the camera zooms in for a close-up of the woman’s mouth, where we see a steady stream of saliva arching up above her tongue and shooting right out of her mouth.  It looks a lot like a drinking fountain.  And then, seconds later, the camera pans back out, and we see that the room is nearly two-feet deep in saliva, and here’s the good part, all of the Brady kids, looking just like they did back in the 70’s, are jumping around and playing in it.  Bobby seems to be having the most fun.

At that point the dog noticed how disturbing things were getting and barked, waking me up and saving me from my own imagination.  So thanks to the dog, I don’t have a picture and can’t prove that any of this happened.

But I am up a little earlier then planned, which hopefully I can use to get back to the Nano story.  I’ve already brewed the coffee and walked the dog.  But what I was going to say before the dream interrupted, was that I’d figured out the reason I was writing so slow. 

It seems I’ve unknowingly been using a particular writing method developed by a man named Alfred Butts back in the early 1930’s.  As everyone already knows, in 1931 the country was in the throes of the Great Depression.  Everything, it seemed, was in short supply, and people all over the country were mostly just sitting around sad and hungry, waiting for John Steinbeck to finish writing The Grapes of Wrath so that they’d have something that really captured their sadness and their hungriness.

But that wasn’t all going to happen for quite some time still, and Alfred Butts thought that the people needed something to hold them over, so he decided to do something about it.  So Alfred Butts did two things.  First, he invented the game of Scrabble, which he thought would help people through the rough stretch they were experiencing.  The world was already filled with dice games, Alfred thought, and dice games are nothing more then a game of luck.  And it was painfully clear to Alfred that what people didn’t have right now was luck.  So, like I said, he invented Scrabble.

But it is Alfred Butt’s second invention that most people don’t know about, the one that I must have accidently stumbled upon sometime this month.  I’m talking about The Alfred Butts Writing System.  The idea was simple.  Based on his popular word game, the writer of a story may hold no more then seven given words in his head at any given moment.  Once he has placed these words into his story, tale, poem, or whatever it is he happens to be writing, he is free to choose more words to replace the ones he has just used.  But at no point whatsoever may the writer have more then seven words at his disposal.

Alfred thought that his writing method would be of great service to the hundreds of thousands of Americans whose minds were weak with malnourishment, but still felt the need to record their experiences in some written form.  Having to deal with only seven words at a time, rather then a whole vocabulary, would assure that the writing process remained a pleasant one, even if you were, for example, just a wild-eyed young man, coal-pit dirty, and piled high on an old truck heading west, living Steinbeck’s story before anyone even knew it was ever going to be a story.

I’m not sure if Alfred Butts’ Writing System ever really caught on.  I do know that not many people know anything about it.  I wasn’t even able to find a single mention of it on the internet this morning.  But I’m no historian and probably just don’t know where to look.  Maybe Mattel bought the patent for a hundred bucks and is holding onto it, waiting for our children’s intelligence levels to slip sufficiently so that they can release it just before Christmas one of these years, marketing to kids as an exciting new game, and to the parents as a great learning tool, fun for the whole family, you’ll never be so proud, economically priced, a great stocking stuffer, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.

But when that happens, don’t be tricked.  The Butts’ Writing System sucks.  Seven words is not enough.  Not by any stretch of the imagination.  I don’t care what the Mattel commercials will say, you’re going to want to wait until the second edition comes out the following year, after the sales and marketing team has seen the initial figures and rattled the research and development folks to come up with an updated version of The Butts Game (which is what I’m guessing they’ll call it).  The updated version, if Mattel knows what it’s doing, will introduce wild cards, allowing writers to choose an additional seven words, and I’m guessing that an electronic voice* will tell the writers when to choose the extra words, making the writing process even more fun and fast paced.

That’s funny.  I thought I was being sarcastic, but now I’m even excited.  I can hardly wait.

*Batteries not included.

At first he thinks it is the trees, moaning in the wind, but realizes the sound corresponds with his steps.  It’s the grass making the horrible noise.  With each step, a boot-shaped spot of grass cries out in pain.  The plants, it seems, are alive.

He hits the side of a tree with the back of his hand and hears nothing.  But when he reaches up and plucks a leaf, he catches a faint noise in the air.  He grabs a whole handful and pulls, breaking off a small limb, the bark ripping and tearing its way back into the side of a large branch.  This time there is no mistaking the sound of pain.  A sharp but muffled scream races past his head, disappearing into the dark, early morning sky.

The idea that everything is alive is unsettling, and he tries to imagine the possibilities as he moves about the barn, completing his chores.  Have other people heard this, he wonders.  I can’t be the only one.  Someone must have heard.  No one will believe me if I’m the only one.

Even the bales of hay, two seasons old, make a dull, grumbling sound, as if being woken from a deep sleep, as he pulls them apart and stuffs them into the mangers for the waiting cows.  He usually stands around for a few minutes each morning, watching the cows eat, big chunks of hay sticking out of the sides of their mouths as they chew, the steam rising from their big nostrils in the cold morning air.  But this morning he turns off the light and leaves as soon as the chore is done.  He doesn’t want to be around when the hay fully wakes up.  He doesn’t want that sound in his ears.  Running across the grass back to the house is hard enough.  When he finally hits the back porch, he is out of breath, gasping harder then he ever has from such a short run, the fear of what he has heard finally taking hold, pulling the air from his lungs.

What a night!  Awake from three to five, lying there with the blankets pulled up tight, yawning and yawning but never actually pulling the whole deal together.  And then sleep from five to seven, filled with one bad dream after another.  A divorce fight.  A big, four story house somewhere in the mountains, but apparently rented out as a dormitory to what seems like an entire college.  Some young guy calls me dude one too many times and I almost rip into the guy.  Another dream with some sort of police interrogation.  Someone escapes.  There’s shooting.  I’m trying to catch up with someone, but the snow is so deep.

There was more, but I think I’ve forgotten.

Wake up and shower the boy.  What’s with little boy B.O.?  Did I sweat and stink when I was eight?  I can’t imagine it.  I was skin stretched tight over a few puny bones.  Nothing more.  Bones don’t sweat.

Drop off the boy at school and a quick breakfast and coffee at the cafe.  Answer a few emails.  I love this place.  Good coffee, good food, and wireless internet.  But the table I slip into, the one nearest the only outlet in the place, proves to be a bad choice this morning.  A couple of young women on one side of me with a baby, and an old lady on the other side.  Everyone is quiet, no complaints there, but I keep smelling urine.  Is it the baby or the old lady?  I don’t really want to know, and yet, I love a good mystery.  Between slurps of coffee I discreetly lean one way, then the other, sniffing.  But my sniffing is as effective as my early morning yawing.  No results.  Maybe one of them will leave and solve the mystery for me.  Maybe it’s me.  Maybe the dog peed on my shirt last night, it dried, and now I’m officially part of his territory, no matter how far I walk around the city. 

I need to push my way through those child support figures and come up with an agreeable alimony payment.  I have to factor in loan and gift money that will need to be repaid over time.  The house deal confuses everything.  The farm was bought from my parents with the help of money from her family.  I am over a barrel.  Everyone walks by and takes a slap at my ass, including the Employment Department.  Erin, the friendly audit woman, is getting restless.  How did she get my new cellphone number?  Did I give it to her?  I can’t imagine I’d get that lazy with my privacy.

“Hello Keith.  I’m just following up on those loan agreements that you promised to get to me.  Will I be seeing those soon?”

“I should be getting those to my accountant today,” I tell her.  That was Monday.  The days slip by so fast.  Surely she must have other files.  Someone else to pick on.  I should have never joked about resting my head against her breast.  She must have access to my email and website.  She’s resharpened her pencils and is coming after me.

But I wasn’t thinking about Erin as I tossed and yawned my way through the night.  Maybe I should have been.  Maybe that would have put me to sleep.  No, you know what I was thinking about?  I was thinking about hiring a secretary.  I was thinking about the huge, huge mess that my desk and accounting has become.  I was thinking about the daily payroll and billing that I am always behind on.  I was thinking about the luxury of someone else answering my phone.  I’ve wrestled with the mess all by myself for more then fifteen years, and the idea of turning it over to someone else becomes more and more attractive each day.  With each yawn this woman saviour became clearer and clearer in my imagination.  I almost had her completely visualized but then fell asleep.

But realistically, how in the world would I ever hire this person.  My office, which is honestly in a shambles, is now located in my apartment.  Who in their right mind would accept such a job?  And then there’s the move.  My guess now is that I’ll be back in the house before Christmas.  Do I hire someone for the next month or so, then give them a leave of absence while I relocate, only to call them back into yet another home office situation?  The whole thing is chaos.  I need to face the truth.  I have worked for fifteen years to create perfect chaos.  Let’s hope my insurance company doesn’t find out.  The worker’s comp rates for chaos are bound to be through the roof.