Open Doors

Dreams speak to me

The river is high; the doors are open.

Twilight: consciousness returns me to our bed. I step outside under the waning crescent moon. A cottontail stands motionless. I do too. The first arm of light reaches from the east.

I pick up my pen. So many words, so many thoughts, most escaping. I sip coffee and wait for some of them to return. Dreams speak to me, sometimes in riddles, sometimes plain spoken. Most of it I forget. What I remember, I add to my waking thoughts.

I pedal my bike through the woods. Where trees have fallen, new paths have been cut. I misjudge a feature in the rock garden; I hesitate and fall, sliding down the side of the low ridge. I catch myself and climb back up. A scraped shin, a strained thigh. I get back on my bike and begin again.

I’m standing in a teenager’s basement bedroom. I’m surrounded by Legos, Batman posters, guitars, and amplifiers. Wade plugs in his bass, Jake adjusts his drums, and Josh shoulders his guitar. I yell into the microphone.

The shadows of turkey vultures sweep across the trail. White-tailed deer leap through the brush upon my approach. A great blue heron flies mightily over the river.

I get out a blanket and lie on it in the backyard with the dogs.

Annie and I drive a ribbon of pavement through an ocean of farmland. We cross the Des Moines River in Boone, the Raccoon River in Carroll, and the Missouri River in Council Bluffs into Omaha, Nebraska.

We go book shopping, and my wallet can’t keep up with my interests.

We see Bob Mould at The Waiting Room in Omaha. The songs come in rapid fire: distortion, tone, and sweat.