Writers Circle Prompt: Space, Time, and Dream

(I'm thinking of space and time and 

dream, Writers Circle prompts I

neglected.)  

Here in my safe space, I find the time 

and quiet I need to think and to write--

or need in order to write so I can think. 

It’s Christmas Eve day, a rare unscheduled day. 

Snow is falling gently, providing further

cushioning from the worlds of daily life,

passionate causes, meetings, and deadlines. 

 

Usually, these worlds crowd other goals 

out of my space, and so I make lists to organize 

the crowdedness.  Lists are quite often on the 

backs of open envelopes and half-finished 

poems scattered on my desk.  (That's where

I found the Writers Circle prompts.) 

In such a jumbled space, I lose things.   

I lose time sorting and resorting. 

I lose time to write—though I have great

lists of what I’ll write next.  And I lose

time to assemble my next poetry book,   

though I’ve listed titles and locations

of poems I want to include.  Should I add

haiku, I wonder?  I haven't lost the haiku 

because writing them is a morning ritual.

 

There you have it: Space and time are crowded

in my head, even when I’m sitting alone

in my apartment with a luscious free 

hour or two.  Pen on paper,

I find my head is full of multi-colored

swirls like paisley rushing around the edge

of my mind, trying to slow down enough

to get to the middle.  The brain cylinder is

on the run!  Emotion and spirit try

to stop it, sometimes laughing at it,

but always paying attention to colors

and shapes, thinking I should portray them in

acrylic on paper.  It’ll look like an infinity scarf,

laying down in a figure eight.  I put painting on

a list to think about later.

 

Thinking of inner space and time makes me

want to talk about visions of outer space

and time travel.  I haven’t taken time to read 

any of my beloved science fiction and

fantasy novels lately.  But I love how in

them, the possibility of life on other

planets looms large, beginning as dream and

prophesy, and ending up as reality—

whether friendly to earth beings or not.

Space travel and communication are

often advanced, while relations among

human and non-human agents of action

remain much as they are now.  

Among other things, authors ask if roles

and attitudes would change out of necessity

and invention.  One novel, The Merro Tree 

by Katie Waitman imagines a multi-species 

performance troupe traveling throughout 

the universe.  The troupe includes more types 

of performance and performers 

than live in our most diverse dreams.

Most of the fantasy novels I read

stay on earth, but change the time period.

Often the plot begins after catastrophic

events.  Here humans must figure out what

to value and how to survive.  One novel 

The Marrow Thieves by Cherie Dimaline,

is influenced by indigenous culture in Canada 

and the USA.  The overwhelming problem 

is that most humans have lost the ability to dream, 

and the solution is in the bone marrow of

indigenous people.  Those in power

trap indigenous populations to experiment

on abstracting the bone marrow

for themselves.  The book raises old questions

about colonialism and takes them to an absurd—

but not improbable--level. To be human

requires dreaming. 

 

Here at Simpson House, I've started 

remembering my night time dreams.

I wake with snatches of dreams in my head,

the tail ends of something larger that I

don’t remember.  Once I woke in a canoe,

trying to learn how to steer; once I was 

at a meeting of friends.  The conversation

was passionate, but I don’t remember

the topic.   I haven’t gotten to the point

of deliberately trying to remember night dreams

and writing them down.  

 

Daytime dreaming and fantasizing, however,

are a conscious part of my human existence.  

Despite reading dystopian novels, I am 

optimistic about the future, and I am 

searching for the reason.  My latest dream

was that Kamala Harris would be president

of the USA, and that another four years of

democratic rule would ensure democracy

and programs that create more freedom

for the lower and middle classes.  That dream 

ended in November.  I’m optimistic that 

most of us will survive Trump, but as of yet, 

I’m not sure how.  I’m reading and listening, 

looking for reasons to be optimistic.  

I have to find them, so I don’t sink into 

depression and despair.  I'm trying to find 

a dream that could be a reality for refuges.

When I think of refugees from war,

political danger, and climate change,

I try to think of ways to accommodate

more of them.  What if I were among them? 

What would I want people to do along

the path of my journey?  Of my cat’s journey?  

I put this on a list to think about later.

And that's How my Garden Grows

A poem flowers in my garden,
spreading pollen and scent
to anyone who lingers. 
 
It may lead to strata beneath
or beyond reality, but
its words—its whorls of petals—
 
take us to where we want to go,
to where we must go
given this world and time.

source

© 2024 Susan L. Chast

Writer's Circle Prompts.

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