I had a headache, for many days, that nearly killed me. Okay, maybe not “nearly killed me”. Perhaps not. But then again, yeah. Maybe. It was awful.
During that time, I had not a creative bone stirring. Well, there were a couple hints at movement, but I think it was toasted brain cells settling in the ash.
And then, last night, as suddenly and inexplicably as it thrust itself into my world, the headache wandered off–possibly into one of many alternate dimensions, there to plague another unfortunate soul. I know a lot about alternate dimensions. For the past few days, my daughter has played one episode after another of the anime Noein before my fevered eyes, in an attempt to distract me from my very own skull-ful of ax-wielding firemen. I recall mumbling something about bright screens full of flashing color, seizures and comas, but I was apparently incoherent, as my daughter thought I wanted her to turn up the volume.
I made it through episode 13 or 14 (of 24). There was a lot of fighting between Karasu and Fukuro, who live 15 years in the future but visit the present, where they also exist, 15 years younger, as Yu and Isami. It was confusing and stressful to watch, what with time travels and kidnappings, tumblings and stabbings, vaporizings and lost limbs (not to mention lots of blue snow falling backwards), but right about the time Fukuro dissipated, so did my headache.
This morning, my mind was at last free to return to the world of Six-Pack. Unfortunately, I am also being summoned elsewhere, as I must now know why the insanely murderous Atori, newly bereft of memory, is now overcome with kindness and utter delight at the prospect of taking a little walk outside.
Tomorrow, I must return to the world of secular employment. Today, though, is mine. I juggle the worlds of Six-Pack and Noein. It makes for a full day.

My niece and Fwin (Vetta and Ash) are in Europe, fulfilling one of their life-long dreams. I admire them for following through. It took a lot of work and planning, but they are there for six full weeks, and they will be able to return in their minds anytime they want for the rest of their lives.
I sure do love those girls.
When I was fourteen, living along the southern coast of California, I seriously considered backpacking my way up the northern coast of California. Sure, I knew social acceptance for that sort of behavior had come and gone, but popularity has rarely been my driving force. I was already quite an expert at camping out with meager supplies: in icy cold; driving rain; hey, once in a while, in perfect weather. I imagined being able to support myself with temporary stints at odd jobs, part of my inspiration coming from places like Neptune’s Net in Malibu. Oh, how I loved the outdoors. Being inside made me a little (lot?) crazy. Actually, more like a pacing animal inside a cage.
Of course, there were other dreams.
One involved living in a tree house. My mother’s side of the family had land back in Arkansas, untended and wild, and I (along with a very loyal friend), decided to go there and “live in a tree”. I had a four-wheel drive truck and camping equipment; my father, who had no intention of accompanying such a wild expedition, was nevertheless a carpenter and full of sage advice. People warned me that winters would be terrible in a tree. I tended to believe them, but figured I would find a way to cope. My mother warned me of the deadly infestation of copperheads on that property, warning me I would need a backhoe and controlled burnings. But what finally dissuaded me was that, quite by chance, I found out spiders live in trees (lots of them). Kryptonite slowed Superman; spiders stymied me.
I’ve never stopped dreaming, although I never quite understood how I ended up married with two babies (I mean, I understood the physical HOW of it, just not why I let go of my dreams long enough to allow that to happen). There can be no mistake, though: those two “babies” (now grown) claim my happiest memories along with my heart’s undying love.
Still, I still sometimes think about the tree I might have lived in, the coast I’ve driven up and down but never walked entirely. I dream of the Maine coast and the state of Washington, rainy and wet and heavenly on the coast of Vancouver Island. I dream of the salt spray of the ocean and eucalyptus and lavender and rosemary and patchouli, some of my favorite scents. I dream of owning an Airstream; I dream of not owning one and striking out on foot. I dream of seeing England and Ireland and Scotland.
I dream of time travel; of being able to flit about between the worlds of long-dead authors and artists, the Pony Express, Robin Hood (in my dreams there was one Robin Hood, not a composite). Yes, reality and fiction blend together in these imaginings: I want visit the world of Sherlock Holmes (author, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle) and Richard Jury and Melrose Plant (author, Martha Grimes) and Lobelia Falls (author, Charlotte MacLeod).
These dreams may seem silly, but they’re mine and I like them.
I dream of many things. Lately, I find myself imagining more and more what it would be like to leave it all behind: the house, the material things, all of it, and simply start walking.
Of course, I’m not fourteen anymore; the world is a dangerous place; I probably wouldn’t make it far.
But one foot in front of the other, that too, is part of the dream.