Last night, I dreamt I was writing about an actress about to take the stage and sing for the opera. With each word I visualized the exact scene. When I decided she'd be better pregnant and waddling out past the father of her child, I could see the actress do so. We engaged in conversation about her role and its significance to her life. Words on the page became real but dialogue appeared on the page. It was exciting. Proof that good writing comes to life. Then the floor beneath the stage gave way to a bridge collapsing over the river. Cement blocks crumbled. Supports tumbled. The actress vaporized. Numbers erased themselves from falling pages. And suddenly the stage was in a field within earshot of another larger stage.
Real life occurred all about me, peopled by strangers I know in another world. Words appeared in the air in front of me - narration come to life. As I walked, talked, directed and organized, I interacted with Real Life and Imagination simultaneously to the point where I no longer knew which was which. And when I awoke, the strange dream continued.
Living inside a matrix of life connected by thought and action, explored and influenced to the point where life and art not only imitated each other but were one and the same. We are all one. My pain is your pain. My fear is your fear. My joy is also yours. As are my desires, dreams and wishes.
I am one with the Raven outside my tree, one with the Wolf at my front door, a reflection of the Moon and as brilliant as the Sun. We are all connected and interwoven and part of each other. Writing is life. Life is writing.
Create beauty. Even that which is strange or ugly to us is beautiful to another. Turn your head slightly, change your perspective and behold.