Yesterday, I had a writing exercise that involved hypnosis (uh, don’t ask).   While we were “under”, we were supposed to focus on the first thing that popped in to our medulla oblongata.   The only crystal clear vision I had involved pigeons … of all things.

Everyone around me found some sort of Zen place that involved beaches or puppies.  And that was what they wrote about.   I struggled to find anything warm and/or fuzzy.  In my deepest sleep, I saw a stairwell, some green moss and a slew of pigeons.

When I asked the instructor what it meant, she said she didn’t know.  I should just write about whatever my subconscious was telling me.  And, in this case, my brain was telling me to write about “winged rats”.

I looked around … people were furiously scribbling about their Shangri-La.  Some were even humming.  I had nothing redeeming to write about.  And since I had already mentioned my dilemma, I couldn’t exactly switch topics.

So with three and a half minutes left to come up with something awe-inspiring … this was what I wrote:

“My brain conjures up thoughts of little winged rodents.  And there I am standing on a stairwell looking at them.  I’m in some sort of metropolitan hell.   I’ve had very little interaction with pigeons in real life.  Once I kicked a gull that was in my way.  Does that count?  I really want them to get the flock out of my head.”

Yes, I believe a 4^th grader could have written a better essay on pigeons WHILE asleep than I did.  But I did give it the ol’ college try.  Up next, a quick visit to my therapist to find out why my warped mind is fixated on pigeons … of all things.

I like to write.  Doesn’t necessarily matter what the topic or who’s reading it … it’s some sort of cosmic release.  If people in militias have a stash of weapons – then I have a stash of vocabulary words at my disposal.   In fact, the only reason I started this website is so that I could have an outlet for my wordsmithing.

My folks cannot fathom how I can make a living stringing words together.  Frankly, neither can I.  My father wanted me to follow in his footsteps in the single most mundane career ever – an engineer.  And if that didn’t work out … a dermatologist.  Followed by an accountant … which is what my mom did for a living.   When I told my folks I wanted nothing more than to write … combined with fame and fortune, they couldn’t believe it.  Where had they gone wrong?

I’ll tell you where they went wrong.  It all harkens back to me being four years old.  I’m sitting curled up in the closet with my dad and we’re learning vocabulary words.  Why we’re in the closet I’m still not quite sure, but it seemed fitting at the time.  The closet has become a place near and dear to my heart.

My dad and I would learn several new words every day.  And then I’d have a chance to try them out on him.  Clearly, he was impressed that 1) I was a child prodigy and 2) I was soaking words up faster than he was.

Out in the real world, my four-year old brain was spewing out words at the most inopportune moments.  I told my Chatty Cathy pre-school teacher that she was loquacious.  If she wanted me to be a successful world-renowned finger painter, she would clearly need to be more taciturn.

One day while watching “Sesame Street”, my mom asked why I thought a particular Muppet was sad.  I said, “Mom, the Muppet is not sad … he’s pensive.   Duh.”

The vocabulary lessons concluded shortly after that.