#Scintilla Day 7: My Peeps

Prompt: List the tribes you belong to: cultural, personal, literary, you get the drift. Talk about the experience of being in your element with your tribes.

The Goth Tribe

I’m going to go ahead and call them the Goth Tribe, even though this label is paltry, misinterpreted and (ironically) pale compared to the immensely colorful, vibrant and caring people within.

I first met this pack of brilliant souls when I found myself in a goth club more than ten years ago, having managed to miss the era at its inception and subsequent height. It didn’t matter; this club was alive and pulsing, and the instant I walked in, I felt safe.

As a person who tends to default to shyness and is not generally a bar-goer, I surprised myself by reaching out and getting to know people–and was further surprised when people reached out and got to know me. It was so easy! No one was judging, no one was assuming, everyone was just out having a good time.

Computer geeks, Renaissance Faire devotees, foodies, Scotch experts, gun enthusiasts, Lego builders….it still amazes me, ten years later, that I’ve found so many people who are like kin to me. Each with their own fabulous quirks, they make Saturday nights that much more special.

And the music is fantastic.

The Super Creative Team, or The Work Tribe

Made up of five people from my department and an auxilary member/personal mentor from another department, this team–these friends–have the power to make the 40+ hour work week seem effortless, horrid snafus seem mere hiccups, and the laughs seem endless.

Our self-dubbed label began tongue-in-cheek, but truly, it only takes two of us together at any one time to start the ideas flowing. Add more of us and the creativity goes nova, thoughts and notions spiraling out into a vista where anything seems possible–with even enough time to do it all in!

It’s not just work, of course. If we made a list, our things in common would span so many categories we’d give up tallying halfway through. Music, literature, sense of humor, experiences; in a half hour’s conversation, I learn more than in a structured classroom with teacher’s notes.

I don’t know how given I am to the “everything happens for a reason” adage, but it almost makes me think I was meant to be here in this place at this particular time in my career. And it’s awesome.

(Yeah,  I’m skipping a few scintillas. Our guinea pig has pneumonia. Pneumonia! It’s been keeping me busy, worried, and more than a little distracted.)

#Scintilla Day 4: Childhood Bedroom

Prompt: Talk about your childhood bedroom. Did you share? Slam the door? Let someone in you shouldn’t have? Where did you hide things?

When I dream about my room, it always goes back to the way it was.

Peopled with stuffed animals and alive with their spirit, I remember color and magic and fantasy: Books, art supplies, changing wallpaper and wall colors, posters and wall hangings and all the little objects that meant something to me–

The way the sun would cast patterns like fine lace on the walls and bedspread, coming in through the trees outside the windows, white curtains billowing;

Plastering the outside of my door with giant police phone box paper and alternately pretending my room was the TARDIS or a Computer Complex Center (I had a C64) housed in the middle of a forest planet;

Amateur singing hour when I first discovered I had a voice–and also fell in love with the Phantom of the Opera and played the entire Andrew Lloyd Webber cast recording over and over;

Arranging and rearranging treasured bits of glass, ceramic, and wood, and once a large brass-and-crystal scale that stole into a poem I wrote at the time;

Being convinced there were secret passageways if only I could find them, or wake up at just the right time when all the magic was at its highest in the night.

By today’s standards, my bedroom would probably be sneered at as too small by today’s house hunters, but I know I was lucky. I had my world all to myself.

My refuge, my stage, my TARDIS; I loved my room.

#Scintilla Day 3: What’s in a (dream) memory?

Prompt: Talk about a memory triggered by a particular song.

This is more a dream mixed in with a misremembered memory, imagery built up over time.

I’d only seen Sade’s “The Sweetest Taboo” video once or twice when it first came out. I’d heard the song on the radio far more and still remember how it sounded, played back on the rickety old cassette tape I’d so treasured, having lain in wait for the DJ to play it, finally.

Over the years, the remnants of the video had filtered through my mind, and one night during a wild, beautiful storm, I dreamed…

The music starts with the rain, my band playing in the living room, set up against one long wall. From inside I can see the rain pouring off the porch roof and streaming down to the grass, rained-green bushes and trees in the background. And one could be daring and go out on the porch with someone, faded cushions on old wicker furniture, or stay inside, lying just below the wide-paned windows on the couch, tendrils of the rain-scented breeze coming in. And all the while the music is playing.

I’m not sure how much of me was Sade and how much was watching her at the same time; that’s one of the cool things about dreams, that curious double-sight.

I’d held on to that dream and the feelings in the dream all this while, never really needing to see the video before my eyeballs again. Then YouTube was invented with everything you could possibly want to see, ever.

So I found that video and eagerly pressed play–and discovered I’d been misremembering all this time!

Yet somehow, it really doesn’t matter.