George Clooney’s Bed

Sometimes I use a scene from my life or an off-the-wall idea to practice creative writing here — in the same way any other writer would. Feedback is always welcomed and appreciated. Your impressions help me grow as a writer. 

          I dreamed again last night after a lonesome stretch, but woke uneasy after George Clooney came to nap and found me in his bed. He’d given me a heartfelt talk the last time he found me there, keeping his calm and explaining why he needed his space to be predictably his own. He had touched my wrist and given me that one last time as a buffer to help me cope (being kind enough not to say the icy word ‘over’ out loud), but he was cold now, and resigned, pacing at the foot of the bed first, then lying down on the other pillow as if he had no choice. I saw a hardness form inside him and knew the safe place for me was gone.

         I collected myself and stretched my pain into a little smile to soften it, hoping to signal sanity and melt his anguish as I prepared to leave. He averted his eyes and kept kindness and praise to himself as if he suddenly knew those things would kink into the situation, like spores, and grow weedlike into more of the same. I was ashamed to be his bad penny, who burned the kindness he had left between us before he knew better.

         His presence had comforted me in so many dreams before this, ones where I needed respite from spies who wanted me dead, ones where the things chasing me had no form, just intent to harm. This morning reality tainted another of my hidden corners. I want it to stop. Without George to listen or let me cuddle when night threatens to eat me alive, the tender parts of me threaten to disappear behind artificial shoulds and shouldn’ts. Why can’t I be safe while I’m tender? Why do I have to stew until I’m more than done, but toughened into a thing that bares less and less resemblance to who I was?

         I don’t always need to hide in my dreams; sometimes I fight and win. But tonight, if I’m able to sleep, I hope that dreams can be erased and repainted in warmer colors. Or that someone willingly takes George’s place and let’s me feel safe and quiet and myself when I need to, in those times when I need a bed that isn’t my own.


The One in Which Gary Oldman Regales Me With a Dream

English: Oldman signing autographs at the Harr...

English: Oldman signing autographs at the Harry Potter premiere, 2007. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Wow! Gary Oldman and I have the same kinds of dreams! I just saw him on “Conan” and he related a dream about Conan O’Brien, Paul McCartney, overcoats, strange headed babies in incubators, and running through city streets like a scene out of “Hard Day’s Night.” Perhaps I’m strange, but I ate this up with a spoon, and even applauded at the end. I love to dream, and I feel honored to hear one like this from such a great actor. It rivals some of my best.

I wonder if there’s something similar about our artistic sensibilities? Oh I hope so.

I feel like writing, but I’ve been short on sleep lately, so I’ll do the next best thing and hit the pillow. Sweet dreams to us all.

Paul McCartney @ FedEx Field, Landover MD, Aug...

Paul McCartney Image via Wikipedia


IMG_5478 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)