Notes from the Red Bird House

So, today I wrote in my journal for the first time in 5-ish days. When I'm home and in my routine, I write every day. I hadn't had a journal in at least a decade until my girlfriend gave me one for Christmas. I'd been needing a reason/way to write every day and I got one. Miraculously, I quickly became pretty religious with it. Then this week happened. I'm in San Diego trying to get things with my dad situated (think eighty-nine, spicy red walker, and assisted living and you've got enough of the gist). Not so shockingly, writing hasn't exactly been a priority. Until today (I know - obviously, right?) This afternoon I sat at a small table in a courtyard at Balboa Park and while sipping on an iced latte, I pulled out my journal. I intended to explain why I hadn't been writing and capture some of the emotion of the past week. Then, after a couple pages, I somehow segued and ended up talking about my latest burst of intuition. Which has absolutely nothing to d

When I was at my dad's house a month or so ago, I had a dream about Alicia Vikander. Let's get a couple important details out of the way. (1) It wasn't that kind of dream (Bummer, I know) and (2) The dream wasn't exactly about her; she was, however, the only key player I remember. With all that out of the way, I think it's safe to admit something I've denied since I posted about my dreamy good fortune on social media - I don't think the dream was entirely random. This is going to sound weird, especially for me, but I think it's the bedroom. Seriously. One of the last times I slept in that same blue guest bedroom a dozen-plus years ago, I dreamed about Jodie Foster. I promise you, it's way too random to actually be random. I'm certain that little blue room is some kind of astral migration, dreamscape portal. How can I be so sure? (A) The people in my dreams are 99.9% face-less. I know it's probably something I should discuss with a shr

A Short Story by Stacee Ann Harris             We all looked alike. Each and every one of us. Even the women, the few that there were, looked like feminized versions of the men. Suits were either dark gray or lighter dark gray, occasionally a pinstripe but only on a new guy who didn't know any better yet. Ties provided a small splash of color, though only maroon, blue, or gold, never purple or red, and were held in place by a small gold cross-shaped tie tack. Hair was coiffed short (though it was recommended that the women keep theirs long) and faces were cleanly shaven, no goatees, soul-patches, or a day's worth of stubble. In the gray-scale world of Hearn Upson, personality was to be left at home or locked in the trunk of one's late model Made in the USA vehicle.             On this particular day, though in reality it was no different than most other days except for one small exception, we gathered in the large conference room. Partners at the oblong, heavy da