Put Words To It

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I dreamed last night I lived in Detroit and I dreamed last night, in the same dream, but separately that I escaped from a frightening Arby’s into a haunted house ride.

De-troit.  Dee-troit.  De-nver.

Did we want dessert?  At this dark, shadowy, film noir fast food restaurant, I wanted dessert, but it was so sweet…just frosted everything, like Cinnabon times a thousand and there was thunder and lightning clashing and crashing overhead so I gave up on that thought and found myself in this sort of open-concept haunted house ride.

It had various physical obstacles (ala Nickelodeon’s GUTS when I was a kid).  One of which was some sort of tunnel covered in snow.   This was entirely indoors as the lights flashed on and off in a way that mimicked the earlier lightning.

After crawling through the fake snow with fake, but still functional bits of broken barbed wire in it – caltrops, I guess, I arrived at a floating bar on the wall.  It was hidden, except to me, behind a painting.

Somehow I rode this elevator bar up as though I were Mario and realized, with real dream astonishment, that there was a hidden room upstairs.  I half-registered that this was where they must keep the props and half-believed it was exactly as it seemed, a haunted library. Immediately, I thought I needed to take something with me, that something here was mine.  There was a thin book, with gold-gilded pages, some of which seemed missing.  It had a long title and a latch like a diary.  I had to hide the book in my shirt.

I woke up when I took the floating elevator back down stairs and all of the lights were on, they said it was two years later and I was confused, but knew I still had to hide the book.  It was about 12:30 in the afternoon.  I…don’t know anything more except I needed that time.  That stillness, that struggle within relaxation.

I did get up, and we got over to my parents where…the stillness, oddly enough, somehow continued.   My mother had made BBQ ribs.  I ate myself full and then we worked on another puzzle, which seems to be a major form of comfort to all of us.  For that flowing in and out, to work on the project together.  It makes her happy and I sat there with an ice cream cone thinking to myself, but mostly not thinking because reality is the whole of the world on my shoulders.

Then, my father appeared with a check for $500.00.  I told him I didn’t want it.   Even after all of the Amanda Palmer and taking the doughnuts and accepting help when someone is able and wants to help you, oh, that felt like we were all agreeing that things have gone wrong somewhere somehow.  And I was just hoping to keep on pretending otherwise, in perpetuity.   He gave it to my sister to make me take it – it’s for both of us in that it will let me get things paid so I don’t have to lean on her.  But, wow.   The emotion that I feel attached to that.  I don’t want to be in this position.  I don’t want to be vulnerable like this.

But I am also…grateful.  Grateful that marching towards the abyss means having to pass through so many barriers and so many people reaching out their arms to me.  I mean, there are those in this world that don’t have the resources I have.

Trying to show that gratefulness by taking care of some stuff, getting myself more square, being active in the ways that I can that will improve the situation.  If only allowing me to be more creative and less bogged down with stress in my physical surroundings.

I have an idea for a post now, but it’s late so.  Yeah.

After all of this, I put on Sunrise: A Song of Two Humans.  Nobody seemed to find it as exquisite as I did, but my mother did watch along, riffing, laughing.  I didn’t mind because she was amused in one way or another.  They all said “Oh, it’s just one of her movies.”  In a gentle poke sort of way that, at one time, would have depressed me.  “She just walks to the beat of her own drum.”

I think, in some ways, that’s true.  A silent movie.

I wanted to touch the hard places, to get in there and understand why things are the way they are with me.  Things like the driving and doctor anxiety, the things I’m so unwilling to talk about like sex and love and romance and intimacy but that are so constantly on my mind, body image and weight and perfectionism and what it will take to be in a place where I can just write, be it for a living or for myself, and not get hung up on these other issues and stop in my tracks.

This is a piece.  I want to turn away.  I want to ignore it.  It’s been so many years of ignoring it.  I have to forge forward.  I have to go to the gangrene and the rot and pull things up.  Go down to the foundations and build it anew.

It is okay to have this money.  It’s not okay to pretend that things are going to improve via magical thinking or that I’m satisfied with where things are.  I’m not.  Not yet.  It’s in writing.  I need to know.

Even in the face of my sincere gratitude, I am willing to face this superego and say that I want more.

Little Kitty

pexels-photo-28347We are here.   Time is so damnably fluid these days.   Are we coming or going at any given moment?  I thought we were going at the morning time after an announcement last night so I am up and dressed, but we’re actually not leaving for another half an hour.  I also have the option to drive in on my lonesome three hours from now. But I’m up and ready for action so I might as well get this slice of effort knocked out of the way.  I would like this to be one of those days – despite it being a Friday – where I think up things I need to do, like clear off my desk, and then actually do them instead of sighing longingly as though I had asked myself to pole vault over the moon.

So, yes, my list of bad ideas I actually knew were bad ideas and have confirmed via experimental testing multiple times but am trying out once again has expanded to include: drinking coffee at 11pm and then watching some scary Let’s Play videos on YouTube.
Saying aloud that it seemed that there was light at the end of the work-related tunnel.  That was definitely just an oncoming train.  Sigh.  Big, handwringing sigh.  Well, I refuse to let it get under my skin.  Too many other mysteries are hanging out there for me to write over them with upsets I have no facility to alter or remove.
Getting Timehop.  It essentially allows you to relive every hope and excitement that is now converted to a pain or a regret in a convenient digital package.  Oh, he uses modifiers like Aristotelian and he thinks I’m swell?  It must be love…or not, it might just be a really awkward and heartbreaking bit of nothing.

Ah.  That place between the teeth and the inner ear is just full of these things.

That said.  I am still in a decent mood that memory cannot tear asunder.

Good ideas: for whatever reason, the self-esteem muscle is flexing today and I feel alright about the whole being alive in the world problem I have.  Maybe we can blame it on the seductive powers of a workable pair of pantyhose, but whatever’s the cause, I like it.  I need it.  I want some more of it.
Going to Writers Group where even if they don’t necessarily help you and you struggle to understand the goals and experiences of writing that others strap themselves down to, you can come away wanting to write.  And that’s all I need in the end.

Last night, after not being able to sleep,  I had a dream about Mr. Rochester.  He was running a food cart in the middle of a big open field which is probably metaphorical for his last venture.  Pleasure and satiation and nobody to stroll by and buy it.  I strolled by, though, because that’s my metaphor and recognized him beneath his hat.  He was happy to see me, but not so happy as I was to see him, hugging him as if his good opinion of me was my lost pair of lungs.  I wanted to get close enough to it to get some air.

I really wish I didn’t wake up.

Devil’s Resting Bitchface

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Okay.

I woke up fine.  Wrestled with the scale.  Is it the same or did I lose .8 lbs?   I got both answers and only one is really acceptable right now (no, it’s fine, I have a year, I have a lifetime, but you know, fuck) so I went back to bed so I didn’t have to think about anything and ended up sliding in and out of weird climbing dreams where I was clearly thinking way too hard.   A climbing pit inside a mall that was shutting down and I accidentally ended up getting left behind there and having to climb these odd manufactured mountains with these grips that just looked like regular drawer handles and it was, in some ways, easier than I feared.

Still, I woke up mad.  It might have been the email from my sister about needing to pay my part of the bills and being pretty sure that if I gave her any money I couldn’t pay my student loan payment and suddenly, last night’s exercise – a bit more intense than usual – had a delayed impact.

This is PMS.  Full throttle, son of a bitch, give me a drink and stay away from me or I will light you on goddamned motherfucking fire PMS plus, as it turned out, an odd explosion of anxiety and panic.  Even though got the go-ahead from the boss so I technically got paid, or will be on Monday and so did the sister, I think even the relief threw on the other side of Whack.  Wherein I decided, like a crazy person, that I couldn’t feel my cheek properly and then silently wugged over that.  And then basically proceeded to attempt the grocery story and doing the welfare check on the animals while my parents were away and eating and exercising over there and just…finding myself thinking bizarre and unhelpful things.

Nevertheless – I did buy food.  90% of it healthy, plus a miniature pizza aggressively encrusted with sodium.   Everything I ate I tracked and we’re under given that I did exercise…doing the 3 mile walk in the aggressively silent parents house with my music playing on my phone like some sort of funeral march.

I know this will pass, but grah, and shit, and ugh, and it isn’t stopping me.  It isn’t debilitating me.  It is just unnerving me and wasting my time.  Like, my dad texted us this picture of himself by a giant ceramic shark hung upside down on some pier somewhere in Florida where they are vacationing and, to my great relief, having a great time, clearly.  He makes a dad joke about having caught it after going sponge diving.  And I had a thought too morbid to post here and it’s like, great, thanks, that’s incredibly unhelpful brain.

And right now my brain is just cackling at me.  It feels as though it can see how desperately I’m working on myself, how I am really making an effort to exercise and how I am digging in, and it wants to upset the apple cart.  It wants to upset me into being afraid that my positive change is the trigger for the panic…and maybe it is, but only in the sense that this is a protective barrier around the security of the status quo.  It’s a test I have to pass this time.

 

The Sleeps

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I am looking forward to my resurrection.  I am looking forward to clawing out of the loamy, half-packed dirt and feeling the cold winter air on my face.  To accepting winter by putting my hot little hand in a pile of snow until it burns backwards.

What is the limit of how much you love me?

Last night, I had a big dream.  It was unexpectedly vivid, unexpectedly prolonged, unexpectedly memorable. It centered around me having a kid.  My own.  The actual action of giving birth took place, but as it was a dream, I didn’t suffer to long or linger in the logistics of it.  I just ended up with a kid whose father was someone I couldn’t quite recall.  I couldn’t have picked him out of a lineup.  An amalgamation, surely, of every available masculine energy I’d ever took a shine to.   It was odd to hold it.  I was proud and happy about it.  It was a little boy with the oddest, most awfully surreal name: Tagaragua Nicaragua.  Who decided that, I have no idea, it wasn’t me.  I remember thinking we would have to get that changed.  Sounds more like a scientific name, a genus and species rather than a newborn.  I explained that we could call him Tag…for now.  He was a very sweet, almost plasticine baby that glowed ever so slightly like you could only see him through a gauzy, soft focus lens.   A baby Jesus-y looking baby.  I showed him to my aunt, and her delight with me and this squirmy little thing all swaddled up in dish towels still gives me the shivers half a day later.   I showed it to my grandfather and he was just as happy.  Everyone seemed fine with the fact that I would turn up with a kid.  Everyone seemed beyond fine…delighted.  And then the kid started talking.  I suppose that’s when he informed me what his name was.  I asked my mother if it was weird for a baby to talk on the first day.  She said it was fine, and it has smart parents.  Then he started wriggling so much, I set him on the floor and he started stretching like was Stretch Armstrong and almost walking.

I woke up completely weirded out.  This morning, I learned that my grandfather had gone to the hospital last night.  Surely it’s only one of those connections that means something because I noticed it and I’ve been thinking about him, and maybe subconsciously, about progress on the whole life evolution thing and that might mean a kid.  I don’t know.  It’s not an uncommon thing to dream about.   My grandad’s fine.  It does make you think about when that dream ever gets to become reality.  What has to be done to make it a reality, beyond, you know, the obvious. This makes me rather tired after a long day.

You have to press.  This is when you have to kick down the door.

Ah, brains.

Let this just serve it proof that despite all doubts, I made it home safe.

 

Bed Dancing (The Floor is Lava)

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Deep primal scream.  Happy day.  All sorts of random emotions are spilling out of me.  I’ve made some use of the time, even if some of that use was laying in bed chasing after this dream I had that had its birth very early in the morning and its death at my unnecessary alarm.  So I had to run after it, flailing with a bellows to keep a fire burning and keep it all aloft.  I failed utterly, and took hours too long to do it, but I don’t mind.

Here’s what I remember – there was a seller or maybe a thief of books.  In this realm, they were a secret currency, a magic, a gift, rarer as gold.  He was in trouble.  His hair was dark, but shoulder-length so it obscured his face.  He had a backpack, I think it was yellow, but so worn I am not sure.  He kept it as close to him as we met in a hotel lobby or perhaps a coffee shop, we were set back in some small corner.  I was a Queen, not of everything, not of people, but more of a Duchess which I think suits me better.  I don’t know how I knew him, but as he unzipped the backpack he held tightly between his ankles and pulled this backpack-sized book (with a binding thin enough it must have been a picture book) halfway out, just enough, I knew I knew him well.  I knew, in fact, that we were in love. Like legitimate, emotionally hamstrung, regrettably but genuinely in love. He was not, of course, the King. And as I smelled the overwhelming alcohol on his breath, I knew this was trouble for us both.

Somehow, I stumbled out, clutching the book in a brown paperbag-colored satchel when I come across this, golden tree-looking creature.  Thinner than an ent, but entish, I suppose.  And angry with me.  “I will tell him what you’ve done”, this magical creature threatened.”I will tell him you’ve been kissing me.”  And I knew I hadn’t, so I wondered why he was lying, but I knew that as queen, this would be disruptive, bad news.  I was running with my book, worrying about the book thief, as the alarm went off.

I am going to do what I can to recreate the circumstances and hope this particular world lets me in again if I bang at the door. Yes, today was spent doing the oddball things I love. This is what the shaman meant.  How I had to get right with me before there’s room in my head for anyone else.  So I tuned and played my ukulele.  Fingertips hurt, but a good hurt.  My memory came back faster than I thought.  I played Mass Effect for a bit.  Listened to the Basement Tapes and gleefully delighted in the seeming return of Mumford & Sons.  I ate low carb.  I judged myself for my imperfections, but let them go fairly quickly.  I missed you, you kaleidoscope man, you keeper of millions, you thiever of books.  I stretched for ten minutes against the aching scream of my neck, stretched every phalange and joint.  It made me feel peaceful and soft.  I listened to Ben Howard and bought his newest album with a gift card I had about.

I took care of me today.  I’m looking forward to tomorrow.  I am so imperfect, so failing, so

But my sister is right.  Who is They? They is Me.  And I am the one holding the reins on this carriage that so wants to run away.  Let it run away, let it capsize, let it run off the rails and off the edges of cliffs.  It’s only a dream, nothing can break while you’re playing.

And Other Mushy Things

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Here’s the story, morning glory.  Afternoon glory?  I am not organized here the way I would like to be, but I am feeling less like an interloper, imposter, failure and more of just a standard employee who wants to do her job and go home and dick around on the internet.

So, I wanted to be the morning glory story. As I mentioned yesterday, I wanted to get up at 6:30 and just clean up for a little bit, get things put away that are staring me in the face and I’ve been just outright ignoring.  A little bit of UnFucking Your Habitat’ing.  But I didn’t wake up in time to rise up and start folding t-shirts and scrubbing bathroom counters before dashing off to work.  In fact, somehow, my mind conspired to keep me in my bed until I only had twenty minutes to get ready. But there was a reason.  I had a hell of a warm dream.
I just know that I want to talk about that dream and I don’t feel, given the nature of that dream, typing about it at work.  Not even on a lunch break.  So I will have to find something else to do with my time since I’ve been left to my own devices with everything on my to-do list tabled until I have approval and more information rather than write up this post.  Hmmm.
…..
I know I’ve mentioned these before.  They’re rare as hell, but magical when they turn up.  Warm dreams are not wet dreams, necessarily.  Ahem.  Well, let’s not be gross.  Let’s just say that warm dreams are about visceral, physical experience.  That’s what, in my terminology, differentiates them from your standard odd person + odd situation + what the heck sort of nocturnal cinema.  Instead, they’re dreams of a sort  that stay branded on the back of your eyelids, burnt into your retinas, stuck to you forever and they’re dreams that the snooze button was invented for.  You want to be in that world, you want to feel the sort of peace or pleasure or aliveness that somehow eludes you in your waking life but is abundant and swollen and yours without reservation.  It takes a certain relaxation, I’ve found, to even get the start of one of these sorts of dreams.  Years go by without them.  This morning, two rolled right along with no concern about my plans for self-improvement, soft and plush and tactile and I didn’t behave like an imbecile.  Very soothing.
Because nobody has much interest in anyone else’s dreams, I’ll sum it up as this: I dreamed about falling in love.  And right now, that sort of gift trumps almost every other card out on the table.
I feel like I’ve done some good things for myself and some bad things for myself.  And so, given the bad things are, in some cases, still able to be mended, I am in the mood to do something to mend them. Going to the grocery store tomorrow, re-set the alarm clock. remember it’s Friday.  And then, get it together.

Cannonball

Tomorrow is Independence Day and it means I am not at work  – not at paying work – but I should be at home doing some of this fiercely-intentioned organization.

Our American Fourth of July (as though countries can peel off calendar dates as their own) It comes as Egypt is going through incredible, historic throes of revolution.

I watch and hope that everything that comes out the way its supposed to and that no one gets hurt in the coming and going.

For all this talk, I somehow feel of late that my lesson to learn is one of dependence.  But the only places to lean are the pillars and they were never going anywhere, anyway.

….

I had a dream last night.  Notable in that it was my first naked dream.  I mean, I’ve had intimate dreams, strange dreams, we all have and I share it now in the full-knowledge that dream-sharing is a wholly self-indulgent activity because truly, no matter how deft I am at expressing it, you’ll never quite know what it was I saw and felt.  Though, perhaps, that could be said of everything I experience in waking life as well.  But solipsism is never a very fruitful endeavor and certainly doesn’t make me feel very good, so let’s just say, I know you can’t get it and I’m sorry that’s so.

I was naked on a bike.

It reminded me a combination of places – the Sacred Way in Beijing, the Champs-Elysees in Paris, and this park near my parents house.  It was a glorious day, the kind of spring/summer day that only exists maybe once or twice a year in its perfection or else you see a fabricated sort in commercials.  A day where you could feel the particles of light in the air almost individually and each one buoyed your whole body and spirit.  A good day to be a human.

So I’m rolling along to work.  About halfway there, I recognize I’m not wearing anything.  I had the gasping, moment of embarassment you’d expect.  But I don’t exactly stop the bike and run for cover.  In fact, as aware as I am about public nudity laws, and in as much as I physically FEEL the attempt to turn the bike around, in the dream, I thought…well, let’s just see how long I can get away with it.  It’s so nice.

The rest of the dream is less pertinent, though it did involve old people in bathtubs in their underwear watching tv at my job (which in the dream took place in a multi-story factory) and Chris Hayes from MSNBC carrying in a pizza, cracking wise and I got in a car with him (equally as interested in his cute (but apparently unmarried in Dreamland) face as the pizza box he had) and I remember he asked me a question which referred to something I’d said and he was disappointed because he’d caught me in some sort of lie.

So what it all means, I don’t know.  Kind of a mixed bag, but I like the part of the dream where I felt alright about myself.