a dangerous power

Belief is our most precious personal possesion. With it comes our trust, faith and obedience. And through our beliefs we can be controlled and directed, owned. The source of power behind religion is the demand that we believe. Without it there is no authority, no power.

It strikes me in this moment that a delicate balance must be achieved, a seperation from institutions- individuality through careful excersize of our reason, and simultaneously being a conscientious social being. To still belong to humanity, to allow- in so far as it's appropriate- for others to have certain claims on us.

Even when I was quite young I was troubled by the implications of any belief, the demands that that placed on me as an individual, and my own hesitance to believe.

This morning I was thinking about belief again, it was a few days ago I wrote this and forgot about it. Despite my inability to believe in things like change, they still happenned. I think because something else filled it's place- hope and desire. I wanted what I found it impossible to believe. I feel safe in hope and in desire. They reflect what is real to me and create no obligation or faith. It is easy enough to believe lies, or simply to believe what is not real. I fear that. Instead I hope, I desire. Lately many things I have hoped for and worked towards, with the expectation that if they happened it would be far off, have come to me now. So my hope grows and some of it begins to transform into belief. It stems from a desire to enrigh my life with all the most valuable experiences. Ranging from what I didn't think possible, to beautiful and vulnerable things that I have been afraid of. And I believe. And it is real, not forced, earned.

Recapping a day

I came back into Manhattan last night around seven for something called Flicks with Sticks. The most enjoyable element of my evening outing ended up being getting there. The city felt alive and joyful. I passed performers in the large Union Square subway station singing their hearts out, full of energy and enthusiasm. Standing tall, their bodies expressive as they played their instruments. A pretty girl bursting out her songs simultaneously playing guitar, dressed in vibrant, wild clothes. But the best was coming into the square to the sound of a sextet of men playing horns to an infectious beat, repetitive, invigorating both soulful and playful. I could hear them for the full length of a block, the sound gradually muted by distance but still just as wonderful. Maybe I should have stayed...

My dominant experience that evening was feeling silly about knitting in a large group of women. I think I felt like a fraud, not because I don't see myself as a real knitter but because that wasn't what I really wanted to be doing. I just wanted to watch the movie and the knitting was a pretense. There was something silly to me about a group of knitters.

I had mixed feelings about the movie, I enjoyed it, but I was dissatisfied with elements of the plot. Especially the end, it was like a clumbsy tie-up where suddenly everyone is happily paired in love. It bothered me that they all openly read their own active story into the book discussions with almost no self-awareness. It struck me as a cheap plot element. Their problems were so clear and identifiable. She's a control freak who is afraid of being vulnerable, this one is bound by her sense of duty, this one hopelessly impulsive and reckless. Yes, they each represented some Jane Austen girl- but in a manner that seemed feebly obvious and lacked depth. What I liked very much was the acting, they carried their roles like they were real. Very satisfying. And Hugh Dancy was adorable! I was afraid in the beginning that the movie was going to have all of the women fall in love with him. His ability to tolerate the one woman's treatment(Jocelyn?) who couldn't admit to herself she liked him was incredible. She really put him through it, but his own disposition was incredulous to disappointment or rebuff. If such a man existed he would be impossible to resist. I really liked the beginning too. Capturing all those little day-to-day frustrations that are common to everyone in such a gentle, humorous way.

I won't go there alone again. Although I got the best spot in the house. We have funny tendencies as humans that can fall on the extreme of either side. When I use the subway everyone is actively engaged in looking out for themselves at the expense of whomever is around rather reliably. But alter the scenario from public to more private and we become perhaps the opposite of obviously self-seeking. I was, a little to my own surprise, one of the last people to arrive. The seats were mostly filled in and I was about to take one off to the side in back when I noticed the two best seats, directly in front of the screen, were unoccupied. After ascertaining they were free I took one! It's funny, thinking about it now, how perfectly I got what I wanted. I came for the movie, and got it most ideally.

I had an episode last night at 3 something in the morning. I always start by believing there is no way I can get to what's upsetting me, my symptoms are at their height and I merely exacerbate them by my emotions. My interest in recovering normalcy still predominates and I hastily review any feelings I had that day to find which ones register a more dramatic response in me and then give them my attention. It is a moment when all my defenses are most purely down, as anything preciptated by a crisis would be. It seems hard to capture in words what I see in myself at these moments. In part it's that same little girl reaction dating back to when I was 9 or 10. A sort of desperation that fuels me into unguarded action. For many years my leading impulse, when upset, has been to deal with it quietly and privately without bringing anyone else into my confidence and if that proved impossilbe no amount of pride could make me hesitate to ask for help. I know this proclivity exists because of my own perception that my episodes are embarrassing, and a source of shame. I have made a lot of peace with that, but it is not complete. It's another part of my story that I will have to slowly learn to validate. I've met so many people lately who struggle with panic attacks that it has shown me they are common and has helped nullify much of the old embarrasment and shame. I'm not a freak! This isn't so uncommon. I suppose the truth is we probably all do a fair amount of hiding, maybe most of it as children and as we grow up let those walls down little by little to find some community of common ground in others. It reflects the meaning in empathy but a different word captures my sense a little better, discovery. It isn't that we can understand others, but rather understand ourselves in that moment. Suddenly I am able to empathize with other people and myself. Empathize with _myself_.

There is a perplexity to life, it rocks and at the same time is calm

I had an appointment this morning at Planned Parenthood that I was a little anxious about because I thought I would be getting an exam. Turns out if I make an appointment to get birth control they don't assume I'm getting an exam. I'm supposed to say that. I think I got really lucky, the woman aggreed to give me six months and set up a future appointment for the exam. So nobody prodded that most delicate area with a metal tong and a large swab. Which means I'm not starting the day feeling oddly violated. What was disturbing, though, was a man with a sign on him with a collection of very graphic images of aborted babies pleaded with the women who went in not to go on the grounds of what they do to unborn babies. I was nervous when I realized I would have to pass him to get in and disconcerted by his entreating me not to support such a place. When I set this appointment I had a moment when I did wonder about giving a place that performs abortions my business. Am I supporting that service indirectly? I have complicated personal views about abrotion, I would never personally choose it, but politically I do not oppose it being legal. I could never encourage another woman to get an abortion, but I would never judge her for her own choices. I don't want to support it. But I also see Planned Parenthood as providing services to women that are not provided by anyone else. I respect and appreciate this fact. What ever pain I may feel in the face of ethical and moral dilemnas is muted in me now compared with how these things rocked me to my core in the past. I do not feel my salvation threatened in these moments or being beaten back and forth by a terrible storm. I merely feel a need to identify what is right for me to do in relation to what I believe and to clear what ever confusion lingers between me and a simple decision. The freedom I enjoy at this point in my life is more than I ever imagined possible for me.

I had a dream last night that sat ill with me when I woke up. I was watching a movie (I think- it's hard to tell with dreams- I was watching at any rate) about a family of women. A mother, a daughter (and others, a grandmother and sisters perhaps?) All gathered around a hospital bed with the daughter in it. She spoke to them about how she had ended up there, about her own poor perception that made her situation unavoidable. I remember she spoke a very specific word, "divination", that she had been in her own mind very intuned with her own divining and in this last instance had not been tuned in. And when she said that word my mother turned to me with a very significant look and alert air and repeated that word "divination" with a nod of her head in comfirmation. I knew the word was powerful and that my mother strongly believed in it. She also spoke of her uncle having done something wrong to her, a violation. She was 13. She wore a brown linen tribal style dress that was formless and loose with delicate embroidered detailing around the neck in the same color as the cloth and there was a large blood stain in the center of her chest on the dress. She was languid and restless in her movements. Tossing about on the bed as she told her story. I was troubled and afraid of what was coming. The uncle she spoke of was sprawled out on the floor head lined up with the foot of the bed- feet with the head, in appearance and dress extremely eccentric. He had on velvet clothes in flamboyent colors, many layers and a silly hat. The other women looked down on him to hear his account in reference to the daughters charge. She had called them to ascertain from him anyway. He was mopey, he spoke in a petulant whine like someone who felt everything was unfair and weighed on his actions heavily. He sniveled. He told them that she had come as this playful little girl in her own game and spoke a nonsense langauge in which he was expected to reply and agree. He repeated all her little sayings that were a series of meaningless words and to each he gave his light response of "oh, yes", "of course", etc and in the end asked the women to please tell him what he had agreed to.

I remember nothing else. I wonder vaguely if it relates to the same topic my dreams have been exploring lately. At 13 I lived in Germany. With mixed effect on my outlook and feelings. I felt perhaps lighter, I no longer disappeared in a large crowd of students, instead I was constantly seen by a very tight little group. I felt more individual. I started as an outsider in all ways and gradually conformed to what mattered in this peer group. I went from having very specific and enjoyed tastes to not recognizing them anymore and reflecting what was average around me. I think after two years of that I slightly recovered and regained personal opinions. I think I changed because my own style had been exposed to me as a bit strange and eccentric. I remember on my first day of school I wore a two toned power suit with a skirt and shoulder pads. Purple and black? One half of the jacket was purple the other black. It was some combo of colors that was rather showy. It's funny to think I chose, this time, to disappear, that being in a small group, so closely seen, the safest move was to conform and disappear from public criticism. I was ruled by this little world and relinquished most of my individuality. I gave up my own feelings for theirs, my behavior for theirs, my appearance for theirs. (I seem to be gradually working my way through my life to the present in dreams.) I felt a sort of power and was content with the exchange.

Last night with my arms wrapped around Jeffs shoulders, caressing his hair, his head nestled under my chin I longed in my heart to ask him something. It's strange to me, maybe more fascinating, how a desire can enter my mind and linger with little emotional drive then suddenly come to life in one moment with an urgent power. The thought of getting a place with Jeff has been an appealing consideration for a week perhaps but last night it gained a deeper connection. I have struggeld with myself to ask him and found it so difficult to say. I at least had the sensibility to recognize moments that would have been inappropriate or deprived the question of it's importance. I did not want that. So I let it linger in me and wait. The purely logical part of myself was critical of this compulsion, I could not justify it rationally. What was I waiting for? The gods to light my path and bless the perfect moment with their consent? Was I waiting for an invitation? I guess the faith in me, at this point in my life, to obey my spirit has gotten stronger than my cynicism. In this quiet moment between us, in the restfull dark, I believed that Jeff was aware of my energy and knew that something trembled near the surface waiting for release. And he gave me that invitation. His brother Brian had apparently been thinking about having Amy move in with them. I needed nothing more than the very subject on my mind being brought up to say what had been brewing for days. I felt very full. I love him. It is hard to imagine him becoming more precious to me. I feel full in my heart, to bursting.

Mostly Harmless

I had a dream this morning that left a sense of romance behind. I have a feeling when I describe it that won't make sense. What I remember is more a flash of slowed moments and that kind of winter sunlight that occurs when the sun sits lower in the sky, so bright, but calming. A white star-burst orb. I was watching and running behind two young men in the cobblestone streets of some ancient village in some preindustrial era. Very young men, maybe sixteen. Dark skin, dark hair, spring clothes, high spirits. They had a sort infectious air of joy and life about them. One of the boys was dominant, I see him better in my mind, he led, and he seemed determined in his direction, confident in his actions. I followed them to a long, thin, fenced in area full of rottweilers. It was a place that people fought dogs, specifically rottweilers. These dogs were small compared to the real animal and lacked their natural appearance of power. When I got there the main boy had killed all of the dogs already, even a puppy. I believed in him and that he was executing some justice, but seeing the puppy made me doubt a little, wonder. He was stretched out on the ground, resting and breathing deeply, arms straight behind him supporting his body, knees bent, legs apart, a relaxed position. What was also odd was when he fought with the dogs and killed them he had transformed into one, the same breed, and back to a boy again. I know he spoke with me, made it seem that this was done for me, a from of protection.

On my way to work I passed a man with two full grown rottweilers. That made me realize how small and harmless the dogs in my dream looked in comparison. I can't tell if what the boy did was wrong or a good? Even though I've never seen the movie Perfume I feel like the dream was inspired by it, that it was my Perfume. Does he execute my dirty work? What it reminds me of a little is talking about my changed perception of the world in sixth grade, how it became a dog, in a sense, to me in it's behavior. The world was a rough dog. Maybe the boy is like my brother, someone who exudes confidence but finds justice through the same actions as offenders. Maybe that dog didn't turn out to be as big and dangerous as it seemed when I was a child? Even it can be a victim.

As I have grown up, especially in recent years the people around me seemed more obviously vulnerable and even afraid than I could see as a child. I was so consumed by my own vulnerability I was blind to anyone elses. People may start out seeming so big and as I learn about them they get smaller and smaller until suddenly I can see they are human. We often walk around advertising our flaws, which people may not even notice. Or when we do we aren't seeing the person hiding behind them, seeing the true flaws. Seeing behind the mask. It is curious but I think most of us, out of fear, construct a fake flawed self based on bad characteristics we actually admire, or at least aren't afraid to be associated with or judged for. We carefully hide that little person deep inside that reflects our true self, the vulnerable self. When it comes down to it we are mostly harmless like Douglas Adams said.

The rescuer

I had a recurring fantasy when I was in sixth grade that took place every morning as the entire student body ushered into the building from the buses. There was a boy that to my girlish eyes must have seemed a marvel but in my memory now I see a lumbering neanderthal, backpack swung over his shoulder, the days first kill. Shuffling amongst the crowd, silent and small, I imagined him turning behind in a flash of movement, quick steps bringing him directly to me, slipping his arm around the small of my back and bending me into an impassioned kiss. I never undestood this fantasy until this weekend. I thought it was sillyness, but it was a call to be seen, to stop being invisible. I wasn't a passionate girl, I didn't generally long to be kissed, the opposite really. Perhaps this boy with the brutish expression physically symbolized what the world began to look like to me. A big brute that overlooked me completely. I didn't realize then that my grief was this sensation of insignificance and that I longed desperately to matter, to have some value. I had become one indistiguishable domestic beast in a mass herd. It was the first time in my life that my surroundings forced me to disappear. I didn't choose to, it couldn't be controlled. My nature and physical stature predisposed me not to distinguish myself. I was quiet and retreating, I had a calm spirit. My friends looked like me, small, slender, gentle and unassuming. Together we silently tried to survive sixth grade. My hardest year of school, a quick, harsh preperation for the rest of my grade-school education.

somnium ergo sum

How can anyone not dream? It's kind of on par in my imagination with going through the day without having any thoughts.

kind of creepy movie

I got sucked into an old movie last night. Pretty much as soon as I saw Katherine Hepburn I became curious. Old movies have their female characters deliver their lines like bullets with out pause and everything they say is intended to be sharp, sassy, and sarcastic. But it feels a bit like decoding and when you assemble the meaning a sense of disappointment settles in, it's just not that clever and it's so much work catching all the overlapping words. I got the feeling the movie was processing business and puncuality was of the utmost importance. So there would be some core dialogue taking place and then some side event simultaneously. I can't focus on that many things at once! Why was it all so quick and rushed? Too much to get in to an hour long story? When it ended I felt kind of funny, like what the fuck did I just watch? It sets up all this meaningless playfulness, most of the movie is unnecessary dialogue and irrelevent interactions when suddenly in the last 20 minutes it decides to become a grotesque drama. Stage something was the title, or something Stage. One girls repulsion for this big-time director unbelievably transforms into love after a single drunken dinner at his apartment where he covered her in very cheesy flattery. Then one of the other background girls earned the over-acting award for a thoroughly disproportionate reaction to not getting the leading role in some play. She (quite predictably) jumps off the roof after having a little halucination that she is walking onto the stage to loud cheers and applause and a nearly demonic possession exudes from her face. It was hard to watch the screen at that moment, I just wanted to cringe. I think that is one of the most unintentionally disturbing scenes I've ever seen. So Katherine Hepburn who to this point in the film was being portrayed as a sort of advocate for the other girls suddenly weasles her way into the role she knows this other girls desperately wants and supposedly has the talent to perform. (But realistically based on her disposition she doesn't have the strength, stamina, or will to be an actress. Another failure in the writing to make sense.) Blonde girl comes to opening night and lets loose a diatribe against Hepburn how she stole the part and it's her fault. Hepburn becomes an emotional mess and gives a stunning performance as a result and the movie ends on that strange chipper note from before with her career being an established success. Really? What the fuck was wrong with people in the
40's? Hepburn was the only good performer in the movie and despite the story-line flaws, appalling supporting cast, and ludicrous plot she was a pleasure to watch.

I'm bitching

The internet is slow right now and Smart Zone becomes unresponsive if I have too many windows open. I have developed a passionate hatred for Smart Zone. Jeff suggested I start a new email account which initially I was disinclined to do, because I have attachment issues- really. But that hatred is growing so strong that I think I may do it! Perhaps I can write to someone at comcast and tell them how god awful Smart Zone is?

I can only remember one dream at the moment, though I am fairly sure my night was full of them. I was telling Lillian that I wanted to move to Europe for a while and that maybe I'd do it in the next couple months. She became a bit put out and expressed being upset that I would end up out there before her since she was waiting to pay down her debt before leaving. Then I felt irresponsible since I was moving with my debt and wondered if I should wait...

I need to get groceries. I've been putting it off since last week. Shoot, I forgot bags.

a dream

Jeff, a little dog, a towel and a train. Plus a hint of Georgia over it all. I'm watching Pip this weekend, and Mugsy of course- but she hardly needs anything at all, a little food a little love. Because I needed to feed Pip and Mugsy before leaving for work they got into my dreams. I kept having this scenario, trying to get up early enough, get my shower in and then take care of the animals before leaving for work. I was a little bit anxious that I might be late for work or not have time for the animals. In the dream I kept trying to get in to the shower, carrying my towel and a change of clothes but I had to walk through a train to get there thinking I was going to take the shower in Raimy's apartment and finding the shower stall on the train next to some male passengers and in that moment realizing I was totally uncomfortable with the set up. I would practically be showering in there laps. Not gonna happen. Then I got stuck on the train and I knew I was in trouble, I hadn't fed the animals and now I would be late for work too. Everything was blown. So my mind revisits the theme and plays it out again in slight variation. In this one I decide to shower and take care of feeding them but I ask Jeff to walk Pip for me because I don't have the time. In real life this morning I didn't ask Jeff to walk Pip, but he volunteered to do it for me. God bless him. In the dream there was also a little girl hanging around Jeff the whole time, close to his legs, she was about as tall as his chest. She didn't speak, merely watched attentively with interest. Maybe a bit wide-eyed as well.

Asside from simply playing out my own anxiety about the pets and work not really sure what the dream means. There was also a tall, friendly black man who was either a security gaurd or train attendent who interacted with me in a helpful and informative manner.

New School women's bathroom

It's silly, I know, but I'm blogging about it. I may just go on a bitch fest about the 5th floor offices in general. Maybe. Every aspect of this bathroom has some quirk or flaw. I quickly realized that it troubles me to have a public style restroom in an office setting to start with. I am uncomfortable sitting down beside a coworker and hearing their business and having them hear mine. Strangers hardly matter, how likely are we to end up in a public restroom with the same stranger twice? Even if it did happen it's highly unlikely we would recognize each other. (Unless we were both extremely eccentric and made a lasting impression on the mind.) There are just two stalls and the office probably has 60 people in it at least, most of them woman. It is impossible to have the bathroom to myself. There are two of everything, two stalls, sinks, soap dispensers, and paper towel dispensers. Within two weeks I had a preference for one of each (accept the soap dispensers, they remain quirk free.) I prefer the left toilet stall for two reasons. First there is a little partition when entering the bathroom that offers that stall more privacy, you can't see from outside that there is someone parked on a toilet. Also the stall on the right doesn't stay locked. The first two times I used it I would notice at some point the door was slightly open and I was perplexed that I had forgotten to lock it, very unlike me. I am an anal bathroom user, I carefully lock the door and ascertain the toilet paper status before doing anything else. I became suspicious that when the other stall door was opened it would jar mine unlocked and the next time I found myself in it I watched to see if I was right. I was. The frustrating thing about our sinks is they seemed to have been designed for children. In the sense that you install a sink like this when you don't trust people with water. They are pump style and won't stay on with out one hand holding it down at all times. The spray of water that comes out is pathetic, I find a little deposit of soap on the side of my hand everytime that I must carefully turn towards the small stream. I come away with a vague sense that my hands aren't really rinsed. The tap to the sink on the right is a little more manageable and when I have the choice I use it. But I prefer the towel dispenser on the left, it never fails to dispence paper towels. The one on the right seems to get stuck and if I want it to release the towel I have reach up in and jimmy the little bit I can see. Not worth it.

I think I'll enjoy bitching about the "pantry" too. This office just isn't equipped for so many people. The pantry is their answer to a kitchen. No oven, no dishwasher, no staff silverware or dishes and it's tiny. I hate going in there for lunch, there just isn't room. The microwaves suck! I think I need to see who makes them and be sure NEVER to buy that brand. I'm sure everyone has encountered user friendly microwaves and the ones that just aren't; these microwaves are not user friendly. I'm not a stupid person and generally can work out through the process of trial and error how to perform most tasks. Not so this machine. I want to hurt it, preferably destroy it. I can't change the power level. It actually tells me it can't do it. WTF? I find them deficient in one other very annoying way. They heat up my dishes to molten hot and don't get the food above tepid. GRRR! Time for lunch! Joy.

Working out dreams as usual

How many epiphanies can I really hope for in a few days? I was talking to Lillian last night about Barcelona for the first time, albeit in a dream that felt sincerely real. This excited me, I felt full of fascinating experiences and moments. But as I began to express the first event I stopped myself- it struck me as something I'd actually seen on tv and I corrected myself. (How odd.) As I reminisced I was handling a basket full of shells that must have spent years in the sun, they were intensely white and pocked. I knew that a woman had gathered all the shells into the basket for some purpose and I was sorting them. A large conch shell close to me suddenly seemed stuck to my arm and I realized it had a creature still living in it. I felt she had made a mistake, that nothing in the basket should still have living creatures in it and I was a little disturbed by it. All the while I was telling Lillian about coming across this field of brilliant white conch shells that I had stumbled across, just glowing in the high sunlight. She knew the field I was talking about she had seen it too. (Was that dream no more than a few seconds long? Perhaps... Maybe that is why details seem fuzzy and incomplete with blank spaces inbetween.) I remember walking across the field of shells, taking it in slowly, full of amazement.

I'm struck by the sun-bleached old shells, a whole field of them. Something that still has a remnant of it's original beauty but that is dead and colorless now. Lillian is my art, I know. Do I feel like it is a meer remnant, the life and color faded from it? But it also seems like a bit of the joy of sharing my story. And discoveries about the past.

I also had a strange dream about a man with a flute played like a clarinet, simple, base, in appearance made of a brittle grey clay with coarse holes on both sides. They called it a Hooka flute. (What ever, dreams do their own thing.) He was a white scrawny man with a long scraggly beard, hippyish in appearance, almost homeless. He was essentially major caterpillar from Alice in Wonderland. Playing to a crowded restaurant full of loud conversational chatter. We could hardly hear the notes. But no one believed he could truly play it, he was seen as a fraud. His playing was like the flute, coarse and rough, strained and slow. He quickly gave it up. But I believed him. He gave the flute to a middle eastern looking man at the table directly in the middle of the restaurant. His hair was dark and cut short, with a closely trimmed well shaped beard, he was small in stature and very collected, with a dramatically non-expressive face. He played beautifully, with mastery and movement. The notes came out easy and smooth.

I take it to be about mastering grey, as opposed to black and white. That the old white man had no dexterity for it, but it was natural to the foreigner.

I had to bring paperwork to Michael McQuarrie and in the process cross some rather trecherous terrain. There was a main door that had a tiny earth ledge outside of it that dropped maybe ten feet at most and extended to the right the length of the building. This ledge was maybe 4 or 5 inches wide and uneven. I was in heels and though I had crossed this way in the past with out trouble it was extremely difficult for me to keep my footing this time. I almost didn't make it. A secretary stood at the open door to admit me. The other curious thing was I only had a black bra on and a skirt. And though in the dream this seemed to be fine, in keeping with appropriate dress for the office I felt awfully inappropriate going to see Michael looking this way and I was embarrassed. A funny thing about dreams is I felt like I had no control over what I was wearing- which in a sense was true, the dream dictated this. When I got to his door it was closed; in the past I would have simply walked in and this also seemed appropriate- but at this moment it didn't feel right to me at all so I knocked and waited for the door to be opened to me. I also covered my chest with my free hand and told him about the paperwork I was meant to deliver. Then promptly left hoping he didn't notice or wasn't bothered by me not wearing a top. Then I suddenly had my favorite button-up sweater on and felt my stress melt away. I closed it over me and felt covered.

Michael is from the office I work for. He is one of two people that greets me by name when I call his desk. His face is shaped to look gentle, friendly, and sincerely kind. It is impossible not to like him immensely. Because I think I am similar, a person with a proclivity to be gentle and kind with people, I actually struggle with feeling appropriate with being friendly towards him. Like it's an invitation when I simply genuinely enjoy interacting with him and appreciate his nature. So I assume the struggle in the dream reflects my own desire to master my behavior and to be appropriate.

Waiting for Change

I had a dream that I was trying to find home last night, with Jeff beside me. We were taking the Chinatown bus. (I think I'd like to be a gardener. But I'd need some semi-official training. What a gratifying job it would be. At least I imagine it would be gratifying. More so than sitting on my ass all day as a receptionist.) Anyway, coming home is such a significant symbol for me. The desire to be home, and yet I never make it in my dreams. Maybe it's a search for the ultimate safe place, the welcoming. In the begining of the dream I was sitting outside of a line of shops or buildings at a table waiting with a group of people. Waiting for the bus and I think waiting for Jeff. He kept coming out in different guises and it bothered me a bit. First he came out as Bob Dylan and then dressed dramatically as a yo-boy. Wigger. All in intense black and white and gold chains (yes, black and white...) And I just walked away from him up the street to the last building. I had no stomach for it what so ever. He came after me as himself and put his hand on my elbow and talked to me. Maybe he wanted to know that I wasn't okay with it? He asked something funny about me knowing he would be Bob Dylan before he did it and that stopped me. That awareness. Then we were on a bus together and it was stopping in Philly, at least that's what I was assuming. It was a pretty scenic looking little town with quant buildings winding pleasantly around street corners and overlooking water. The roads were small and packed with stopped cars and buses. Everything seemed in a state of waiting, on the brink of change or movement. Our bus was forced to stop for a moment and we were obliged to get off. And at some point I realized our bus was gone, it had left without us. We were stuck in Philly. (Stuck in waiting...) I remember trying to get onto another bus, a cheese wagon, but it wasn't right and getting right off. When I stepped off I put my hand on the side of the bus and was shocked by a long strip of black plastic that resembled an antena. My hand was stuck by the shock and didn't release for a couple seconds and I was troubled. As we walked on I didn't know what to do, all I could think about was how expensive a taxi would be from Philly to MD and it defeated the whole purpose of taking a cheap bus. I was also frustrated that the bus driver hadn't been more attentive to us as passengers to make sure not to leave without us. I started to cry.

The dream is obviously about change in the air, charged with potential, waiting at the gate to take off. What is curious to me is my feelings when I find I'm stuck. They seem to reflect my desire for things to come "cheaply". Which I suspect translates to easy, without trouble. And I'm frustrated to find out it isn't possible and it seems I keep myself in that state of waiting as a result. I see a period of slowness ahead of me and I feel very impatient. I don't want to be slow anymore. I want change to come cheaply to myself. With little trouble and no inconvenience. Why was Jeff dressed in my black and white thinking? I don't understand that... But it is interesting that I had no stomach for the black and white. I'm a little unsure of how he operates as a symbol in my dreams. What part of me does he represent? I'm tempted to apply the symbols around Jeff in my dream to my perception of him in real life. I think I understand. I see myself projecting this black and white thinking on him, on his identity and struggling with that- which is what I have done to myself first. Using a confined perception to evaluate myself and ultimately everyone else. What I find curious about the pattern of my progression is that the dream often comes on the heels of resolution. Like a manifestation of it. I have been struggling with said issue first under the surface, then the struggle enters awareness, as struggle is resolving I dream about the old pattern and how it was effecting my life. The ultimate confrontation with self and reality. But only after the facts have been accepted and embraced.

Maybe I talked about this before? Maybe it was just something similar? It is strangely difficult for me to express certain feelings, specifically the strong good ones. It's taken me nearly 28 years to be able to say some of them to the most significant people in my life, mother, brother, father. As well with close friends. Lately I have been relying on my body language and actions to say for me those feelings I can't seem to speak, to bring out in words. The actions and expressions are sincere and I manage some satisfaction from my ability to at least communicate that way. At least it's not paralysis. But words are important too. Our lives are shaped around and understood through words. As powerful as our bodies are at communicating there is a desired verification that is only achieved through speaking. I love you, you're valuable, beautiful, smart, protected... They are all little blankets that we wrap around each other, a promised padding and security we know to rely on, trust. Like children and little animals, that small thing inside of us seeks these protections in our closest relationships.

What is curious is I have gradually cultivated that ability in myself. Both to receive love in this form as well as to offer it. I was like a small cornered animal somewhere around the age of ten and on for years, I could not be consoled by words, looks, or love. They had no power over me to make me feel safe or to even be believed. I wondered how other people could be soothed in these ways, it all seemed impotent to me. Why was I like that and how did I change? To some degree I changed because living like that is violent and difficult. I began to listen to peoples words, test them like a wine, feel them. Let them into me to move around and see if they effected me, found a place to rest. I think it began when I started to let other people be real and started to form a sense of who they were. That core gave me some base to work with when interpreting their words and meanings, to see consistencies and trust them there, to recognize where they fell through and to anticipate them in future. Instead of being adrift on an undefined sea, lacking barings on anything, I began to see a reliable world form around me that could be understood and navigated. I wasn't walking blindly in the darkness of a rough and broken terrain. I could step with sure footing.

I think I see. As a child I had a concept of life that had been trusted, accepted up front (as children do, perfectly natural). I was secure, and for years nothing challenged or threatened that perception and I lived in it happily. I had an unreflected belief about reality that simply existed within me. When my mother had her memories, and simultaneously the input from my peers and surrounding world changed I found myself in the position that most of my accepted beliefs about my world (and indirectly myself) were actually wrong. Again, as a child I didn't have clear ways of expressing or even understanding the momentously big shift happening in me. I could not recognize it, yet still it was happening. Oh the helpless position of a child in turmoil. She can not articulate within herself what she is experiencing and has no hope of getting that across to anyone else. She is as good as a mute animal, struggling with her sad body to entreat those around her for help and unable to make them understand. I stopped trusting everything at that moment. I stopped believing. And in that moment everything became unpredictable and dangerous to me. What had once guided me harmlessly through my little life had suddenly become false in the soul of my being and I had no guide anymore. I was falling in a black void. As much as I have come out of that void now I can't imagine ever being truly free of that child's abyss. I feel it close around the edges of my heart and soul, a blackness that still threatens to consume me in a state of blindness I have no hope of navigating. Pity that little girl. She was lost and her faith taken from her and she did not even know it. I know what happened to me now. I know my story. I understand my little girl.

compounded

I'm a freakin mess today. I feel so panicky. But when I regard it as being part of a purpose, a working-out I gain some acceptance of the whole matter. Even a sense of happiness. The panic I can attribute in part to hormones, they tend to highten that reaction in me. Period equals panic. Sucks. I also just feel like balling like a baby.

I think a few too many things are coming up at once. It's a bit overwhelming, I'm already overwhelmed by what's simply going on in my life right now.

The overwhelming feeling that is fueling all my other responses is that things aren't right. Which I tend to project onto my food. God, I wish I didn't do that. But I do. So breakfast wasn't right, lunch wasn't right and so I come away feeling not-right and started the same way. The oreos put me over the edge at lunch. I guess when I'm feeling sensitive it really matters what I eat. Lay off the junk... It's just that I take too long working out what's going on in me. Am I actually ill? Or is it emotional? How can you tell when they both manifest the same damn way? I can usually assume it's emotional with me because 90 percent of the time it is.

I guess the issues have all been flushed out at this point, there is no new ground to unearth so it seems to be a matter of just going through the emotions that come with it all. Ug. And it doesn't help having a cold and my nose being so sore from blowing it for days. Dried out and in pain. And the period having just started.

a bull-cat

Jeff's love of bulldog's is becoming a psychological symbol for me. I dreamt about taking care of this man's dog for him while he was away. The circumstances were odd. I was watching the dog outside near his parked car and a silver fence that the bulldog was chained to. A very heavy chain. There was also a little kennel attached to the fence and the man tried to put his dog in it and some how the dog got free in the process and ran away like a bolt of lightening. The dog's mannerisms through out had indicated how his will was set to run away and that no opportunity would be squandered. It was so like a dream in that moment, the action didn't correspond with any kind of reality. I didn't see the dog physically escape or even see his figure running. It was more like a magician saying the magic words and poof- he disappears. I'm not sure why, but at that point I just began to casually walk the other way down this wooded road. In a matter of seconds I was picked up by the cops on the grounds that I had stolen the mans dog. I was quite incredulous, as to my mind both me and that man had witnessed his dog run away. I don't remember how the dialogue went after this, but in response to something said I expressed that I wasn't done until I had found the dog and by that action cleared my own name. A full on hunt began in which the cops, myself, my brother and other friends and on lookers tried to find the dog. I managed to spot him through a pile of bramble in the dip of a hill and tore after him. He took off and everyone seemed to think on their heels, John went off in a direction that he knew he would be able to intercept the dogs path and the rest of us followed suit like balls on a billiard table. A girl below me cut-off the dogs path from the left and I put myself directly in his path and he was forced to run right into my arms. He was a feisty, willful creature and I knew it would be near impossible for me to restrain him on my own and as soon as I got a hold of him called for help and tried to grab him in such a way as to secure my hold. I did not get help but in the end had him pinned on his back, my chest pressing him down and a hand firmly on his upper right leg and and lower left. And so I looked closely at this dog for the first time and what I saw was half cat, half bulldog. Cat ears and cat paws with a bulldog face and round belly. I was stunned.

I see some of the obvious symbols- the cops. Being chained. The dog wanted to be a free spirit. The man who wanted me to watch his dog was one of those uptight sporty middle-ageish white guys. He embodied control freak and probably asshole. I'm still serving that part of myself. He's such a bully that I listen.

The last dream I had ended with me half hanging out of an upstairs crevice, stuck. Trying to get up but in danger of letting a pile of fine cut crystal glasses falling and probably being destroyed. Because Julie was stupid. I was moping because I wanted to join the kids game and even though I had gotten their first they weren't necessarily going to include me. To get in that position I had rushed through a fancy full dinner, everyone in evening wear, and I only realized after I had hopped up on the table and walked across three dinner plates of food just what I had done. Oops. This is another one of those funny things about dreams. The upstairs of this home had no stairs to get to it. Just a sort of person-wide sliver above our heads that I could get to by being on top of this table. The kids were very young around six years old. Except for the Julie girl, she was a little older, 11 maybe? She had leaned into a shelving unit off to the right which put pressure on all the glasses and pushed them over the edge little by little. I yelled at her to stop but she didn't comprehend how she was involved or how her actions had precipitated the problem and it irritated me greatly. I asked her to grab the precarious glasses that were staying up only because I was using my body to block their fall and I couldn't go anywhere until they were safely moved. The girl was daft. It was in her eyes, a vacancy. Which I suspect is how I feel about myself at that age. Vacant. But the six year old girl was precocious, like my little cousin Julia. I don't think I was precocious at six, but I was lively and sweet. (At least I am given to understand from my mother that is how I was.) I remember being happy when I was very young. I remember being unhappy in Georgia. Unhappy inside of myself. Unhappy with myself. Everything seemed wrong. I did, my family, the kids in the neighborhood, school. There was a lot of good. I remember the good things... But I was discontent inside. Which seems like such a strong word for a child, it's more a Richard the Third kind of feeling. Grand and oppressive. But my spirit was very oppressed. I felt very alone. Out of step with my friends and the kids in the neighborhood and perhaps disconnected from my family. John began being cruel to me in Georgia, I was the recipient of a lot of his aggression. My mother who had always seemed perfect to me was seperating from me which made me believe I was deficient, as well as the treatment of my peers who saw me as odd. I was constantly afraid and I didn't understand what was going on pretty much ever. Life went wrong in Georgia. All aspects had spiraled out of control. I have no physical memories of my father before Georgia. I remember things with my mom, and with my brother. But I can't see my father in any of those memories... Georgia was when I began to reject myself because all these indicators seemed to come back showing me all these horrible things about myself. I was a kid, how else could I have processed what was going on? I'm embarrassed by the things that I openly struggled with at that age. I couldn't hide them because inside it was like I was drowning in these fears. I saw myself as weak, I look back and see that little girl as weak. Weak, vacant, stupid. I ended up hating who I saw myself as and trying to change all of those hateful things about her so that she could be loved... So that there was something there to love. My strongest impulse was to please which called me to some odd roles through out my life. I think I wanted to please my mom the most when we lived in Georgia. I can't fully understand why I became so consumed by fear... It feels like a part of my nature, like it is made up in my being. I saw my brother as my opposite, I was controlled by fear and he had none. He was controlled by anger, violent anger. Violent fear, violent anger. We neither of us could help it or control it. But I feel that my mother understood my brothers anger better than she understood my fear, at least in John's anger she could see a reflection of herself. I hate fear, passionately. I wish I knew the violence and power of anger. Even my anger is timid and gentle. A little poof of a flame that is harmless.

Didn't really expect to go there in this blog...

scattered

The internet is slow today. I missed work yesterday and was feeling uncertain this morning if it was a good idea to go in. Regardless I was leaning towards coming in. I took imitrex and an ibprofen early on and they have effectively numbed most of my pain which I am very happy about! What little coughing I do hurts like the dickens because my abdominal muscles are so sore from blowing my nose. I just took one of those goofy facebook quizes that shows you how little you know about something mundane. It was titled the 25 words most people spell incorrectly. Or something very close to that. (I, alas, these days am spelling many words wrong due to the absense of a helpful little red line informing me of incorrect spellings.) The assessment was I did fair. 17 right (10 wrong). The math looks odd, but they had two words repeated at the end asking what the correct _British_ spelling would be. Got those four right, first around in American spelling then again in British. I attribute that fact to two things, my time in military schools for Army brats abroad and my obsession with British literature. I tend to know English spellings better than American. I suspect my mother would get all 27 correct. Even if she says these days that her spelling is getting worse.

It's good to be out of the house. Some how being sick and feeling isolated is a devestating combo. I become morbid when I feel stuck in and tend to see myself as more miserable. Leaving tends to have an elevating effect on my spirits. I like my apartment, but it is rather a confined space after living in a suburban setting most of my life. The roof is a good outlet...

John was giving me a hard time about my junk food habits yesterday. I love my brother but that has got to be one of his most hostile qualities, body image. It ain't going anywhere soon.

Jeff has been very sweet. Although maybe a little self-contraditory. He tells me he doesn't want to get sick but is still cuddly. Which I like, especially when I don't feel good becuase it makes me much less miserable. This is one of those circumstances where men are much kinder than women. They don't mind being close to us when we are ill. But reverse the situation and we won't be shy about keeping them away. I hate getting sick, honestly it's better for everyone to just stay away from people, get better and have the sickness not spread. This has been a harsh cold for me, I don't get sick like this! I get dinky colds with a runny nose and ear ache, but they never get in the way of my life.

A different kind of beauty

I want to express grief over a pleasure lost. Daniel Deronda tells the story of two beautiful people both with dramatic characters but in nature very different. It is perhaps a flaw in us that such elements are necessary for a novel to be interesting? Or maybe it is because with out conflict we are left with a short story and have nothing to draw it out into a novel? Our attention seems less likely to be held and committed to a story that from the outset is about a lady (or gentelman) who is unattractive. Or if so they must quickly be redeemed by some characteristic for which we are sympathetic. A passionate nature perhaps? An excellent character may hardly be sufficient for what sort of adventures are they likely to get up to? From the first introduction we are given every reason to be instantly fond of Catherine Arrowpoint, who happens to be plain in appearance, but in every other aspect superior. My grief is the absence of one of the most beautiful scenes in the book from the movie. Worse, to get instead a base minimized representation of her engagement to Heir Klezmer. George Eliot gives us a flawless account of their love affair with words that made me cry and in the movie we hear Klezmir announce it for the first time to Gwendolen in such a way that we assume that Klezmir does not love her but finds the marriage advantageous. This undermines his character and hers as they truly exist in the story. To miss hearing her say "I am afraid of nothing but that we should miss the passing of our lives together."

It amuses me to think that somewhere in the 40's or so the anti-hero was created with the idea being, I suppose, that people are on average mediocre and it is more realistic for the main character to be so as well. But what is Gwendolen, if not flawed, or every one of Conrad's characters but delusional men who sacraficed the lives of those around them to their illusions? The difference is in mediocrity, the main character of Catch-22 is thouroughly unimpressive, but funny. His distiguishing characteristic is cynicism. Gwendolen is not mediocre. I don't think I'm really in this. Passing on...

Venting maybe?

I have a cold. It's unpleasant. I brought in a non-alcohol based hand sanitizer and I'm using it pretty much every ten seconds. Arg. It's a coughing cold, I haven't had a coughing cold I think in years. Yucky stuff keeps coming out of my lungs.

What a lazy weekend. I felt so tired. I sat around, or napped, or took a bath. Watched a lot of Monty Python. What silly boys they are.(Were.) Most of them are actually dead now. Well, half.

When the weather was warmer there was a weekly progression in rush-hour traffic on the trains. Monday was the worst day gradually lightening into a calm friday ride. Winter seems to be the opposite, Monday is in fact the lightest day and the rest of the week seems equally overwhelming in the sheer number of people waiting to board a train and already on the train when it gets in. Blah. It really sucks to hussle myself onto a train surrounded by other people trying to hussle themselves on and into a packed compartment to begin with. It does take the soul out of me. You want to see a large number of people being about as self-centered and turned off as they can be? Hang around the subway during morning rush-hour. Especially the 4,5 uptown. I'm not as cynical or angry as I used to be or I might despise all those people I watch day after day manuevering to be the first one on and muscling through everyone else. Instead I seek some virtually impossible balance, to get myself onto a train without being a jerk. Which usually involves paying attention to the people that came before me and ignoring the ones trying to be bully's. By not letting them bully me. We may show aggressive body language but we rarely want to speak aggressively.

I suspect this will be one of those slow days...

Dreaming dreaming

I had a dream last night. (which, incidentally, is a quote from a song by the Butthole Surfers.) A couple actually. Something is going on... I set off in a long shallow boat (in appearance a very dramatic, elongated canoe) with more people than should have been in such a small boat. One of them being a supremely obese young man, wider than the boat. I was at the head and a boat followed close beside, a partner in travel, we were all young, mixed men and woman, the water was calm, completely still. It did not move. Green, yet clear to the bottom. When I looked down it didn't seem deep, I could see all that was at the bottom so well. The great peculiarity was that all this water was inside this vast building with high ceilings and deep walls. The floor was flat and carpeted, a sort of maroon scratchy carpet that billowed from the water, it wasn't stuck well to the floor. Something had fallen out of the boat and that's why I looked. One of the girls counted it lost, but considering the appearance of shallowness I thought it could easily be recovered. Along the banks on either side were thick trees that drooped and hung low over the water which at times we came too close to and it brushed over the tops of our heads and was uncomfortable. The boat with the big man lost some of its people into the water and I told them to come into mine. It didn't make sense to me for them to be out of the boat. It even seemed easier to be in the boat than out. Then I came to a divergence in the path and I knew I was meant to go down the stairs but there was a path off to my right and ahead that I felt a greater interest in following. I believed I'd gone down the stairs so many times, that it was becoming routine and now it seemed more adventurous to try this path. But I didn't, I felt obliged to take the stairs, in part because someone had asked me to- someone motherly. And because the others were coming with me, it was a part of their journey and I knew it would be fun to slide the boats down the stairs, easy and fast. I also thought the straight path through the water would be work and I felt a resistance to working. So I went down the stairs, which were tight and wound round often. Down, down, down, til I reached the bottom. At which point I was alone, but I expected another girl to join me. At the base of the stairs everything kind of ended. There was one substantial door and then a couple Alice in Wonderland style doors, about a foot tall and a hand wide. I was feeling playful and nor really regarding any of this very seriously. I opened the little doors to have a look and just enjoyed the situation. Inside the big door stood three middle-age to slightly younger woman, verying races. The space they were in resembled an apprentice set up like you would see in a medieval engraving. As is often the case with interior settings it was cluttered. (I am cluttered. It seems to be a defining characteristic.) One of the woman who was fuller in figure, with curly shoulder length strawberry hair spoke to me. She told me she was clairvoyant. I think she took my hand and read it and spoke prophecies over me. Everything was very calm and there was no sense of drama.

Perhaps the dream ended there? Perhaps it carried on later in another dream? Or maybe just inspired an aspect of this later dream... Somehow I had been abducted to Canada. I was outside in a wide, flat open area with a couple trailer buildings, cars and a gathering of cops and detectives. A somber man thin, long, all in black spoke to me. I wanted to know how far away I was from Home and he told me in a sort of riddle meaning to imply that I was a great distance away and that it would not be easy to get back. "It will cost you more than $300 to fly home from where you are." I also found out from him that a clairvoyant had removed my brain and left me here. I had been used. I couldn't understand how I could still be living and not have a brain. In my imagination I pictured myself above the western boarder of the U.S. by a six hour flight. That didn't seem so hard to me, but I didn't think about the fact that if I was six hours from Washington State, I was very far from my physical home. Ah well!

And what does it all mean? I don't know! I don't know. I'm so intrigued by the combination of this indoor environment and the water and trees. The look of the carpet under the water, how the trees sloped out from a flat wall, water running down the stairs. All so unusual.

the Jeff blog

Jeff was very cuddly last night, and I couldn't tell if I was actually sleeping or not. This week has been such a change from what became habit for us after Christmas break ended. I think because we were together most nights he got used to me being around and now that gaps are being introduced again he gets cuddly. Not that there is anything wrong with either, no matter what the cirmcumstances he is very affectionate. He's so cute in the morning with his sleepy face.

We went out to eat with his mother last night, and Brian and Amy (Jeff's brother and his girlfriend). It was a really nice Sushi place and a lovely dinner. His mom treated which was extremely generous. I had a nice time. Wine, raw fish, and fried icecream. Good stuff.

I said something to him that after it came out of my mouth had that feeling of being too direct. He wasn't bothered. We met up Tuesday after work at the tea room on Roebling and he wanted to go back to his place to paint. Which was fine. He was concerned. He usually is, but I've only ever been upset once, because it related to a request that he said no to. I can usually guess now when he'll want some personal time to paint, it's a need that comes over him at predictable moments. So when we were sitting together in the tea room I reflected for a moment and said "painting is your strongest impulse." Or words to that effect. I think it is the most important thing in his mind. Which strikes me as a difference between men and woman. Or maybe just a difference between me and Jeff? It has generally been a masculine approach to see work in relation to purpose and identity and therefore to have the highest importance. At least historically so, which leaves a hint of itself behind. And feminine to see relationship in that role. Not that I am placing a greater importance on my relationship with Jeff over my own art. It's more sweeping, all relationships take a higher importance than anything else I do or associate myself with. I value and like art, but I value people and myself more. Sometimes that means I need to be artistic. But not so overarchingly as I see it in Jeff. I think he has mild anti-social tendencies. I never hear him speak of spending time with friends and family as something he is looking forward to. It's the opposite, he feels obliged and put out. I think he generally enjoys his time despite. And he is torn at times with me, he wants both, to be with me and his art. Sometimes that works out, sometimes it doesn't. Depends on how I feel. Or maybe I am just like Jeff? But that me-time takes more forms than just art. I can be extremely anti-social. Especially at long distances. I have little desire to talk with my friends. Although I like to write to them and see them in person. I always enjoy talking to them when they call, but am never motivated to do it myself. My mom meets all those needs. She is the only person I want to go to. Maybe my life could stand some better balance?

Those thoughts have been brewing and I needed to write them.

Tied up

I was wrong about the dreams. Something is obviously up. Who is Lillian? Is she my art? Squeezed, pressured, and damaged? Why do I feel that way? This two month stint does keep me in limbo about my own sense of where I am. What am I doing in NY? Just trying to cover rent? Just trying to stay here? I know mostly it's about being an adult. But I can do that anywhere, and most anywhere else for less money and less hassle. I had a dream not last night, but the night before where I knew I wouldn't last a year here. That by June I would be out, moved. Not that that is how I want things to go, I plan to keep feeling it out. But this absense makes me so doubtful. So doubtful! It is just a stepping stone. In the end I find myself frozen because there are choices. It's easy to throw all your energy into something when it's the only way. But what if there are a million ways and I have to choose one? How do I know what to choose? I could go further north, further east. I could move out west... Or spend time in Europe. Moving east is more likely than the others, it incures the least expense. Right now that matters. I enjoyed working for Jonas. So many things didn't pan out. Jeff is funny, he's kind of checked out. He just wants to paint and has lost any discipline or will to do any other work. He doesn't have to be realistic...yet. I spent five years floundering in that state. The world is agaisnt us. To achieve what we perceive as our purpose we have to take some unwelcome paths, and be seemingly off course, maybe for a very long time... And then I remember choice again. I remember that I don't have a premade purpose or a groove prepared for me in this life. That each day I choose that purpose. In each day I have the power to make it something different. More than anything I have guideposts or proclivities that help sway me in more specific directions. I'm good at art, I like art, I'm trained in Illustration. Past choices have led to these experiences and qualifications. I can expand my experiences. I do. I've learned how to be a hostess, and now a receptionist. In some very weird way both of those facts give me a lot of satisfaction. I did something new! I learned it. (Even if for only two weeks.) I was still competent. For my own sake that is the material point. I proved to myself I was capable. I am capable. These discoveries make me stronger in myself, more confident. Every day, every month, every year brings new challenges that I choose to rise up to or let pass me by to face later.

I'm going to be upset until I work this out. Which I can probably expect to last a couple months... I can't make up my mind about how to handle sending out my work to publishing companies. I'm not fully satisfied with the test print-outs I did on my own printer. Which may be because the scan quality wasn't great. I should try a print out of something I know is high quality to answer that question for myself. I'm so hesitant with this process, I hang back and feel a reversion to action. Why? Ultimately it doesn't sit well with me. Still, why? (Well, work will be a great self-therapy session if nothing else.)

A full time job (no matter what type) can be such an easy way to check out. My days are full, I can just let myself slip into the routine and even the time after work is geared indirectly around it. I neatly prepare at night for my morning needs in relation to work. I don't do anything of significance in what free time I have. I read, that is good, but that seems to be all. Maybe for a time it can be excused, understood, accepted?

I squeezed myself like a little sardine onto the train this morning. What a change from yesterday. We waited ten minutes for the L. Very odd. It was there yesterday when I got down and full of breathing room. Do so many people actually get Groundhog's Day off? Wild.

First Day

I was so nervous all weekend in anticipation of this day. I had some rather dark premonitions that grew out of my concern that I didn't have enough information to truly perform the job. It's going well. Harmless. People are mostly timid when they come to the desk and speak below a whisper so I can't hear but a couple words and always have to ask them to repeat. I lean in close to increase my chances of understanding them. A lot of what I do is just handy redirection down the line, to Anna beside me for Student Housing issues (today it's mostly been strudents applying for RA positions) or more commonly down to D who does all International Student Services. No angry or fuming students so far. Anna and D are very helpful. I feel more equipped and less intimidated. Unfortunatley the hours go by very slowly. I don't have a whole lot to do which means I'm mostly paid to be here for the moments when I am. That does concern me a little. I'd like to work out ways to be personally more productive in all this down time. How can I work for myself?

I still don't have a name or password to use the computer legitimately (and I just realized there is no spell check functioning on this computer). Anna got me on, god bless her I had nothing to do. I am the least used/sought after receptionist here.

I had a series of intense and disturbing dreams this weekend. I anticipate last night will be the end. Most of my dreams last night involved my mother by my side, but one started out with me and my dad (who eventually morphed into my mom). We were in a car together and I feel we were around Ft. Meade (or on it) and more or less driving through fields rather than on roads. We both spotted a large wild cat off to the side of us, which was joined by another and so on until there were about six grand fuzzy snow leapards with their backs to us. I told him we should call 911, they must have escaped a zoo and dad said in a moment and pursued them. Soon they were amongst a small herd of various animals, wolves, giraffes, other cats... I kept repeating the need to call 911 and he kept putting it off. This was when dad became mom and we were walking behind the animals and picking up our pace and passed them and moved off to the left. I felt it had been foolish to pass them, that it would draw attention to us and when I turned to look back we were being followed. I ran and some how ended up on top of John's pool table out in the open of a subburb. Surrounded by wild predators. I picked up a pool stick (or something of that nature I found on the table) and began swinging it as fiercely as I could at the animals trying to reach me. I felt there were sensitive points on them that I could target, the back and legs and I gave hard blows there and to the head. The animal grimaced but was not down. It swung it's heavy paw at me and got it's claws in my hand and I grabbed the paw. I didn't want the paw to pull away and tear open my skin. I believed that would make me more vulnerable. My mom stood beside the table and I called to her for assistance repeatedly believing she could handle or resolve any situation. But she only stood by and watched. I couldn't figure out what to do and I think above all I was mad at my father for never calling an emergency number.

I think the mom part of me wanted to see me work out my problems. And dad? I guess I'm seeing him as the cause of the predicament. The dad part of me got me in a mess.

I keep dreaming about John's pool table. What is that about? It's this big thing in the middle of the apartment, always there. A sophisticated road block. Something I have to navigate everyday to do pretty much anything. It sits predominantely in front of my room. It's gotten into my dreams! That's wild.

I'm not in a creative mindset at all. This environment, my circumstances, stand in the way. It's frustrating.