another

Another dream about another ex. I wonder if my subconscious is going through a spring cleaning. Is my mind a cage searching for a bird? I stole that line from Kafka. Of course, the translation is a bit off.

He trusted me to drive his car during the desert drive we both knew so well. I drove fast, not knowing any other way. He took a picture of me, I have bad posture; I took a picture of him, he had a signature pose. I cringe at both photos now, yet they still stick to the walls of my memory. I won't take them down. I will let them get bleached by the sun. I don't care as much as I care. I come out even. I come out down on my luck and searching for a winning streak.

And up there in my head I will continue to sift through the drawers of my past. I will continue to take out what was better left lying down. I will curl up with the straight and try to straighten out the knots, not knowing what forgets is on purpose.

I propose a toast. I propose a toast to the most clinging mind of mine. I propose that it let go and let in what the light has avoided for so long. May we prosper. May we pretend. May we piece together the broken parts of us forever.

terrifying teepee

Last night I had another dream about an ex. But this time it wasn't my ex, but my ex's ex. Again, it was an exhausting dream. While not nearly as romantic as the dream featuring my old love, this dream still contained many of the same elements. Confrontation! Sadness! And for some reason a large teepee! I am actively trying to not make everything about me, but how can I not make dream interpretations about me? That was a stupid thought, I'll admit it. I have yet to have my coffee. (Oh! Look at me! An adult talking about coffee and how it is needed in the A.M. and boy oh boy I sure do have feelings about the weather/politics/traffic/reality show!) Anyway, back to the dream. In non-dream life, this ex of an ex terrifies me. I barely know her, but based solely on observations and what I have heard, she is perhaps the exact opposite of myself. WHICH makes me think -- shouldn't she comfort me and not terrify me? Because I terrify myself, so the opposite of me should make me feel the opposite of terrified. GUESS THAT JUST MEANS EVERYTHING TERRIFIES ME. Normal.

MORE CAPS MEANS MORE COFFEE. So do tangents and run-on sentences and "and" and being distracted and this rainy weather is so pretty I really shouldn't be sitting by a window. Why do my Hispanic neighbors have a massive stove outside in their minuscule backyard? Isn't that illegal? Are they illegal? KIDDING KIDDING KIDDING. (But really, aren't we all illegal in one way or another?)

Oh yeah, anyway, my terrifying and aggressive and confrontational ex's ex. Yes. That's what I was sort of talking about. About which I was sort of talking. Is that grammar? What is grammar? Where is my grandma? Heaven. Basically, the lessons of my past two dreams can be summed up in a couple of words, the words being THESE words: Don't run away from uncomfortable situations and uncomfortable people. And if you ever find yourself trapped in a teepee with four rabid dogs and the ghost of Lyndon B. Johnson, do NOT begin frying bacon while humming the theme song to Good Times.

Good times indeed.

chronic

I keep dreaming about him and it pisses me off.

Okay, it doesn't piss me off, but it does make for some melancholy mornings when the haze of what once was is still fresh on my mind. Again. Over and over and -- and I thought this was over? I thought he and I were over, which I am 1,000% sure we are, but not according to my subconscious mind. And so yes, it does piss me off because I want the dead to stay buried. I don't want to be visited by zombies every time I hit the pillow. Let me be the one who does the feasting; I'm bored of starving.

But in the early morning light I remember the way he laid his head in my lap while we played with the dying grass in the park. We said the insects were neon for some reason and we created canyons out of leaves. How could I have known in that moment that we were drowning?

blizzard

I get up close and personal with the lies I tell myself daily. I take off my shoes and get cozy. I curl up with the fictional pages of my life and wonder what I'll use as a bookmark. The ticket stub from the movie we saw together to escape the desert heat? The movie was foreign and so were you. None of our languages made sense. Maybe I can use the coupon for detergent I'll never buy as my bookmark. Why not use something clean to hold my place among the stained? Or I can always just remember, though I'm prone to forget.

And then I pick up the book and flip through the pages only to finally see that they are blank. What is the plot? Who are the characters? Where is the surprise twist at the end? Does somebody get tied to the tracks? Was it all just a dream? Who's the real villain behind the mask? The butler? I was too focused on where I wanted to pause that I failed to realize I never began.

But silence screams off the page just as much as letters that form words do, if not more. My life has been caught in a snowstorm, apparently. What has been buried in the blizzard will stay there until I get out my shovel and start to dig.

Where did the snow begin? When will it end?

ocd

I don't like the number 5 for some reason. I think that reason is because I imagine five people and they have to split up into pairs. One person gets left out. Oh no! I don't like people being left out, hence I don't like the number 5.

I used to eat processed fat free cheese slices and four saltines everyday. I had a very specific way I'd eat them, too. In fact, I have a specific way I eat just about everything, from Subway sandwiches to ice cream cones to ice cubes. Everything has a pattern, everything is a ritual, everything is a sort of prayer (offered to whom?).

I gave up acting when I was in high school because I doubted that I'd ever be able to win an Academy Award. It was an Oscar or nothing. I still regret to this day that I gave up the one thing that brought me such unbelievable joy.

Whenever it's raining outside, I dare myself to try to step in between the raindrops, never once getting wet. I've yet to accept the dare, but when I do I know I'll be as dry as a bone.

Anytime I write by hand, I have to make sure I close the Os and the As and any of the other letters that could potentially be left open. If I leave a letter open, something might escape. But what? Happiness? Inspiration? Life?

While reading a book, I have to end on a page that ends in the number 4. And I have to make sure the paragraphs on the page when added up with the page number equal an even number. And I try to get as close to either 8 or 12 as I can. For example, if I end on page 64, I will read two more paragraphs so that I get the number 12. 6+4+2=12. Makes so much/no sense to me!

When it comes down to it, we all put our pants on one leg at a time. That is, unless our ritual says otherwise.

slug

I feel like a shell-less terrestrial gastropod mollusc lately. Maybe I should use that in my About Me section on a dating website? Maybe I should discard the dating sites and catch romantic victims in my web instead.

shift

I abandon my writing in small ways everyday. I put off writing to do myriad things, from obsessively organizing books I'll never read to massaging the neighborhood cat.

I also take on different identities and grand life plans. One week I'm a French art dealer, the next I'm fighting to save our rivers and oceans in a courtroom. Oh, and religions? Sure, I'll fool around with those as well. Which god(dess) will it be today? Who up there gets to hear my voice tonight? Well, whoever you are, would you mind recording what I say so I can listen to it and try to memorize my tone and inflection? I've been having a difficult time picking my voice out from the crowd for nearly 30 years now.

But then again, maybe these wild shifts in identity and wide range of interests are nothing more than ingredients for some stew of a story. Just throw it all into the pot, Meg. It will simmer for a long time and the scent of it from the stove will drive you crazy, but you'll soon get to taste it. And you'll taste it not just on your tongue, but in your day-to-day life. Are you sure you're ready for this story to take over? Yes. Let her speak.

Just be patient with me. The feast is about to start.