happy birthday to me

can't blog now

Why? Why can't I blog now? Simple. I have a short list of very important tasks to complete by tomorrow morning.

First important task: Watch the Hawks beat Wisconsin on abc PrimeTime Football. Go Hawks.
Second important task: Finish creating my ADORABLE Grammar Guide newsletter for my Comp students. This issue (Vol. 1, Issue 1) is all about the comma. The title of my ADORABLE newsletter is ComPost...get it? Comp as in Composition and Post as in The Washington Post put together creates ComPost as in shit.
Next important task: Wash my sheets. And not because of sex. Just because it's time for a wash.
Fourth important task: Clean up my quasi-adorable apartment for Emily, Dan & Chad who are coming to visit me tomorrow! Yay! I'm so excited to see people who are normal and whom I love!

Yes, it's Saturday night and I'm not at Boomtown or the What's Up? Lounge "getting my party on." This is partly to do with the important task list, but mostly to do with how I spent my day today. I left quasi-adorable apartment around 9:40. I sat outside at the fountain until the library opened up at 10:00, spent the next eight hours downstairs at a work station, then left the library when the librarian kicked me out because the library closes at 6:00 on Saturdays and I was so engrossed in my ComPost that I had lost all track of time.

These are the reasons I'm not blogging now.

riddle me this

Are we really taking this guy seriously?


Cheers, lovey...I'm going to take my meticulously trimmed scruffy-beard and *rock out to my **hit song 1973.

*more like "sway aggressively"
**more like "pansy-ass ditty"

***

And now, from the guys that bring you Toothpaste For Dinner...

the balance of the universe (as it applies to my life in southern minnesota)

I'm sad today for various reasons, some that are frivolous and some that are legitimate (and although the legitimate reasons put the frivolous reasons into perspective, I'm still going to expound upon--nay, celebrate!--my frivilousness).

Ani DiFranco is in Iowa City tonight. I am not. Nuf said.
Ani DiFranco will smell the air on the banks of the Iowa River, dense with Midwestern field-must. I will not.
Iowa City will have their acoustic/rock/punk/freak Joneses rocked. I will not.
To re-iterate: Ani DiFranco--Hancher Auditorium in front of a beaming, tattooed, gyrating, and ardorous crowd. Me--Armstrong Hall room 210 in front of a Dell with a smudged-with-greasy-vending-machine-food finger-printed screen.

And according to RBR, tickets are still available. It's enough to put a person over the edge.

End of Pity Party; Population of 1; ME.
The universe has been re-balanced with the following news:

Tracy Kidder is coming to St. Peter on September 27. Words escape me...you wish! What a spectacular fucking way to spend my birthday weekend, hob-knobbing with (read: stalking) one of the pioneers of literary journalism! (I hate how cheesey exclamation points are...they turn just about any sentence into a corny declaration.)
Kidder will be discussing his new book at Gustavus Adolphus. I'll be toting my battered, jacketless, yellow-paged hardcover copy of Among Schoolchildren that I picked up on the third floor of Armstrong Hall in my first year in the program when the office of the School of Education was cleaning off their bookshelves and stacked a pile of books under a sign that read "Free."

This is like attending a John McPhee or Joan Didion reading. (With the exception of the small issue of shit in my pants. I would undoubtedly shit in my pants if Didion came to St. Peter.) I'll be taking my camera and my most glassy-eyed swoon for when I get my first glimpse of him at the podium.

Cut My Hair

Cut my hair, I say to Dad as I scoop it up then let it unfold down my back, and he says, But it’s so beautiful. He pumps the chair and swivels me around to face the mirror, scissors, clips and razors lined up below it and shining like a surgeon’s spread under fluorescent lights.

His nose whistles like it always does when he’s concentrating, holding a breath that finds an escape, visualizing a style and the strokes it would take. His eyes narrow and his shoulders hunch like they always do, but this time he doesn’t tie the beautician’s cape around me. He collects my hair between his palms – like praying but inverted – releases it slowly in a narrow curtain and says, But it’s so thick.

I’ve had my hair in a bowl cut above my ears, all straight and severe against baby-fat cheeks; I’ve had it chin-length and permed into penny-sized curls; I’ve had it bobbed, weaved with extensions for senior prom, layered, shagged, pixied, cotton-candy pink, and now, for the second time, it’s nearing my ass. It reached my waistline last year because I hadn’t seen Dad in awhile. When he finally came to visit, he cut it in the hotel room and ten inches was all either of us was ready to lose. Ten inches tied with a rubber band at one end. Ten inches which is now snake-coiled into a one-gallon Ziploc, dated, and stashed in his drawer of my ponytails, each a different length, each with a different date. (Instead of lines on a doorframe, my childhood is recorded in haircuts.)

But my hair has grown back and is too long and I tell myself, I’ll go short, a bob with a slope, more like a wedge, but I’m having trouble committing so when I tell him to cut my hair and he sighs what a shame, I change my mind because he’ll miss it.

I’ll miss it. I’ll miss hearing that it’s beautiful, my only feature said to be beautiful. My distinguishing feature. People say, She’s the one with the long, coppery hair. Men twist it to turn me on. They weave it into their hands, break it apart between fingers and thread it over their palms in a long, gentle pull and if I cut it I could lose the chill that remains, the tingle left like expectant breath on the top of my spine.

My unrequited-love-with-benefits from the summer of freshman year in college said, I love girls with long hair. He loved to run his fingers through it.

We were on his parents’ porch when he said it, his t-shirt hugging his body in the humid air – Atlas shoulders and chest – heavy air that seemed to make us swell in our clothes. Moths hurled themselves into the light above his head as moths tend to do, made an audible plink in the silence between us, ricocheted backward into the dark and flung themselves again into the flame, as moths tend to do.

My hair was short then. Parted down the middle and wrapped in two tiny buns on the top of my head. So tight I could feel the pull at my roots.

We talked about us. He’d be going back to Ames, me to Iowa City when school started up again. What he didn’t say was, You’re not enough for a long-distance thing for me. What I didn’t say was, You are.

I saw him last summer, ­­­­five summers after what could have been our summer, my hair ending somewhere between my eleventh and twelfth ribs.

It’s great to see you, he said and it felt genuine. Wow, your hair is so long, he said.

I smiled and wrapped it up, afraid he’d think it was for him. Afraid he’d want to run his fingers through it. I could only hurl myself into that flame so many times.

Not that long, I said.

***

It looks healthy, Dad says. What have you been using?
I don’t know, I say. Something organic.
It grows so fast, he says.
I know, I say. Will you cut my hair now?

Find a picture of what you want, he says. But I don’t think I’m quite ready yet because he gathers my hair into a ponytail and I feel the pressure on my scalp, the long, gentle pull, the tingle.

alternate definitions for life

writher
verb/adverb hybrid; informal, slang
1) a combination of the roots writhe (to twist, as in pain, struggle, or embarassment) and rather (in a measure, to a certain extent, somewhat)
2) a fairly painful and/or awkward-looking contortion of the body in which it's apparent that the performer is not fully committed to its execution

Watching Britney Spears writher through her big comeback perfomance at the MTV Awards was an ironic fall from grace.

what i'm digging

feist and nina simone

The Ecstasy of St. Theresa by Bernini and stove top stuffing

What I'm NOT digging:

When you happen across some really awesome music from some really obscure source and you spend a few months bonding with the music and basking in the exclusivity of it all and then you begin hearing the music on iPod commercials that run at least twice every half hour on cable and the more you hear the song the less special it feels. I hate that.

metaphor mongering

The poet Beth Ann Fennelly visited MSU yesterday as part of our Good Thunder series. At her Craft Talk at 3:00, she discussed metaphors, in great detail, and asked us to complete the following: death is____________.

The proverbial ball has been rolling ever since.

death is like a metaphor; nobody can agree on what it means
death is like teaching comp; you know it's coming but are never quite prepared
death is like waiting for coffee; it takes a long time to brew then just tastes like shit anyway
death is a school picture; evidence of your existence

i'll save you the carnage i wish someone had saved me

So, I wake up in the morning from a peaceful night's rest (a night that included a put-a-smile-on-your-face dream about T in Kato cleaning my apartment with me), and I go about my morning routine practically whistling and ready to embrace the day ahead. I make some pomegranate tea, plug in to my ear buds, and begin the walk to campus whispering along with Nina Simone, feeling a little funky and like I got a bit of soul.

I get to the crosswalk at Stadium and Warren and approach an oldish man passing out pamphlets. The man is grey and weathered. He's wearing jeans that sag around his waist but are tight from thigh to ankle. The flannel jacket and feed hat propped high on his head give him away. He's a farmer. When I get close enough I can see the deep lines in his face, and it's only at this intimate distance that I feel a little sorry for him. A good ole country boy, conservative, maybe a little ignorant, but empassioned enough to be here. In an instant I wonder if he is sacrificing a day in the field or postponing a shipment of milk to be standing at the edge of campus distributing whatever it is that he feels is so important to distribute.

I take the pamphlet from him and actually say, "Thank you" as though I'm grateful for his service. As though whatever he's selling I'm interested in buying. Then I open the god damned, tri-fold leaflet. Fetuses, brown and mangled. Aborted babies in full, sharp color. An infuriatingly veiled title at the top. Threats of hell-fire and damnation at the bottom. Needless to say, this put a mother fucking wrench in my swell day. I take little solace in the fact that when I throw my pamphlet away, a mere twelve steps or so from where I acquired it, I throw it on top of at least fifty others. Fifty other people who weren't buying what that guy was selling. Propaganda.

I will save you the carnage. Although the pictures of fetuses have been flashing through my mind at random and usually inappropriate times throughout the day, I will not post a picture to this blog. Although a group of pro-lifers are stationed in the center of the campus mall with six-foot posters of bloody, underdeveloped babies in a shock-and-awe campaign, I will not post the photos that would instantly convey my frustration and outrage here.

light my fire

For reasons unknown even to myself, I find this man

















irresistable. He's got that visceral, intangible, carnal, I am man quality that gives me pause--lilting pause. Pure science; not attraction but reaction. Something about him makes something in me respond in some kind of way that's all impulse, no rationale. I have no control--which of course just lends itself to that I want to be taken tone of the romantic narrative--and no want for it.

Let's take a closer look. His eyelashes are white, which usually gives me the creeps. His hair, red, should be an automatic turn-off, for I don't want pale, freckle-filled, carrot-topped chillen running around. He's a musician which is always a concern what with the late nights, groupies, and heavy drinking and/or drug abuse. He's not particularly attractive, per se.

But.
He's dark













and that's hot. He's also light
















Fucking A.

And check out the bulge:










the fidelity:



















the axe:











In short, I long for this man (one Josh Homme of Queens of the Stone Age), this unattainable Zeus of metal thunderclouds, mainly, I think, because he makes me react as woman.
It seems that's all I need.

ask yourself

I played the song What? by Tribe Called Quest for my students and asked them to come up with their own what lists. Here are some of mine.

what’s a white girl like me who happens to like the Tribe?
what’s the point of music if you neglect the vibe?
what's a Tribe album without a funky beat?
what's the fun in dancing if their aren't four feet?
what is the tango without the sex?
what's the chance you'll have it if you don't learn the steps?
Q: what's bill clinton without hillary?
A: what's the definition of: reciprocity.
what is a bong if it hasn't got the water?
what is a writer if she hasn't got the fodder?
every woman alive is another woman's daughter
What's Today without Matt Lauer?
what's Sarah Silverman without a little raunch?
what is the seashell if not the conch?
what's a fat man without a double-chin?
what's Tom Collins without the gin?
what's Maroon 5 without Adam Levine?
what's The Color Purple without the final scene?
(you know, when the family finally reunites)
what is Alice Walker without a pen to write?
what's SNL without Lorne Michaels?
what's RAGBRAI without bicycles?
what's Los Angeles without film sets?
(not to mention big money, big houses, big breasts)
what is the x-files without conspiracy?
what's sexual tension without Duchoveny?
what happens to Charlotte if you take her web away?
what’s the first amendment if we don’t have equal say?
what good is a story if it doesn’t have an ending?
why break a rule when there’s room for bending?
what is a smoothie without the blender blades?
what’s a BLT without the mayonnaise?
what’s an education without putting in the work?
what’s a grocery store without a clerk?
what’s a PhD without a plaque on the wall?
what’s a base jump without a free-fall?
what is a what if you don't care to know?
the quest for knowledge should reside in the soul.

Atomic Alarm Clock Blues

(Dear reader: impose your own sweet steel guitar lick to the following lyrics and add your best bluesy melody)

got me a fancy alarm clock
that til now's been workin fine
if I had a place to be
you know I'd be there on time

never adjusted for daylight savings
cuz it set itself every night
the box called it atomic
I called it outta sight

but on a dewey sunday mornin
when the world was on un-wind
my clock had lost an hour
and I nearly lost my mind

you know I'm an on-time type of gal
I like pun-tu-al-i-ty
so now I'm stuck with the blues
of un-re-li-a-bil-i-ty

I got the
a - tom - ic
alarm clock blues
--baby, baby---
the
a - tom - ic
alarm clock blues

What do your band names say about you?

FOUR SENTENCES I'VE NEVER SAID.

1. "That skort looks really good on you."
2. "Baby farms...that's genius!"
3. "Sure, I'll go to the local Republican rally with you."
4. "No thanks." (to someone who has passed the dutchie)

SONG TITLES THAT REFLECT HOW I'VE FELT THIS WEEK.

1. Who the Fuck? by PJ Harvey. Because I met someone out on Thursday night and apparently this girl knew me and I had absolutley no recollection of her. I didn't even pretend to know who the fuck it was.
2. Pretty Good Year, by Tori Amos. Because I just got my taxes back and despite owing the state of Iowa $17.23, I'm getting much more back from the govn't than I had expected.
3. I'm a Cuckoo, by Belle and Sebastian. Self-explanatory.
4. Another Kind of Green, by John Mayer. Because I'm currently all out of my other kind of green.
5. Panic Striken, by Leona Naess. (See number 4)

WHAT I'D BE DOING ON A PERFECT DAY.

Hopefully I'd be enjoying it.

5 ROCK BAND NAMES I CAME UP WITH.

1. White Rabbit
2. The Sunday Nights
3. The Intrilligators
4. A Little to the Left
5. All Together Nows

I GET TO GO BACK IN TIME AND STOP 3 SONGS FROM BEING WRITTEN.

1. "Seasons of Love" from RENT. For that matter, all songs from RENT except for "La Vie Boheme" because it's the only one that doesn't make me cringe. Even Roasario Dawson couldn't save that movie.

2. "Barbie Girl" by I don't even know who...it's the one that goes, "I'm a barbie girl, in a barbie world / life in plastic, it's fantastic." I don't know who I blame more, the person who wrote the song or the people who had a hand in its popularity.

3. "I'm a Little Tea Pot." It gave me terrible body-issues as a young, impressionable tot.

My word of the day

joygasm
noun
a euphoric moment of joy in which the sentiment is so effusive it manifests physically in a toe-curling sensation similar to orgasm

Wow. The movie Blades of Glory gave me a joygasm.

also joygasmic, as in:

Wow. This bottle of apple pie moonshine Aunt Mary gave me at Christmas that I just found in the back of my fridge is joygasmic.

The Neverending Chocolate Bar

Last night I planted chocolate seeds...well, if by last night you mean 3am this morning and if by planting chocolate seeds you mean throwing Nestle semi-sweet mini morsels off your balcony and into the lawn.

After making chocolate-chip pancakes for a breakfast-themed dinner and left with just a handful of morsels packed into a corner of the nearly empty bag, we thought it quite wise to use the remaining chips as seeds...you know, "teach a man to fish" and so forth. We thought it quite sacrificial, too, all four of us imagining those last bits melting on our tongues.

I suppose the thinking was that chocolate will grow on trees, even if the "seeds" are a highly processed mixture of chocolate paste, cocoa powder, and liquid chocolate which hold no capacity whatsoever for germination. Despite such oversight, it was a noble endeavor.

We mused about what the chocolate fruit would look like when ripe for the picking. Would it hang from the flowers of the tree in the same shape as the morsels, tear-dropped like Hershey Kisses? A narrow stem above a heavy base seemed logical, gravitational. We began to get greedy and wondered if MiracleGro would turn the morsels into solid Nestle bars, or better yet, Nestle Crunch bars. Should we sprinkle some krispies into the ground? Should we make our own labels and package them and sell them for a dollar at the CSU? Should we call them "The Neverending Chocolate Bar" (also available in the Krispie variety) and sign contracts that forbid any of us from discolsing our secret chocolate seeds?

Nah. No MiracleGro. No krispies. We only grow organinc.

I can picture the semi-sweet mini morsels now, some still above ground and sprinkled in the grass with no hope of rooting, some flying high in the bellies of birds, some--the smallest--melted away by rain. I remember how silly it felt at the time. We wondered if the trees would grow tall enough to harvest right from my second story balcony.

Raspberries

A sticky drip of raspberry Popsicle slips down my pinky before I can take the first bite. The world above careens by. The frozen fruits are organic and 100% raspberry according to the label and the friend who recommended them to me. Like eating off the twig, she says. I suck the syrup off my finger and snap off a good portion of the bar between my teeth.

I’m eight years old and crouched at the top of the hill in J B's backyard. I’m stooped below the hedge of their raspberry bushes, one hand holding a woven wooden basket against my hip, the other led by its red-tipped fingers into the bushes. I’ve become skilled at picking raspberries because I’ve never turned down an offer to harvest from the B's—pick 10, eat one; pick 10 more, eat 2; pick 5 when no one is watching and eat until you’re full. I hold the berry between my forefinger and thumb, twist with a murderer’s precision, check the cavity once for bugs and pop it into my mouth, still warm from mid-summer sun.

Tastes like heaven.

A very cliche day

I'm in Seattle and it's raining out--not a hard rain, a spittle--but it's cloudy and the mountains are hidden in haze and I'm drinking Chai tea from a paper cup with a big logo on it and even though it's NOT Starbucks it feels very much like Starbucks what with the coffee shop ambiance and plastic-framed-glasses wearing patrons and the easy listening music (John Cougar Mellencamp back when he still used the "Cougar") playing softly behind the whir of froth-making coffee/tea equipment. I'm taking a breather at Online Coffee Co. from an afternoon at the Pike's Street Market with some fabulous fish-throwing theatrics and a stop at a kick-ass independent book store. S met me for lunch at noon at a Mexican restaurant in the Queen Anne district. We sat by the window and he gave me some entertaining although not at all true history of the city: "the long, low brick hotel across the street from us was built in 1842 as a brothel and some nights you can still hear the wails and moans of the prostitute ghosts from the street."

My flight arrived yesterday about 45 minutes late. We boarded more or less on time but because of headwinds we flew up into Canada, somewhere over British Columbia, and then back down into Seattle. S picked me up and we went right to the Irish pub, Fado, where we (me, Ship, Lily I, Lily II, Laura, and Shane) took part in the weekly trivia game. Since it is so close to St. Patrick's Day all the trivia was Irish/Ireland related so my pop culture skillz were pretty much useless. Tonight we're having seafood and tomorrow we'll do an underground tour, kayaking, happy hour and getting drunk.

I've been pretty busy eating all the good food I come across, drinking lots of Harp and Pinot Grigio, oh and then eating some more.

Despite the general gloom of the weather I can see why Seattlites argue for the city's charm and get defensive when people say, "how can you live with that constant rain?" It's not a flat city. The streets are hills and they give it depth. The buildings are intricate and interesting, maybe because the city is so relatively new; many homes are craftsman and all the homes have huge, wall-sized windows. Pink-white cherry trees sprout up from the sidewalks and decorate homes in Magnolia where S and L live.

I could live here. Well, I could live anywhere, but I could enjoy living here.

Student Health

December 2, 2006: After a week of blinding pain I decided to renew my 5+month expired student health insurance (sometimes, when your life is routine enough, it's a bit exhilarating when you know that you have no health insurance), wait a few more days for it to clear, print out my temporary health insurance card, and make myself an appointment at the MSU clinic. I had been there once before, last semester, because I needed a tetanus immunization in order to enroll in classes for this year, and had a pleasant experience.

However.

This time around I got the full student health experience and I hope I never have to experience it again. The examining room was tiny, about the size of my porch. The velcro on the blood pressure sleeve kept popping off of my arm as it reached 70% maximum inflation. The nurse (who was supposedly a triage nurse) handed me a digital thermometer and instructed me to stick it under my tounge, only she handed it to me holding it by the part that was to go under my tounge. I wiped it, as un-discreetly as possible, before inserting. No fever.

She left me alone in the room and while I waited on the doctor, I heard voices. Specifically, a doctor and a patient in the room next door. The walls were so thin that I could hear everything. The patient's name was Jake and Jake was having explosive diarrhea and some penis discharge. I had met Jake in the waiting room, only I didn't know his name then or his affliction. We had both reached for the same People magazine while we were waiting, and he let me have it but my excitement was short lived because I soon realized that it was People en Espanol. I didn't want to feel like an ass and set it back down like the only reason I went for it was so that Jake couldn't have it, so I flipped through the pages and pretended to read it and be interested.

Needless to say, when Dr. Hurd came into my room and introduced himself, I recognized his voice as the same from the next room. I shook his hand. Then I wondered if he had just done any penis examinations and I wiped my hand on the cushion of my chair. I answered questions very quietly, hoping that my voice wouldn't travel through the walls.

Dr. Hurd had a medical student shadowing him, a young girl--younger than me--blonde, competent looking (but also looking like she would have no problem blending in at a bar with some evening make-up, a haltar-top, pleather pants and a greasy pole), quiet and with a constant and unnerving smile on her face. She looked over his shoulder as I lay back on the examining table and watched intently as the good doctor kneaded my stomach like a loaf of bread. Yes, his cold and possibly penis-tainted hands and her smiling stare made me uncomfortable.

"Where's your pain?" he asked.
"My lower left abdomen," I said.
"And what does it feel like?" he asked.
"Sharp, stabbing pains. I can't sleep at night," I said.
"And how long has this been going on?" he asked.
"Since the beginning of the week," I said.

I was convinced I had appendicitis but that didn't even seem to be on his radar. He thought I had a higher chance of being pregnant. Who knows what was going through the medical student's mind.

After a few more belly rubs and rounds of repeated questions and answers, he gave me a prescription for antacid and sent me on my way.

Welp, the meds didn't work, the pain subsided after about a week, and my appendix never burst. It's been three months and now I'm the picture of student health. Confirmation of the power of the mind: I will not be sick again until May 2008--graduation.

Calling the Dead

So I've been preoccupied with death lately.

I watch Six Feet Under every Monday night from 8:00 until midnight (to clarify, Bravo shows three full episodes back to back and since it's an HBO series they're longer than the 1-hour shows on cable, thus I spend every Monday night doing marathon-tube watching but it's sooo worth it). As the title of the show suggests, it's pretty morbid--funerals, cremation, suicides, kidnapping and beatings, murders, apocolyptic obsession, etc. Despite the show's abundant merits (writing and acting especially), there is little escaping the dark undertones.

For the past three weeks I've been working on an essay about my grandmother and her recent battle with cancer. I had set out for the piece to be more medical/objective regarding the initial diagnosis and (long) recovery process, but, as essays tend to do, it took on another life and I couldn't remove myself enough to NOT include Gran's lifespan and how much or how little of it she has left.

Finally, since the beginning of the semester I've been receiving phone calls in my office from various people--telemarketers, credit cards, insurance companies--all asking to speak to a guy named Z.H. He was a graduate student in the Literature track for the past few years but at the end of last semester the head of the track sent out an email notifying everyone of Z's suicide at a conference in Texas. This is all I know about him. This and that he apparently used to be in my office.

On February 20 I got a call:

GA office.

Hi, ma’am. Hope I’m calling the right number. I’m trying to reach someone who handles the business affairs or family affairs of a Z.H. Is that name familiar to you?

You know, he used to be in this office but no longer is.

Okay. I’m sorry about disturbing you. Have a fine day.

That’s okay. You too.

Bye bye now.

Bye bye.

Unlike all the previous callers, this man obviously knew that Z.H. was deceased: business affairs...family affairs. Still, I fumbled over the words used to be but no longer is. With all the other calls all I had to say was, "No" to "Is Z.H. in?" The man on the phone used a soft voice, I say used because it was clear that it was a put-on. I could feel the low resonance of his natural speaking voice. He probably thought I knew Z...I could have been his friend, his sister, his wife for all this guy knew. I can't remember the last time I was spoken to in such a thick tone of condolence. The tone itself made me sad, made me wish I knew Z and then made me wish that I didn't because if I did then I'd be one of the ones that lost him.

Death sucks even when no one is dying.

Dreams

I'm not the kind of person who takes much stock in things like fate, destiny, predestination, the coincidences of the world around us all being tied to a central tether and holding a significance that is so much greater than ourselves, and yadda yadda yadda. However, it just so happens that my own, personal dreams are directly related to my life, how I've lived it, and how it may be affected in the future. My belief in the meaning of my dreams is my guilty pleasure as it would apply to the world of psycoanalytics; my fleeting indulgence into fate. And so follows one of many dreams and dream interpretations.

Reality:
A few nights ago, after a particularly good walk home and compelling conversation with a new MFA-er who had been sitting behind me in Monday night class for the past two weeks, I felt the feeling. The feeling being what happens when I allow myself to think things about another person like, "I like the way his hair falls out of the bottom of his baseball hat," and "no matter how much I say that I think a Southern accent sounds uneducated, his is just so damn charming," and "I wonder if he's a good couch-cuddler." Now, this all sounds very "crushy" and "new-lovey" but my thoughts were not necessarily directed towards him. He was just the catalyst. We parted ways at the parking lot. He offered me a ride home and I said "Thanks, but I can make it faster on foot than it would take you to drive out of the lot." Still, the offer was nice and something about the entire situation resonated. I had no name for it and certainly didn't think about any implications.

It was 9:30 when I got home. I had been on campus since 9:00 in the morning and was exhausted. Bed and a book. The book was "The Last Street Before Cleveland" which, overall, is a memoir about depression and personal history, but I read the last fifty pages that night and they were full of redemption, love for God and love for family, particularly the narrator's love for his wife. The point: the memoir and my love-lined interaction with my new friend connected, took root in my brain, and bloomed into a dream. (And this is why I MUST take note of my dreams...I know I miss things every day. I gloss over meanings and bury truths in far-reaching synapses, so when they come out of my subconcious, I have to pay attention or I'll lose them forever.)

Dream:
It was high school. I was in a classroom with Jeremy. The setting was familiar: it was after regular school hours because there was only Jeremy, Julian, and I. It was dark in the room and the remaining chairs were upsidedown on desks. We were chatting and laughing like we actually used to do. God it felt comfortable. It was a conversation where I held on to every word because I was convinced that every word would be brillant - not because Jeremy was dispensing revolutionary or wholly original and awesome ideas, but just because I enjoyed watching his mouth move...the experience of being so in love with the person that it doesn't matter what they are saying or doing at the moment. All that matters is what you know of them and no matter how flawed, it's more than enough. It's a love born from respect; the best kind. Jeremy and I had shared that once, years ago.

The three of us sat and talked about relationships. Julian asked what went wrong with Jeremy and me. (We had been the couple that everyone envied--two people who existed as a unit instead of individuals.) I didn't answer. I didn't have an answer. I still don't. Jeremy looked right at Julian and said, "We were engaged, you know." I said, "Were not. Why do you say that?" And Jeremy replied, "We had this kiss, and it was the most meaningful kiss I've ever had in my life, and I remember thinking then 'I have to be with this person forever. This kiss means we will be together forever'."

Reality:
I woke up with those words reverberating in a morning fog and I felt content, warm, loved, desired. In a post-dream euphoria, I tried to force myself back to sleep to see what happened with me and Jeremy--did we embrace and forgive each other and work it all out--but I couldn't. As soon as I lost it, I desperatley wanted that feeling back. It felt like what withdrawal must feel like...when you know how something tastes and sounds and smells and how it can transport you to beauty in an instant but you know you can't have it. I went from euphoria to painful longing before my eyes even opened to the first light.


Still, I stayed in bed for a few minutes and indulged in what might have been.