Moody Meow

For almost 10 minutes, while I contemplated the sensation of my last cloves in my chest, I listened to the tap-tap of rain on my sycamore. His leaves changed suddenly this year. For two weeks he has rained brown, crunchy leaves. Some cling to nearly naked branches. My camera longs to document this fall, but it’s bittersweet. It’s the last one, as I have stated before, and I think that Seemore knows it. So, I listened to the rain, and watched more shiny, heavy leaves fall to the shallow puddles in my yard. Other fallen leaves cupped the rain. Ripples in the tiny pools of water rushed outwards, over and over, each meeting the other or rushing into a neighboring pool. I listened and remembered other rains, porches, cigarettles I shouldn’t be smoking.

The first time I rolled, it rained. For many hours, a man I just met and I sat on the porch in his apartment, swapping stories and passing a well-rolled joint. He kept bringing me cold orange juice, and made sure that I was okay, both chemically and physically. I don’t really remember what we talked about, but I remember the rain. It glowed like a neon orange curtain in the streetlight beneath the man’s porch. He lived on the fifth floor. The ashtray was full when we went to sleep, curled around each other like snakes. I didn’t want to stay awake until dawn. Dawn made me feel dirty, so we popped a sleeping pill and retreated to his room. I fell asleep on a mattress on his floor, the sound of rain ringing in my ears.

When I first moved to Miami in 1994, I lived briefly with my uncle. Promised help with school and a car, I ran from North Carolina like the devil chased me and my sticky, burning sins. Two windows crowned my new bed, like a glowing headboard. I didn’t care much for the morning hours, when the sun warmed my blankets too much, and I woke with sweat sliding down my nose, suddenly cooled by the arctic air-conditioning. For those months, I could never get comfortable in that bed, unless it rained. The gray, every changing, partially illuminated by the piercing Florida sun, then dark as soot, raced past my window. When it rained, it raced down the roof in a solid sheet. I could see the shrubbery that lined the neighbor’s fence danced and thrashed in the storms. Sometimes, I crouched in the window and let my eyes take in full effects of the storms, and closer to the panes of streaked glass, I could hear the fat drops that smacked into plants and the footpath just next to the house. Or, when I felt lazy or alone, I would laid on my back at an angle where only the sky was visible, and although I could hear the rain on the plants, all I could see was the swirling gray.

I will remember, forever, the sound of the rain on my porch at Nebraska Street, and the strange echo of storms in our apartment at Bumby, and the flat patter of the swift, fat drops upon our roof at Delaney Park. I will remember it all, and perhaps, I will write more about those places that I’ve not talked about - the three houses in Ft. Lauderdale, or the big house in Miami, or the garage in South Miami, or the hovel in Hollywood. I remember the storms, the violence and the peace, when I lived in all of those places, but that’s a story for another time.

The first event of the day brought me to Orange Avenue, near Winter Park. My dermatologist scheduled me for 9 that morning, and I was running late. I have a problem routing myself in the most efficient direction, instead, I weave to and fro through familiar streets, comfortable and slow. Actually, I’m not a slow driver at all. It’s one of my less charming qualities. But I got there 10 minutes late and it took all of two minutes for the nice nurse in the bright scrubs to take the offending thread out of my back. She was more impressed by my tattoos than the state of my stitches. Poof, they were gone!

The second order of the day also put me on Orange Avenue, but I was way past Michigan. I had time to kill (too much time) before that appointment, so I went to Starbucks, talked to D, and puttered about in the Delaney Park area. I miss Lake Davis. If you look at many of my bird pictures, not the ones of the Bird of Prey Center, you will see the tranquil glory of the lake and its inhabitants. I parked and watched the birds, and remembered much later that I had my camera with me and I should have taken some pictures. But, back to the doctor’s visit. I got there with time to kill, and then waited an additional hour because “the doctor was running a little late.” I HATE waiting, with a passion. I HATE tardiness (and yes, I am a hypocrite – so bite me). Fifteen minutes is understandable, but an hour? I am sure they saw the steam swirling out of my ears. The nurses knew I was pissed. They weighed me, and I am happy to say that it’s stable. Not a pound added, then again, not a pound lost. The main goal is not to make the weight go away but to move my ass for at least 30 minutes a day 5 times a week. Psychologically, that’s a manageable goal. After an additional wait of fifteen minutes, the doctor finally came in. “Wow, what a morning. We were doing well until 10 o’clock – then WHAM! Two cases of severe appendicitis and a lovely woman chest pains and a fluctuating heart.” Wiping his brow with his red tie, he looked almost happy when he read my chart, and then we began. I won’t bore you with the details, but I ended up with one shot of cortisone in each of my hands. The drug is supposed to relive the aching and pressure. He seemed very concerned when I told him that there was radiating pain in my shoulder and elbow. “You know, we could go on with a nerve test. It’s slightly painful, and it involves shocking some of the nerves in your arm, but then we can pinpoint exactly where the problem is.” When I found out the shot was the lesser of the two evils, I went for it. I hate shots more than I hate tardiness. Whip me. Beat me. Tattoo and pierce me, just don’t get near my body with a needle that’s supposed to screw with the inner workings of my body. It grosses me out.  For the next two hours I wore lovely blue bandages on my wrist. It looked funny. I’m not sure if it’s working or not, but I will know by the end of the day. That’s going to be the test.

My grammar final. So, I think I made it my bitch. I spanked its ass. I finished feeling wonderful. I did my best, and you know what, for the first time in my life, that’s enough for me. Although I didn’t get to study with my study groups like I wanted to, I think the solitary thing worked for me. I paced with my note cards, quizzed myself in the shower, really thought about the meanings of the terms and how they connected to their function. I ended up at school early, with plenty of time to study. My hands hurt, no doubt, but I didn’t have to type. I had to read. And read I did. Four cups of coffee, deep breathing, and remembering that I knew what I knew and that there was no more time to cram more crap into my brain left me feeling lovely. I looked around during the test. Less pale faces, more almost-smiles, calm, movement through the papers rather than staring at the ceiling, and when I finished early (I was home by 8:10) I immediately called D and told him how good I felt. And I still feel good. I called my mom as well, and told her that I kicked the final’s ass. She was at a town function (she’s on the town council and part of local politics in Frisco) and couldn’t talk but laughed when I told her my news. She asked me to call her today. I will. And if I didn’t do well? Fuck it. It’s done, and there’s nothing I can do about it now. I did my best, and like I said before, I am happy with that.

Our shuttle launch is looking grim. The weather doesn’t want to cooperate, and it seems the shuttle has suffered a small power surge. There is also concern about some of the glue on the rocket boosters. We are still planning on going, but if we don’t make it, I have a date with Johnny Depp and “Pirates of the Caribbean.” I love that I have a lot to do this weekend, a visit to Lush with Vanya tomorrow night, a gathering at a friend’s house on Saturday, and shitloads of time on Sunday for anything I want to do. I plan on becoming reacquainted with my solitude, the dog park, and my video games. There will be more time for friends and relaxation. We are coming upon my last semester, and I plan on relishing it. –

I have my last final tonight. I’m not sweating it. This is the end of my last winter semester. I feel good. And I hope you have a lovely day filled with peace and smiles. It’s Thursday kittens! Tomorrow is Friday!

The weekend was too short. I am sure that many people feel that way, but my Sunday felt too colored by blue. D and I tried to combat that by going to the Aloma Cinema and Grill (not a bad place to see a movie!) for a little Casino Royale action. Frankie mentioned the uneven pacing, and I agree. However, Bond ruled the show and kept me enthralled. I was also under whelmed with Vesper Lyn. I love Eva Green when she portrays a heroines with a brooding nature. It’s her smile that bugs me -plastic, pasted on, a cardboard cutout – her lips are perfectly shaped but lack the warmth that a true smile should bring. Bright, green eyes and luminescent pale skin, her beauty is inescapable, until she smiles. If you were curious, Daniel Craig is a spectacular vision of man-flesh. And he plays a twisted Bond. There are many “holy shit” moments, like the intro action scene. Good stuff. I may have to watch it again. Why? Just for fun.

My parents seem to be at an impasse with their relationship. I don’t know if they would be bothered by the fact that I am mentioning it on my blog, but I figure this is my place to contemplate and understand. Their fucked up interactions effect me. I think it’s my right to discuss how I feel about it (end justification). I don’t have much of a relationship with my stepfather. Sometimes I really feel like I am missing out on something special with him, but I don’t think he has room enough in his heart for me. My sister (Alexis) and her family take precedence over everyone else, save his biological daughter. That’s understandable, really. My nephew and my sister spent many hours with the family, and he paid a lot of attention to my nephew and spoiled him rotten. And my stepsister is his only child. I was a dark creature, full of rage and malice, when I lived with my parents, and I idealized the relationship with my Dad — the man my mother divorced. I’m an adult (most of the time) now. My relationship with my mother remains steady. In one hand, she’s one of my closest friends, and on the other, I think she needs the hardest kick in the ass. I have not spoken to my Dad in over ten years, and in those years my stepfather and I never came close to an actual parent/child relationship. I come from a family of deeply flawed personalities. My family hides their drinking and denies the mental illness that marks everyone. Stable they are not. And this comes back to the stepfather and my mother. They’ve been at odds for years, yo-yo-ing between love and loathing. Right now, they are in a shadowy patch, and when I told Mom about graduation in May, she told me that she would be the only one coming, because she’s not inviting him. I feel like I’m going to have to choose between hurting his feelings by not telling him about graduation or have him come and feel the heavy hand of awkward disconnection. It’s a weird place to be. Our wedding highlighted the lack of understanding between us. He told D that we were not close because I still sought a relationship with my Dad and not him. D told him he was full of shit (nicely), and I think that really serves as a perfect sign of his lack of understanding of me. He still thinks that I am 10 and full of rage. My Mom knows differently, but won’t tell him that because they aren’t speaking half of the time. And now, I’m 30, and my parents are putting me in a fucking awkward position. It’s bullshit. But…enough ranting.

Thanksgiving was quiet. D and I went over his Mom’s house, and we were late. I didn’t read the directions on the tofurkey. Oopsie. It took a lot longer than I thought it would, but it tasted damn good. One of his brothers tried a small slice of the tofu. I was surprised when he told me he liked it. We stayed with the family for a short while. They were watching movies and D and I didn’t want to vegitate. On the way home, Cat called. She sounded amazingly happy, immersed in hostess duties and a kitchen full of food. I meant to call her back, but resting got in the way. Then Anne and Will came over for a few beverages and Frankie popped by to share his flan. It was a good day.

We tried to go biking several times throughout the break. I only made it through 16 miles without incident. The first time, I got in my own way. Sometimes I am my worst enemy when it comes to exercise. Red rage nipped at my heels throughout the ride, and I ended up cutting it short, riding home alone. That time by myself helped clear my brain. D tries to be supportive, but I always feel like I am holding him back when we ride together. So, this afternoon, I will ride alone. And when we make it to West Orange again, there will be more spots where he can let loose and I can focus on my endurance. I need to push myself harder with riding – On a similar note, I got up this morning to run. But, my damn Nano was dead. I think I’ve explained that I run to snippets of music, small increments that are supposed to help me build up to an extended run. Without the prompts, I run myself to exhaustion. I walked the beagle boys, since my run was toast. They seemed happy about it. It was foggy this morning, and very quiet. I think the misty air dulled the waking morn, stalling it for a few long moments before the sun burns away all of the mystery. I feel lighter for the walk.

I have finals coming up in the next two weeks. I should be freaking out, but I’ve come to a point of not giving a shit. I know, I know – bad place to be. But, I know all I am going to know right now and there isn’t much that will help pull me into any kind of illuminated, educated state. It’s hard being this close to graduation, because I’ve lost my steam. I’m trying to keep one foot in front of the other. It’s hard.

D and I watched Kinky Boots. Cute film. And the main character, Lola, is played by Chiwetel Ejiofor, the Operative in Serenity (which I’ve seen a million times). It’s hard to keep those two characters separated because they share the same face. I felt the same thing when Hugo Weaving played Mr. Smith and Elrond. One good character, one very bad one. Articulation and how their voices flex further muddy the waters. Once I spent a few moments with the new face, then I can let go of the other one, but it does take a second or two

I am sure I had more things to talk about, but I think I’ve run out of works for today. So, I hope you had a lovely holiday. Now, help me get through this week. I have a feeling it’s going to be a bitch. (have I mentioned that I hate my job?)

Oh - couple things that caught my attention:
No one noticed a man on fire? What does this say about our society?
I am in love with this winery. Well, I’ve never been there, but I love their Zin. I’m more than a little pissed that they won’t ship to Florida. Argh!
Only boys love podcasts? Okay, I’m not trying to discount their numbers, but damn! And I love podcasts.
Down goes the dollar? Why am I not hearing about this on our national news? Fishy, fishy.

Time for more work. Is it 4 yet?

On Friday a letter arrived. My birthdaughter’s script decorated the pink envelope. Strange. I hadn’t heard from her in months. The letter’s contents disturbed me. She’ turning 13 in January and struggling through adolescent stresses. Friends and boyfriends. Parents who seem to be working against her. It’s not uncommon for her to rail against her parents and fall into the darkness of doubt. But she “hurt herself” and that just brings things into a new realm. I called her mother to figure out what I should do. Do I talk to her about things like depression and mental illness? Should the conversation remain light and fluffy? When I spoke to her mother I realized that things are going to get very complicated in the next few years. The birthdaughter grows rapidly, and with that comes the possibility of heart ache. I tried to tell her that grades are important (my mother would be so proud) and that things with her parents will get easier. She kept telling me how much she wanted to see me. I feel the same. I love her, as only a birthmother can. It’s a strange relationship, and although I love explaining things with words, this is a sensation that transcends normal conversation. I did what I could for her, but questions remain. Will she blame me for her sadness? Am I at fault for giving her away to another family? Will she hate me for that? This is a time for many questions and I am about to traverse unknown territory. I don’t know any other birthmothers. And open adoptions remain rare. I must say that I am bitter, though. She’s already 5′5″ tall. I’m jealous.

I ended up with a C on my Editing Essentials midterm. At first I was horrified, then, grateful. Many people failed, and some ended up with A’s. I panicked when I took the test. Instead of moving through the answers I knew were 100% correct, I ran around in circles, doubting every response. We went over the test on Wednesday, and I felt like such a fool. I didn’t answer three questions. Three! No answer, just a blank line. How could I have missed that? And then there were errors that just defied reason. But it’s done. I have the final in 4 weeks. 4 weeks. Oh god.
I have a class called Cuisine/in/art (sound it out) and near the end of the semester, we put on this little party called Art Feast. Everyone in class picks a topic about food and sets up a presentation. I am doing a presentation on my missed opportunity to eat my wedding cupcakes. “The Wedding Cupcakes - the Sequel” will include a better version of my cupcakes, and a little re-enactment of the cake exchange that never happened. It should be fun. I will take lots of pictures. If you can come, it’s at the Woolson House on Thursday at 5:00. You are all invited.

On a happier note, D and I went to Amanda’s birthday party last night. We (Amanda and Adam, Ginny and Mike, D and me and random friends that floated in and out of the periphery) hung out until almost one this morning. I haven’t laughed that hard in a long time. It felt good.

I worked throughout the weekend, making up for the time I missed earlier in the week. It’s hard making up the time. I want my weekends should remain sacred, but sickness called and I had to be healthy to make up the time. I want to win the lottery. No more work. Please?

I had more to say, but I am going to head to bed soon. I’m heavy with thought and fear. So many things change…. so many.

I am wearing my favorite hat today. I bought it in Breckinridge a few years ago, but it rarely gets cold enough for me to wear it. Today, it’s chilly. I am wearing my Pearl Izumi jacket, a cute green long-sleeve shirt and my favorite jeans. I put my hair in pigtails. I feel very good! There’s no other way to explain it. I just feel lovely, awake and calm. Perhaps I am suffering from delusions. This lack of angst over my midterm tomorrow flows with an unfamiliar rhythm. I like this space and I will endeavor to remain here, cute hair and all.

I am – this is going to be intensely personal, so if your aren’t prepared to know some of the darker details of my life, its best if you stop reading.

I’ve contemplated a recent conversation. The darkness enveloped her face when she and I talked about all of the similarities. We share manic-depression. We were both the victims of incest and rape. Our parents handled the truth of the incest by denying the reality. They invited the aggressor back into our home. When we were raped, it was brutal. And it’s not hard to see all of this behind her dark eyes. I often wonder if I am as transparent. What kind of sisterhood is this? The sisterhood of the recovering victim? Are we part of the same strange statistical circumstance? We’ve loved women, both physically and emotionally. I am not conversing with myself. She occupies her own space. Her laughter is unique. But that joyous sound sometimes catches on the edges of the past. Can you really laugh when you have been that scarred? I can. I think she can as well. We are both cutters. Well, I am a cutter, she scratches. And when I explained why I did it, she understood. Sometimes you just need the pain to let the emotions loose. She is not me. I am not her, yet I sense a familiar soul. Perhaps I am reading too much into this. I tend to get very intense when I meet interesting people. I long to absorb their stories, their unique details. But as we talked, separated by a curtain of fragrant smoke, I almost felt like I was speaking into my own mirror. I know the darkness of her stories. Now, I will search for the light. She laughs with truth, if that makes any sense. It’s not polluted by expectation or propriety. We both snort when we laugh. Our bellies shake, and appendages flail. There is something in that laughter, and that is something we share as well.

We are still having the punkin carving party on Saturday. I am buying the pumpkins, and people are bringing their kits . I would like Hollie to come so that she can use the guts for her wonderful bread, but I have to get off my ass and actually call her back. I am so bad about the phone.

Friday marks the beginning of a long weekend for D and I. Five days of biking homework (because school doesn’t respect our holiday) and relaxation. We are going to take the beasties to the dog park. We are going to relax. I am looking forward to it. I want to take a nice bath with him (we still have all of those bath bombs from Lush) and goof off. I want to dance as we converse about things that mean little. I want to snuggle on the couch. I want us to be alone. Well, except for Saturday Then I want everyone to come over and set fire to things with me. I love fire.

So, I am going to try to take a funny picture with my cameraphone. I want you to see my hat. If I can’t get it to work (the pictures have been doing something wierd!) then I will take a good one with my camera. I hope you have a happy Tuesday.

I had to haul ass to Whole Foods last night (yes, I am one of those granola eating hippies) after class. I picked up apples. frozen strawberries and a dessert for D and I. It was a quick trip. I had to get home. I’m female this week, hence, the rush.

Now, before I go on, please look at the boobs on this statue. This is Dawn, part of the Mecici tomb. Michelangelo understood men’s bodies, the musculature and how the skin twisted and shifted wth movement. He didn’t understand boobs. For all of his skill, he couldn’t sculpt breasts. This image is not an isolated example. He put women’s heads on men’s bodies. And if he had to use a female form, he slapped melon breasts upon the chest of a man and called it a woman. They don’t curve, sloping down, culminating at the nipple. Nope. He liked round, conic tits. It’s unnatural. Why this diatribe?  The woman in front of me at the cashier line looked lovely from behind. Muscular legs, a round tush (yes, I ogle women at the grocery store. I like to call it “research” for my writing) and shellacked, straw-colored hair. She wore a black tank top. Her shoulders were tan and freckled. I put here in a size 0, maybe a 2, and if she didn’t have fuck-me heels on, she would have been shorter than me.

Then she turned.

I couldn’t stop staring. They hovered, a round cliff jutting hight from her chest. I think I saw them cast a shadow on the ground below. I really tried to look at my apples, which looked like her boobs. Then I tried to stare at my frozen strawberries as they rolled across the scanner. Berries. Big, fucking berries. My eyes, my poor eyes! So, I said fuck it. I looked and they were horrific. Not only were they over a C cup, she was wearing a push-up bra. For fuck’s sake, woman! They are high enough. And yes, they were very ,very, very high on her chest. It looked like they wanted to eat her collar bone. And if they went that high, then we all know her shoulders were in jeopardy. I imagined that they, those alien boobies, had the power to shift and wiggle where they wanted to.

Thankfully, she walked away, pushing her little cart with celery, honey, and apples. Damn those apples!

The cashier asked how I was doing. I smiled wanly. Then the girl bagging my groceries said “You know, I wonder how much that boob job cost her.”
“I couldn’t help staring!” I felt a blush rush up my neck, and the heat radiated from my cheeks.
“Honey, I saw you looking. I looked to. I mean, how couldn’t you?” We both laughed.
“I wonder if they hurt her back” the cashier asked me. He was blushing. I shrugged
“They hurt my eyes.” Bagger girl announced.
I said goodnight to them both, relieved that booby abomination shocked others. T

Ladies, if you want a boob job, please don’t use Michaelangelo as a model for perfect breasts. He didn’t get it. And neither do many plastic surgeons.

I am not hiding anything on this blog. I fill the pixels with TMI, emotive responses and concerns. I remind my dear readers of my mantra “If you come, you read, but I don’t justify.”

Oops – I wrote a whole part about something very embarrassing that happened to me, but I deleted it. Some things just won’t be shared. I just don’t feel like being mocked.

Battlestar Fridays – You will find D and I glued to our TV every Friday at 9 (the new time). This is the one show I get silly about. D bought me the 2.5 season. We haven’t had the time to sit down and watch it, but we will. I thought about reinstating the Battlestar Sundays (which started with Firefly) but am going to put that off. I just don’t feel up to it now. I heart Battlestar.

The Return of Shipyard Pumpkinhead – My favorite beer has returned. If you attended my punkin carving party last year, you will remember the beer. It’s great beer. A bottle of happy fall flavors. I love this beer in a sick way. I bought two cases. Obviously I can’t drink that much, but I am stocking up because you can only get this stuff once a year. I will pile up more cases in my kitchen until I have the equivalent of an end cap. My goal is to buy two cases every time we go to the grocery store. D and I contemplated a punkin carving party again. We shall see. I may just invite people over to drink Punkin Ale. So damn good.

I am a weed-eater: D and I cleaned up the yard this weekend. He mowed and I flailed around with the weed eater. The front yard looks nice now. I don’t think it looked terrible before, but it’s cleaner now and that should keep the Overlords off our ass. And that garden in the back that I fixed up for the wedding is dead. The bougainvillea and the killer fine from hell are back in force and have eaten my garden. It seems appropriate. We will move within the year and the backyard is returned to its previous state. The wildness of Florida plants, aggressive and green, sings in my soul. I love my tree, my yard and all of the animals that visit. But I can’t wait until we get to a place where the Overlords don’t dictate what I can and can’t do with my yard.

Cleaning house without the homework: My house is immaculate. I dusted everything; fans, floorboards, window sills. Before I headed to Target to pick up more toys for Pip, I cleaned under the couch and found: 3 squeaky tennis balls, the canvas frog, the squeaky snake, a stuffed fish, the rattle/squeak hedgehog type toy and a few cat toys. The trip to Target was crossed off the list. Everything smells nice. We kept the windows opened up all day on Saturday and the cross breeze helped clean the air. It’s nice to be in my house. Homework – finished some but not nearly as much as I wanted to. Oh well. At least the house is clean

Dune: What a crap-tastic movie. I’ve never seen the whole thing, and after watching the beginning half, I don’t think I ever will. The constant, whispered internal monologue is enough to drive me nuts. Then there are the effects – so very bad. The effects in StarWars felt more sophisticated although this movie came out in the middle of the madness of SW. D thought the book was far superior to the shite movie. I don’t know if I am willing to give it a chance now. The high points? A very young Patrick Stewart. Num.

Mole-y mole-y moley: I have to go to the dermatologist. I am not that thrilled about this. Thought I would share.

New battery: If you have a laptop, check with your maker to see if your battery is due to be recalled. Both of our Mac laptops were in the recall notice. A Dell, an IBM Thinkpad, and an HP have suffered spectacular deaths due to their defective batteries. The last one caught fire on a plane just before takeoff. A touch scary, methinks. Do everyone a favor and get it replaced.

Observation - When I am drinking, there are a few conversations that come up. I analyze the move to Portland and the one thing that makes me joyful about it - living near my sister. Because she is blood, and one of my best friends, I am eager to see her more often. And then we will be in the same time zone - no awkward timed phonecalls. Then I relive the shitastic trip to Chicago because it’s effected me more than I would normally like to admit. Then there are the peripheal characters involved in my life - friends and far off relations. They warrant conversation as well. I am trying to make sense of this unstable, insecure place in my life. The conversations soaked by the evil, fermented grape, give birth to undilluted truth. It’s a harsh experience and hasn’t gotten any easier. I am trying to shed the raw parts of me and get back to being a fearless, strong woman. So many things are tripping me up lately. I feel like I am hanging off a jagged cliff. Perhaps I will grow wings, but it’s my journey to make.

Ripples - Alexis is going to a wedding in March. Never mind. I was going to talk about this, but then I would have to give you the history of our family. A long conversation for another day.

Here are some fun links for your morning.

Be nice when passing bikes - or else!
*This lady is nuts! Why do people have such a problem with witchcraft? It’s a frickin pagan religion! It’s not about the devil and not about condemnation of Christian values. People really need to get a life.
*Reforestation of the rain forest. Happy stuff.
*Stolen monsters - this is just so damn rude. I feel bad for the homeowner.
*Dirty old men - This is just nasty. And I am offended because he is using alcoholism as an excuse. People use all kinds of diseases as “reasons” for their fucked behavior. This is bad for Republicans. I wish I could rejoice, but this guy is just nasty, and there’s nothing to celebrate with this shit.

I am going to get back to working. Sorry for the typos.

Oh - and it’s my little brother’s birthday! Happy Birthday Derick — you little snotface

Pen to paper, so they say. What is this scrawl lost amung the New Times Roman and Ariel. Who thought that univeraal fonts were a good idea. Give me the flow of aching elbow and splotchy pen. I taken better, more thorough notes on my laptop but they lose their organic nature in this medium. Iv’e even forgotten what my signature looks lkike. And this, for the sake of natural archives, will be perverted into some kind of digital text for all the world to see. But I write in purple, unaided dia a pen choice not a font color. I want my own script to be a part of the digital realm, something that remains as much of an image as the cover of a book. But look - see the waver in these words? My arm grows tired, my writst aches. Why? A keyboard and a monitor gouge you the beauty of my handwritten freedom. I thought others mad for denying the ease of use with a computer,  but handwritten text allows the mind to breathe, if just for a moment. To hell with the poor spelling  and horrific grammar, it’s the natural recourse for a true writer. So I Shall go home, ignore my laptop and take my pen in had so I can remind my body what it really feels like to write, free of cords, digital imagery and power loss.  I am free with pen in hand.

I wrote that while I was in class last week. On Thursdays I leave my laptop at home. I dont need it, surprisingly, for a writing class. We discuss books and the top layer of the papers we are writing, but we never get very deep. A quarter of the class time is wasted on quizes. She uses them to force us to read the books assigned. I always finish early. I had time to peer around the classroom and then kill time contemplating my handwriting. It really is pretty, in a swirly kind of way. I would love to show you. But I can’t here, and that bothers me sometimes. Perhaps I should (see: David should) rework my banner so I use my own scrawl….hmm… interesting idea.

And there are typos in this entry (big fucking shock) but in the spirit of raw writing, I’m not correctin them! So there!

I went back to the headshrinker on Monday. I must say, her assistant is adorable. She has a whispery voice and an easy smile, and I saw the peek of a tattoo as her sleeve rode up on her shoulder. She told me later, as I left, that she has a full back piece of a phoenix. I always smile when I hear about “normal” people with remarkable tattoos.

But back to the Dr. I’ve been very honest with her about my moods, what I was feeling, that I had started drinking and smoking again and that I was quitting for the millionth time. She believes, and I agree, that I am mostly balanced.  The moods still swing and waver, but I have enough space to understand why I feel what I feel. We decided to err on the side of response rather than a complete eradication of my mood disorder. There’s a reason for this. I fear the complete abortion of my moods swings will disconnect me from my muse. She’s small these days, and terrified. I need emotions to feel her. Need space to be just a little off kilter. It’s a manageable amount and I am willing to risk a little pain for the sensation that drives my writing.

I told my Doc that I had a blog and that I write about my illness. She surprised me with the brightness of her smile. I’m not ashamed or embarrassed about my bipolar, and she was impressed at my journey to frank conversation. Then she told me about a few of her difficult patients, specifically one who suffered through multiple angles of treatment without telling the Doc that there was a cocaine problem in addition to her mood disorder. The Doc knows about my drug-laden past. Self-medication through narcotics is a pretty common occurrence among those with a mood disorder. It’s just the wrong way to fix things. I had to really stumble into the depths of madness before I quit doing hard drugs and got help. But I’ve been helped, and I couldn’t be happier. 

So, the reason for this post. I am now on a bi-yearly schedule to visit the Doc. We are both confidant that I am to the point where I can make daily choices about my meds and such that do not require a doctor’s care. She made me promise to sleep when I needed to and to try to keep a workout schedule up and running since that will temper some of the remaining swings (which usually come when I’m hormonal). I will not see her until March, and that makes me feel like I have a great hold on things. With all of the chaos going on in these past few days, I forgot to contemplate this news. I feel better for it.

And we are on day 4 of no smoking. :)  Happiness.

So, I read on Claire’s blog that she’s been watching the Lord of the Rings movies. I have them ripped to my video iPod. I listen to movies. My journey is taken in the sound. Although visuals move me, it’s the voice and music and Foley art that allow my mind to believe. So, instead of watching the movies at work (which really means I have my headphones on but I am not looking at the teensy screen) I have decided to listen to the soundtracks. I had a professor that said that soundtracks were the idiot’s indicator of what to feel in a particular scene. It’s true, to some extent. But I think he forgot that music is a moving medium. It’s not something I admit (but I think most of you know) but I am wholly moved my music and it often makes me cry. This raw emotional expression remains free behind the doors of my own home. D’s had to listen to me play dj on the computer while I try to make him feel the same things I do in a particular song, and hear the same things. It’s usually after a few drinks, admittedly. But if you’ve known me for more than 5 minutes in real life, I will usually have tried to ply you with some brilliant music that moves me. And this all comes back to the Lord of the Rings soundtracks. Although my memory can place the music to the scene, I usually journey elsewhere as the music builds and falls. With music, my imagination can take me anywhere….

My bed felt particularly intoxicating this morning. Don’t you have those moments where the morning rushes foreword, but you want to stay beneath body-warmed blankets and lingering dreams? I felt that this morning. I’m not really tired, but the bed calls me. It’s a loud call.

We watched the first half of “When the Levees Broke.” Whether or not you side with one political ideology or another – this film is about the people who were hurt. Blame is placed throughout the political structure, to include the mayor, the governor, and the federal government. The red tape involved smacked of obscene power struggles. And it brought back memories of sights and events that I heard about through the media. The death of the elderly because of the inadequate hurricane supplies, people suffering for days without food and water, the blockade of the bridge going into the next county – it’s all so disgusting. I cried when I heard about the devastation Katrina wrought on the Gulf Coast. All of those areas deserve tears and help/ And the inadequate aid with the recovery process can only be described as wrong. There’s no other way to put it, really. I will watch the second part of the documentary, and I’m sure my ass will be on fire, but I am sure the film was meant to strike at the heart of the viewers. I know I claim to not be a people person, that I would help animals before I would the suffering human race. I’m here to say that I hate suffering, in any creature, be it human or canine. And all of that misery could have been handled better. I won’t even get into the images I saw of dogs starving to death. Fuck…this is getting me down again.

I am going to post my little story in the next post. We had to write a 300ish word paper dealing with a food memory. The stories I read were varied in cohesiveness and depth. Some people focused on the literal act of cooking. Others used the idea of memory with particular foods and specific people. One of the funniest essays dealt with a family who named their Thanksgiving turkey every year. I don’t know why, but I thought that was damn funny.

It’s Friday people! Don’t forget those who need your thoughts most, be that family or those who suffered the devastating losses in Katrina. Do something nice today. It can be very very small. Any kindness is rewarded down the line. So something little. Open the door for someone. Smile. I feel like I need to put a more positive energy forth today. The world needs more compassiopn

I’m not a vegan. I try to make responsible choices about my food and clothing, but there are some situations where it is impossible. Running and biking do not come easy to the vegan. My seat is made of leather. I think my bike shoes have leather as well. I know my running shoes do. So, I will allow leninency the for workout stuff. But, in my everyday life, I am pretty strict about what I wear. If you have some crazy inclination to buy me a fur, silk, or a leather jacket, you can save your money. Fur is understood. Silk feels odd to me. And leather, well it’s just not that attractive to me.

This tangent does have a purpose. Go with me on this one. So, with my limitations on what I am willing to buy, trying to find cute shoes is a bitch. I don’t wear anything with a heel. Even a short heel will trip me up. Beyond my flop-flops, I don’t like open toed shoes. I like funky, fun-colored, flat shoes. I do love my stacks because they make me taller and I do have a slight Napoleon complex. Lately I’ve leaned towards shoes with a smaller sole. Rocket Dog is probably my favorite shoe maker. I went on their site to show you the shoes I bought, but they aren’t there. First of all they are brown. I haven’t had brown shoes since I was sixteen. They have this funky strap that pulls the shoe together and blue accents. They are uber-comfy and made of the same kind of micro-suede as my couch. Good stuff. So I am happy to report that I bought shoes without compromising my ethics.

I want another tattoo. I am going to get a full chest peice done so that I can fix the sisterhood knot and reinvigorate it with true sisterhood energy. The work around it is going to center on rebirth, the use of sacred flowers and names of those I love. Don’t worry, it’s not going to be tacky, but it is going to be beautiful. The other two peices I want are a full sleeve of leaves. Seemore inspired this one. I thought about having the stages of the seasons, from spring to winter (the Spring portion would start at my shoulder) but I want to incorporate other symbolic trees. So, that’s another work in progress in my brain. Then there is a the goddess image, but I explained that one already. D owes me a few images, but I won’t pester him until we get the money….

The past came forward this weekend. Jen, a former bartender from Barbarella’s was at Babo’s on Saturday. She looked great and was so happy to see D and I. She looked sort of surprised that we were married, but I think she probably knew that it would happen eventually. Then I found a birthday card from my former friend, Richard. I exited his life with a lot of harsh, mean words. Sometimes I am just such an ass. But you live and you learn.

With my pretty shoes I am going to get back to work.

I’m just tired.I am in work early today so I am able to get off at 3 in order to be at school for class at 4. I left D sleeping among the beagles. I wish I could have joined him.
I may be in over my head. The Editing Essentials class promises to kick my ass. Not because Lezlie Laws is such a beast, but because I know jack and shit about grammar. I am thankful that I did not take this class with the science as I had planned. The Fates push you in different directions. This time they were right to stall me. There’s no way in hell that I could have handled Editing Essentials (she mentioned a mathematical approach to language - eww) and the foreign language that is science. At least I know what a subject and verb are. From there, I am lost.

This semester started off with fervor. Vanya and I are due for our presentation in a few weeks. I also have a presentation due for Editing Essentials (now E.E. for short) in October. I love October. I hate presentations. I have reading due for E.E. Sheesh. I thought I could eke another weekend of freedom.

I love to write. I’m passionate about the written word, but I never write outside of class. I am going to go to grad school for writing, but I am starting to doubt that plan. What if I am a better editor than a writer? I know I have skill in manipulating text, but my style annoys me and nothing I do seems to change it. I feel shaken up, and more than a little scared of making a mistake with grad school. One step follows the next. You get your BA, and then you follow with you Masters. Is that the right choice? It’s what I’ve planned to do for years. But years ago things were different and I don’t want to hold on to an idea that may not fit who I am today. It’s going to take some soul searching and honest conversation with myself to go forward with this. Meanwhile, I am going to get my B.A. The rest can fall into place once that is done.

I’ve gotten to the point in my school career where the familiar faces fade into stranger.s My classes are no longer filled with people I’ve traveled through my Rollins career with. I don’t know their voices, their habits, their laughter, their way. When we had our break last night, I sat in the courtyard surrounded by conversations. They didn’t include me. I listened. I listened to the end of my college career in Orlando, and the strangers that move with me.

Enough contemplation. Just so you know, because I know you care - my smoothies are the best breakfast ever.

That is all. It’s time to go back to work. Happy Thursday.

I’m taking it in stride, the emotional, scholarly and physical challenges that have been cropping up. I don’t trust anything right now. School is fucking with my head (I ran out of money from the Stafford loan and have to borrow additional monies outside of school) and the continue limbo with my grade really makes me feel like I’m failing somehow. I’ve slacked before and I never took that Humanities class seriously, but now I think that even if I had, the grade would have been the same. Then there are the physical challenges. My back is pissing me off. After 2 solid days of rest, I feel a lot better, but you would be amazed how disabled you feel when your back really, truly hurts. I knew I was fucked when it hurt just above my tailbone. Ouch times 100. As a result, no running (except on Monday) no walking and no workouts. Pisses me off. And finally the emotional stress. It’s hard to realize that someone you trusted implicitly turns out to be a stranger. I’ve really thought things out over the last few weeks, but when I tell anyone the story, especially to my family, of what happened on the trip to Chicago, I am met with all kinds of disbelief. I don’t care what the other parties have said. Honestly, they are dead to me now. But that kind of action really shakes you up a bit. I’ve hesitated in talking about it because I realized that other people are involved in the degradation of this relationship on the fringes. This is not about bringing them into these feelings. What I am doing is expressing myself. I am pissed. I am hurt. I am amazed. And being left in Gainesville, while hallucinating, really unbalanced the trust I had for others. I really talked to my friends, re-examined them as individuals. There are some things that make me crazy. Some quirks and habits that make me want to scream. But then I put it in this context. Would they leave me in Gainesville in the middle of the night? It’s amazing how that question brings clarity and makes me appreciate those who are in my life. I realized this week that I’ve been kind of shitty to some of you. That I’ve not behaved as friends should, and I am very very sorry.

I want to find balance again. I miss school and the insane structure I find in my classes. I miss my family (specifically siblings…my parents are just too fucked for words) and I look forward to living near my sister again. There are so many things out there that I took for granted. Hopefully this week is the end of the bad shit that’s plagued me since before my birthday (we can call this the 4 weeks of hell). I am feeling better now, both physically and emotionally. D once told me that every day is a choice. It is. Today I am choosing to go to Pei Wei with D, and then to call my sister tonight. I am going to try out the Lush products I ordered (they are very….uhm…pungent) and I am going to bed early. And if I am very very lucky, then tomorrow will be better than today. And that, my friends, is a marked improvement.

I started this some months ago, but I finished it today…obviously it was meant to be bisected by time and experience.

What is it worth? This bind comes from an accidental consequence. Then, for a lifetime, we are family. But what does that bond allow? And is walking away from yet another family member wise? No harm has been done to me, at least not to the extent of my father’s influence. But this progression through acceptance pains. Sandpaper on sensitive skin, I’m raw from the realizations. I am the only one not interested in a conversation about negativity, emotional slights and the importance of planning. That’s not to say that I am the embodiment of perfect relationships. Like dinner, there’s enough to go around. You will hear within the walls far away, that they get it. “She’s unusual. A girl in the shape of a wanna-be. Yes, we just let her ramble at her leisure. Eventually she will come around to our side of the road.” The backbends they ask for are impossible for me. I can’t touch my toes, nor succumb to the will of the family.

I expect less of those accidental relationships than I did in the past. I held them up like trophies to be admired. I don’t know where the dirt came from. Perhaps I left them on the shelf too long, forgetting that it was my responsibility to keep them clean. The years have not aged them well. I don’t know if I have the energy to clean, polish and maintain them on my own. There is help in the kitchen and outside my house. Shouldn’t they bear the burden as well? Perhaps not. I’m too lazy, too angry to do it alone.

The conscious relationships I nurture, with friends far away and close to home, ring in my ears with a different but familiar timber. Colored touchstones with familiar blood distort and reform within the context of success and failure. How hard is it to cut the fabric? What does that bond allow? Is it temporary? Fair-weathered? The “accidental” consequence of friendship contorts into the almost-family that I made myself. Round fingers, tipped by chewed nails, bleed in the attempt to make the shards softer. Perhaps I wither beneath the whispers. “She is mundane and crazy. Give her room to hang herself, and prop her up only when she is about to pass. It’s better for both of you if she can’t be the hero.” But I wonder, shouldn’t you bear the burden as well? I am too angry and to lazy to try it alone.

Perfection exists in hopes and imagination. Truth, in fact, reveals little of the happily-ever-after in the movies and novelettes. I taste the bitterness of failure, of recognition spoiled by being taken for granted. It’s so easy to change things into success. I long for nothing more than polite consideration and true attention. If your next breath is meant to extol on the success of your new life, you will never hear what I have to say. Listening soothes nerves better than apologies. Presence in the moment does not equate to self-absorption. We all flounder in the shallow end of possibility. I will not allow myself to be beached and bleached to white. My darkness, mystery hovering within raw emotional behaviors, gives shade enough to scurry beyond this.

After much consideration, I’ve come to understand that accidental consequence and conscious choice are not all different. Wounds bleed regardless if the giver is blood of blood or blood of soul. But I have a band-aid for all things. The backbends are possible, but I will never be able to touch my toes, nor succumb to the will of one who is outside me. Good riddance and hello… for now.

Till beagles take your grumpy awaaaayyyy (sung to that beach boys song). For some reason I am very amused when someone re-makes a song, imbuing it with silly. D and I do that quite often. Or, we find the most obnoxious song possible and sing at the top of our lungs. D busted out with some lionel richie the other night. I just couldn’t top it.

I am trying to be the consitancy queen. Although I slept like the dead last night (yay meds!) I need to get my ass up every morning to at least walk the beasticles. Puck loves  sniffing the morning air, tracking cats that hide in the shadows. Pip likes to look for bits of trash, and run. God, that dog loves to run. After watching them stroll down the street, I’ve come to appreciate their different walks. Puck prances. Pip tanks, or stomps. Puck’s walk really has a bounce to it. Although he’s older and fatter (I’ve tried to stop with so many treats, but he gets me with those damn eyes….) he’s got a lighter step, and he walks with his tail raised. Pip, for all his youth and vigor, takes walking very seriously. He marches, like a little soldier. Unless we run, then he’s all wagging tongue and bouncy ears. People sometimes tell me that dogs (and all creatures, for that matter) don’t have personalities. All I have to say, is watch my dogs walk, and you will see their differences. I had a rough time last night, with mood swings and such, and Pip laid on top of my back when I was laying in bed. Puck rested beside me. That’s typical of my puppies. Puck wants to be your companion and Pip wants to love you to death. Divergernt personalities, but lots of love between them.

So, today is Thursday. I am going to have peeps over on Saturday. D and I thought about going to the Movie date thing at Leu Gardens tomorrow, but he has to finish his homework. I hope they have one next month. I would be very fun to walk down there, with a nice pick-a-nick (I love Yogi!) basket and a good bottle of wine. On Saturday, I am drinking Strongbow. It keeps me from having insta-hangover. I’m getting old. My poor body hates booze.

After the small celebrations on Saturday, I am re-committing myself to quitting smoking. It’s time. I can’t get a good run in while trying to constantly catch my breath. It just doesn’t happen. So, bye bye smokies. Hello lungs!

I should work now. really… I should… but I don’t wanna!!!

Fortune presents gifts not according to the book
Fortune presents gifts not according to the book
When you expect whistles its flutes
When you expect flutes its whistles

What various paths are followed in distributing honours and possesions
She gives awards to some and penitents cloaks to others
When you expect whistles its flutes
When you expect flutes its whistles

Sometimes she robs the chief goatherd of his cottage and and goatpen
And to whomever she fancies the lamest goat has born two kids
When you expect whistles its flutes
When you expect flutes its whistles

Because in a village a poor lad has stolen one egg
He swings in the sun and another gets away with a thousand crimes
When you expect whistles its flutes
When you expect flutes its whistles

Sometimes Dead Can Dance guides my little hand to happiness. This is for everyone searching. Because somtetimes it’s whistles and sometimes it’s flutes.

• Roadtrips are not all they are cracked up to be
• Not eating is a very bad thing.
• Sometimes taking a break is the hardest decision to make.
• People do stupid thing when they are tired.
• You have to remember to bring the battery for the camera if you intend on taking pictures.
• Dr. Pepper is not a meal.
• Showers are lovely and should be had more often.
• Gainseville is fucking scary at 2:30 in the morning.
• Tennessee is scary all the time (although the mountains are beautiful)
• Going 55-60 on major highways pisses off everyone on the road.
• Text messaging is fun.
• Camera phones are fun.
• Sleep is a necessity, not an option.
• My husband rocks.
• My Chrome bag should not be filled with electronics because it’s damn heavy.
• Flip-flops are dangerous according to the morons at OIA. (I wasn’t even wearing fun socks)
• Playing Bejeweled makes me happy.
• I don’t have a very good singing voice.
• There are Seemores all over the country.
• Deer are very pretty, although it made me damn nervous to see them on the side of the road.
• The soap in rest-stop bathrooms lingers on your hands for hours.
• There are some polite truckers on the road, but most of them are large and fast.

I am mostly recovered. When I got home (and during some of the trip) I had full on hallucinations. It was more than a little disturbing considering that I haven’t dropped acid for almost a decade. If I hadn’t had those experiences then I know I would have freaked out. Sometimes doing drugs is a good thing. Near as I can figure it was cause by the lack of sleep, not taking my meds and a bitchin case of dehydration (Dr. Pepper is not hydration). My eyes started to get very uneven when we hit the Florida line. I had a hard time focusing and the colors of the grass and the lights really brightened up. I had a dizzy spell and realized that I was screwed.  When I laid down to go to sleep I heard and saw things. Instead of waking D up, I went onto the porch and smoked a few cloves. I shouldn’t have, but I took my meds (it was waaaay late for me to take them) and I eventually fell into a very deep sleep. The auditiory hallucinations were the worst. I heard things in the engine of D’s car, and something singing from the fan (we sleep with a small fan that blows very loudly - it drowns out the cars going 95 down our street) and music coming from the street. I checked my cell phone twice because I thought I heard it ringing, and then I thought Voodoo knocked it onto the floor. I didn’t want to bother D, so I made my bed on the couch. When I went into the living room, I watched Valentine swirl and morph into strange animals, all the while still being Val. I know this sounds more than a little wierd, hell it was kind of fucked up when it was happening, but it didn’t scare me. It annoyed me. I also recognized the feeling of post-partying again. It wasn’t coming down from the drugs that bugged me, it was the dehydration and lack of sleep. At the tail end of the trip, I felt that familiar weariness. For some reason I never attributed that feeling to those things. But now I know.  So I take from this trip some lessons learned and I plan on applying those lessons to our move out west. Most importantly - you need to rest on long hauls like those. That, and Dr. Pepper really isn’t a meal.

I’m off to nap again…. home sweet home….

In working out the reason for my blue, I remembered my dream from this morning. We were at our house, but it was falling apart. There was a leak in the middle of the living room that kept rotting away the wood. We kept a carpet over it so none of the creatures fell through. Big holes were in the porch floor and the kitchen was falling to peices. The worst part though, the part that made me nearly weep when I woke, was having to cut down Seemore. Our landlady (remember, this is a dream) told me that he was in the way and I had to cut him down. I never touched his branches, I just cried…and then I woke up.

This dream could mean a lot of things. A magnification of what’s wrong with the house and why it doesn’t fit us perfectly. The fact that Seemore’s not my tree, not really, and I wouldn’t be able to protect him if someone did decide to cut him down. And things were different. Leu Gardens rose from behind a large, sharp, mean fence. It was topped with tall, rusty spikes. All of the old houses around us were gone. Big buildings squeezed to the edge of our property. It wasn’t home. A perversion of all the thiings that I love so much, but familiar enough to make it hurt like hell to struggle through the fog of that dream.

I woke up to jingling beagles, and restless cats. I am shedding this shade of blue. Seemore is safe and my living room is my favorite place in the world…and it’s something I can take with me where ever I go. I will find other trees to sing to, a new place to call home. I am sure my dreams will change with the passing of time. I am lucky to have another birthday, lucky have befriended a tree named Seemore. So, as a reminder to myself that moods pass and priorities should remain clear, I am going to state thirty things that I am grateful for. That should push the previous “woe is me” post down far enough that it won’t be as noticable.

1. D
2. Beagles
3. Kitties
4. The jewlery Vanya made for me.
5. My guide to morrowind.
6. Precious.
7. A nano to run with.
8. NPR in the morning.
9. meebo.com (the only way to chat!)
10. Pickles
11. Smoofies
12. Making words up as I go along
13. Frosties
14. Good books
15. that new program D got me to make my runsongs with
16. My bags…all 5 of them.
17. Lamictal and that pink pill I take (without it I am a little more…uhm, I think crazy works)
18. Being humble enough to ask for help.
19. The Witty Bitches (once you are a bitch, you are always a bitch)
20. My hair (silver strands and all)
21. Developing calf muscles
22. The promise of Portland
23. That I am mere months from graduation
24. The resdiscovery of my libido
25. Post-it notes (and those little flags they make)
26. A red couch.
27. Surround sound.
28. Vasectomies.
29. My fucking amazing friends!
30. ]Today and tomorrow and the day after.

I had this seriously twisted dream that Tali made D break up with me so that they could date. She ordered me out of my own home (it was some strange apartment that I’ve never lived in during the waking world) and then they went off to take a shower. David hung a note on his desk light, the one on his artist’s table and it said “Plato belived that any relationship, no matter the length, can be gotten over in two years… I hope it’s sooner for you. If you leave now, you can’t ever come back.” So I packed my bags. I had two small bags, old suitcases covered in faded tweed and a utility box with all of my gadgets… you know - the kind you put your screwdrivers, and nails and hammers and such. It was filled with my iPods, my camera, my chargers, my phone. I packed it all up and went outside. Rodney was standing there, and told me that I would be okay. Somehow I ended up in Boston (I’ve never been there) and found a place to stay, but it was summer and it started to snow. I was in a brick courtyard, trying to get my suitcases up the staris and the snow, big, fluffy, lazy flakes started to fall. I was on the second floor and saw that in the courtyard, which was full of huge oaks and sycamores stood Robert - one of my co-workers who had cancer. He has this hat he wears all the time. Straw, floppy, and he told me “It never snows here in the summer. You must be sad. Don’t despair. There’s a bike race in an hour” And walked off into the forest in the courtyard. Then I was on the street, with the bike race, but I didn’t have my shoes because they were still packed so I tried to ride my yellow bike (I guess Precious got a paint job) with reguar tennish shoes. I lost, terribly, but at the end stood David and Tali. Then I made myself wake up.

I told D about it this morning. He had the perfect response. “I love you and I would never do that to you.” I smiled broadly as I finished my shower, content in the fact that I love him and he loves me and I would kill Tali if she ever tried such a thing. D also said “Isn’t that againt some woman-creed..you know… you don’t take your friend’s partner?” I nodded… and I know that D isn’t Tali’s type and that, more importantly, she would never do such a thing. But the dream was so amazingly vivid. Little details, like the blue sharpie ink on that note and the sound and smell of my shower full of lavender soap. I knew it was a dream because there were no animals..and I knew that while I was dreaming it. Robert in the courtyard…probably one of the most amazing things I’ve seen. He was just a torso with his michevious smile surrounded by all of those trees. And the snow wasn’t cold. I love the shock of snow on my face.

_______________________________________________

I had a test last night for my History of American Film musicals - that I honestly don’t care about. I raced to Rollins on an extended lunch break in order to drop off my thesis…so that’s done.

And I played Morrowind last night. The first time in a month. I love crack.

Now it’s coffee time! wh00t!