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2001-10-18 / 11:33 p.m. ~I should be sleeping~ I want to go out tomorrow, so I should be in bed already, but I'm here instead. An interesting night of television behind me now. People drinking glasses of cow's blood on "Survivor" (why do those people look so clean?!), a decomposed body (body soup) on "CSI", and an impaled man, a dying boy, and accountability on "ER". Oh, and plenty of anthrax stories on the news, to push all the bombing stories to the side. Didja notice that? Oh yeah, we've killed a bunch of people in a desert landscape far, far away, nothing for you to worry about, just stay fearful of that which should not be feared, right here, at home, where everything matters. Anyone reading this, go read Francine's diary instead. She has such a good take on all of this, and she is far more articulate than I. She has this amazing clarity, this amazing ability to put it all into words, keep her sense of humor and irony, and write an entertaining entry all at the same time. But I start to feel positive, and something brings me back down, there's something there that won't let me have hope, for anything, and I'm not talking about the world now, nor this country, nor anyone, but me. Too many memories flooding me, inside, too much complacency mixed with desire. Clearly my subconscious wants to work it all out, but that's the only place where things are worthwhile, truly. In dreams it all happens, all that needs to happen. In reality it's just marking time. I have a recurring theme dream, at least one. This one is heavy, it's me at my old house, the only place I've lived for more than 4 years. The place I lived with both my mother at one point, and my father, at another. And both got sick and died, both were sick there, both lay sick and near death, there. I had sex there, for the first time. I got my first cat. We had lots of cats, and they all died. I was there stoned, tripping, drunk, sick, healthy, in pain, loving, hating, growing, changing. I was a vegetarian there. It was just me and my Mom. Later it was just me and my Pop. Not together. They were not together. Cancer filled that house. In the dream I'm there, again. I live there, or my Mom is there, and she's back, and I say, Wait a sec, you're dead, right? Or my Pop is there, and it's the same thing. And he's sick and he can't care for himself, so I have to cook or clean. Or I'm just there, and there's always the realization that I'm there. Sort of, Oh, fuck, I'm here, again, why this time, what is it now, why do I keep coming back? It's not our house any longer, it's sold, years ago it was sold. Why? Invariably I go to my room, and all my "stuff" is there, and I see that as THE metaphor for the entire dream. Obviously, I have issues, I have "stuff", psychological stuff there, in that house, all these years later. But in the dream it manifests as physical belongings, my childhood things, the things I've left in a storage locker, things I leave sit, I've left sit, for 10 years. TEN years, I write a check every month, rent. The other night I had a breakthrough. I dreamed I was there again, in my room, assessing my "stuff", in my room, and there was someone there, a woman, a maid?, and she had cleaned my room, washed the coverlets on the twin beds, they were wool, not any I'd actually owned, never seen them, but they'd been dry cleaned, everything packed, in boxes, the wood floor shiny, cleaned. I said, Okay, so all I have to do is come back with a truck then, right? I can just load it up and take it away, it's all ready to go, right? Right. Next dream. And I wonder if I will take it all away the next dream, or if I'll be back in that ridiculously shag-carpeted kitchen again, before my brother refinished it, put in lineoleum. If I'll be opening the fridge again, saying, "Pop, haven't you gone shopping? How long has that lettuce been in the veggie bin?", or looking in the bathroom, disgusted, thinking, Oh, fuck me, I need to clean this place! Or, standing in the living room, asking myself, What am I DOING here? I want to be rid of this place. Yes, every major event of my adolescence, my formative years, occurred while I lived there, important people in my life died while I lived there, things happened there, I'll never forget any of it, but Jesus, can't my brain let it go? I'd rather dream of love, or maybe one of the other recurring themes, like the flexibility dream. The one where I'm figure skating, or running, or stretching, my forehead to my knees, resting there, holding, stretching, and there is no effort, but it feels so good. Or I'm on a beach, outside somewhere, running, effortless, just running, because I can. It's not anthrax, I'm not scared. I have no fear. It's a ploy. All of it is surreal to me now, and I don't care. I just wonder if I'm going to actually go out tomorrow, if I'll be sick because I ate bacon, eggs and grits at 11:00 at night. If I'll be too tired and blow off my own plans with myself. Will I let myself down, one more time? Sorry, hon, I've got a headache, I don't feel like it, I'm tired. Fuck you, ME, fuck you, I really wanted to go out tonight, you, I, promised! No promises, only penciled-in plans. Hockey, by myself, in a crowd of strangers, on a Friday night, my favorite club for a tribute party, a tribute to the previous owner, the man who died of cancer. The young, tall, Chinese Swede. He always came around asking if all was well, back when it was in the basement of the seedy hotel in the seedy neighborhood on the seedy Midtown street. Now it's underground, literally, and still someone has to tell you where it is. "THAT'S it?". Um, yeah. I feel I need to get out, get altered, go for a change, and if nothing comes of it, if I don't talk to anyone, if I just get out and dance by myself, like Provisional sometimes does, then so be it. I've got to find a part of me that's missing, a part I set aside and can't remember where. Maybe I'm still back there, at that house, with my "stuff". Maybe I put me aside way back then, or I've really been dead since then, something along the lines of that movie I just saw, last weekend, for the second time, that fucked up movie, "Jacob's Ladder". I do need to be sleeping. I have a long day tomorrow, and it should all start with her, not talking to me, seeing anthrax when she sees me, or bombing when she sees me, and she'll sit and whisper to the temp again, and I will wonder what they're whispering about, think it's me. She didn't talk to me all day today, not at all. I need to curl up, lose consciousness. Cost of the War in Iraq
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