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Wednesday, Mar. 10, 2004 / 8:02 p.m. ~Moon In Scorpio~ A portion of a dream I had last night just popped in my head, for no reason of which I'm aware, but it was really strange, and at the time I was trying to formulate my own conscious thoughts, so it was unwelcome. And, as soon as it appeared, it is now completely gone. Note, it was disturbing. I've slept quite well the past few nights, speaking of sleeping, but I still do the trick with setting the alarm clock early, waking upon its annoying buzzing, and resetting it, twice, maybe three more times before I finally get up. It is during these fitful last gasps of dream life that I am the most cognizant, practically in the lucid dreaming state. But lately, nothing. Nothing has been retained in my conscious mind, it's just the seepage that distracts me. Dream seepage. I have yet to turn on the television. No CBS news, no Uncle Dan Rather, live from Baghdad, no adult diaper, laxative, Viagra, drugs, drugs, drugs commericals, nothing but the sound of the washing machine, the dryer spinning, the sound of my own fingers hitting these keys. There was music, but it distracted, so it's temporarily off. I'm downloading more Me'Shell Ndegeocello, because I can't seem to get enough of her. My belly is full of potstickers and garlicky dumpling sauce. I am sated. And I came home to yet another notice at my door, of yet another inspection, for mortgage purposes, or so it says, a random inspection, no one will know until it happens, and if you are not home, you won't even know, unless you're totally anal retentive, borderline obsessive compulsive, and you can tell when someone has entered your apartment by the way the nap of the carpet lies in the impression of footprints, real or imagined. You can tell. I am often tempted to do the James Bond hair from door to door jam trick, but I've yet to go that far. I just set everything so damned perfectly one stray breath will upset the balance, and... I can tell. So it is I am running a couple loads through the wash, in preparation for someone opening the door to my laundry slash utility room and seeing the grand pile there. It shall hereafter be less of a pile. The dishes need washing as well, and the bathroom has not changed yet from needing a good scouring to not needing one, the toilet is still running, and I still have one of those tampon instruction/warning manuals all folded up to prop the floater arm so that it does not drip/run quite so badly. So loudly. So obviously. I've told myself I cannot possibly place the call for maintenance until I've thoroughly cleaned that room, and yet I'm so awfully tired after work, it simply doesn't happen. So, it runs and drips and I prop. The instruction/warning manual just happened to be on hand. You know, when you're looking around, asking yourself, What can I use to prop this thing up, just a bit, shouldn't be metal, shouldn't be of any value, hey, what what? Perfect. Yeah, that sort of thing. Another inspection, and I'm not so very worried this time. I could hardly care any less, this time. Come in, sit down, watch the TV, check out my underwear drawer, there are some date oatmeal cookies in the fridge, help yourself. Feel free to pick up a cloth and do some dusting while you're here, it sure as hell needs it. Thanks muchly. Oh, and inspect away. For 'mortgage purposes', nudge, nudge, wink, wink, sure, I get it. No TV is so nice right now. I like to mix things up a bit. The artist responded to my nasty email of last night, very hurt, and rightfully so, as I was horrible. I can be so damned mean. I am sorry, but it was what I felt. And he was evasive as ever, until I responded to his response and pointed out said evading on his part, at which point he wrote back many little lies which belie his true character, but what do I know really of his true character? I could picture him, er, hear him laughing through every confession of being happy to talk to me, being excited on the phone, so excited he interrupts, and of being moody and needing to clean his space in that moment, to the point that he refused to meet me on Saturday because cleaning was the priority, but assures me yes, he does want to meet face to face. How many weeks have I been hearing this? And you know what? All my thoughts are filled with someone else. It would take a lot to pull me away from where my daydreams have been taking me. Right then, just now, just a few seconds ago, between that paragraph and this one, I leaned back against the 'ladder back' portion of this chair, rested my head, looked at the wall of framed photos, my mother, her mother, her grandmother, her grandfather, me as an infant in my christening gown, my father's diploma from the Sorbonne, my Tarzhay lamp I love so much, and I felt total calm and peace. Relaxed. I ran my tongue around my mouth and tasted the heat from the garlic juice in the dumpling sauce, felt the swell of my belly just by the way the elastic of my flannel pants' waist is stretching with it, and I stop to think how calm this is. I don't feel the urgency, I don't feel the insanity, the need to convince anyone, the need to confess directly, I feel slow, introspective, quiet, soft, it feels soft. This feeling, this being filled with it, it feels soft and calm and quiet. I want to curl up with it, just stroke it slowly this feeling. I imagine the future, and I pull back to be here, right here and now, there is no future, and I wouldn't destroy any sense of calmness now with hope. It's all inside, and I keep it locked there, no one knows. It's possible the detachment is there in just the right increments, the right amounts stored, and anything left as hope or dreams is only floating above. Only I have any idea what I'm talking about, I know. The moon is in Scorpio, suffice to say. I suppose I feel it. I want to be secretive and I want to sink into the deepest waters of myself. Yet, I may just turn the TV on to watch "Kingdom Hospital" or whatever it's called. Just may. And let them inspect, all randomly and such. Note to self, leave Post-It on door to indicate presence of shut-in feline companions. Cost of the War in Iraq
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