andrea, and snow…

i’ve been dreaming andrea into a lot of dreams….

there’s a sort of disconnection from the real world going on right now, that feeling of all the kitestrings being pulled waaay too tight – and i’m hiding box cutters behnd my back and sighing and wondering what to do, because there aren’t that many strings left and who knows if it’s the eggshell dome sky or  holiday loneliness or typical winter melancholy clouding my judgement as to whether i should slash the strings or wait…. ugh too much purple prose.

for three, i do not hold the blade. andrea, not for you. a—-, i love you, come back when you’re ready and send pictures of your cats in the meantime if you get the chance.  m—, you may or may not hold scissor of your own, but i’m happy to let you drift in and out as you please.

in the dreams, i can see the scenes i want to write, and sometimes andrea is wearing the corset with the red yarn laces that run up the side, over top the places where the scars would be – and other times i pass her while i run down the street, she’s at an iron table reading a newspaper, posture flawless, and i think  “hey, that’s…”  but whatever i’m chasing takes precedence and i run on, barefoot.

h— is troubling. i believe she is attacking the string with a chainsaw, trying to make sense of her world by eliminating disagreeable people. and i keep plucking at the string, seeing what will happen. sending mixed vibrations down the line to louisiana, thinking “maybe if i were MORE offensive, she’d pick up the phone…”

i’ve found some new strings, and i’m half-heartedly tugging, trying to keep emotional investment out of it at this juncture. k—, with the use of candles, pulling you slowly into my orbit if possible… and m—, we just dropped the string for many years. i’m jiggling rather than pulling.

all of you shall be written in. each in your own shop, in a town that doesn’t exist, each with a list of words or phrases that will emerge if prompted by the yank of a string or the twist of a key.

boring melancholy!! but no emotion fits wet december as snugly. like a latex glove. on an embalmer. in a mint green room in the basement.


so andrea, what’s up? how is life? do you OWN a corset, and will you be in town for the holidays?  i have a new book for you, and wonder if there’s a knot in the string somewhere, or a snag…. 

Day 3

2nd shift is a bitch to get used to. harder than i thought. the mornings are great, but adam is adjusting to daylight savings time and resenting the hell out of me for being not-daddy at bedtime, so it’s rough. strange and rough. i don’t have any sort of pattern yet. it feels like saturday morning then eric LEAVES.

no writing to speak of, but that will come. i’m cooking two things – one is for heather and the other is a more appropriate continuation for chapter4, bridget’s backstory is falling around her in bits and pieces and snatches of overheard conversation – i’m nearing a split that is not going to be nearly as complicated as i was trying to make it. forget the fancy tricks, i’m just going to tell the story and move things around if i feel like it once it’s out.

kiddo is singing lady gaga to ponyo. it’s 10:30. gah.

i nap with him, i’m spoiled siesta-wise. 

i dreamed i had sex with justin timberlake and got pregnant, and all of this was happening in sort of a 50’s-era surf movie, and he was very “i want a baby, i’ve been ready” (who knew??) and i was standing on a beach in a pink two-piece and had a really fabulous ponytail. i was 3 equal parts divided: “oh no! social mores, out of wedlock,  just one time and i’m pregnant, what a 50s PSA i am!”  and one third “i am fucked. is eric going to kill me, or is he going to be very joseph to my mary with this whole having justin timberlake’s baby thing?” and one third “what a bullseye. what a good-looking kid this will be. one night stand to lifetime of involvement, this won’t be bad.” i think i’m kind of a bad person in my dreams. anyway, i woke up during the sunset beach conversation feeling very weird about the whole thing as my 3 yr old was still asleep next to me…

the trees are budding, the birds are back, the grass is greening.


love song for my (not that) faraway love:


i have a very cliche sense of  foreboding, accomanied by a very cliche lump in my throat (but that could just be sleeping sans cold pills and the difficulty in that). woke up all the way with eric this morning, had much conversation and um, yeah, so we talked for awhile and i told him i didn’t want him to go – i don’t know if it’s because i was awake with him and that caused a sense of gravity for the 5am time, or if i was awake because of the gravity of the sense of foreboding. i told him as much but he said he just had too much to do. it occurred to me that the delay of him could not only have offset the schedule of real/imagined doom, but may have in fact SET OFF the schedule of real/imagined doom.

i fell back to sleep hearing him taking out the trash and thinking what an awful last thing that would’ve been to do at your home if you never came back, and wondering if he’d looked in on adam before he left.

then dreamed. dreamed i was scully, and mulder and i were investigating murders at a trailer camp rental motel type place – we got there at night and got seperate trailers (seriously rancid little boxes with no water or bathrooms) in the mulder and scully style, and i inspected the whole place – dark blue dirty curtains in a square sort of habitat, with a kitchen-like area to one side with gold/yellow dirty linleum counters and an unconnected sink, empty cabinets, and a living room area to the other side, with a foot wide strip of brown shag and yellowed curtains above a tv that didn’t work, the kind with rabbit ears on a tray. but it was all just indications of seperate rooms to give the illusion of an actual suite – it was really just an unmade bed in the center of the small place with the purely decorative “other room” areas flanking the unmade bed in the couple feet of space on each side of the bed. the door to the bathroom opened to outside, to a field behind the trailer park.

i undressed and got into bed (with my gun on my chest) – the sheets were green flannel and the pillowcases were faded pink flowers – it occurred to me after i was already in that the sheets were probably dirty and i wondered what in hell had made me get down to my skivvies and into the damned bed in the first place, but a lucid me-voice inside my scully-head reminded me that i was in the x-files and mulder was in the next trailer and the episode was probably constructed in a way that mulder would see me in my white undies at some point. i was lying there on the dirty pillow contemplating the pros and cons of getting back up to dress (i had already touched the sheets) and trying to remember if i’d deadbolted the door, and was thinking the door should have a chainlock instead of a deadbolt, when i started hearing noises under the trailer. i got up and dressed quickly, pointing my gun at the floor and doing other scully-like things, and there was pouding on the door and i yelled asking who but couldn’t hear through the door, was afraid to open it with no chain lock, more pounding under the floor, and at the door, i finally opened the door and it was mulder, and we immediately began yelling at each other about the ridiculousness of no chain locks being on the doors.

there was some sort of transition that was very spooky, walking across the field and there was fog, a few fireflies scattered, and a big house. it was unlocked and sort of hotel-like, very modern functional, browns and tans that don’t show dirt. we immediately became seperated.

i ended up at the top of a long staircase and knocked on a door, and when it opened it was billy c– and i was me again, but still had a gun. he was surprised to see me, but told me about some sort of event going on that i don’t remember now that made it not THAT odd to run into each other.  he was playing a game on a huge flatscreen and had an open suitcase. there were photos in it, and he said he’d brought them to have copies made and wanted to know if i wanted copies as i was in all of them. they were candid group shots, and i didn’t recognize anyone in the photos, and didn’t see myself OR him in any of them, until he pointed me out in the corners or between people or behind people, just a shadow or fraction of me, like in every movie that the killer is discovered in a stack of photos. above his bed was a row of photos, all of girls we went to highschool with, all in the same position, stretched on their backs with their ankles folded and one arm up by their heads, face toward the camera. all the pictures were of the bed and sheets in my trailer (i know- dunh dunh DUNH!), and i asked billy where they came from and he said they were up when he got there, and i became immediately certain all the girls were dead (and not necessarily SAD about that, there wasn’t a lot to lose in those photos, just to be perfectly honest about my internal shrug in the dream about the deaths themselves) but i was already changing back into scully, and i turned to billy very dramatically and yelled “WHERE’S MULDER?” and he cracked up.  i ran into the hallway and was pointing my gun left then right down the hall when i heard adam say “mommy, it’s time to wake up.”

still the lump in my throat, and no email back from eric but that’s not odd if he is where i think he is and there are no computers or time to check them.

i blame jane s– for the dream but not the foreboding. the dream was just a very interesting and layered manifestion of dread feelings and many X-files conversations over the last few days.

i wish eric had stayed home. i’m off to make more coffee.

sleep revelations

i slept. like the dead, like a rock, like as close to sleeping and not ever waking up again that you can get – and still wake up. at 7 adam woke and i got up with him, and eric got out of bed and said i could go back to sleep. i threw off the worry of residual guilt and the inherent have-to-do-everything-or-suffer-guilt strings and just went back to bed.

for three and a half hours i was completely unconscious in the most meaningful way. i feel like that entire time, my subconscious was working through every little and big preoccupation i’ve avoided in waking and sleeping hours.

dreamt i was a spy, dreamt heather was living at my mom’s and answered the phone when i called, i wasn’t expecting it. dreamt a million other things i don’t remember. woke at ten-thirty, flat on my back, arms folded across my chest like in the coffin, and felt like i’d just been unplugged from whatever vein to the universe pumps in the feelings of smallness and significance and simplicity and general enlightenment that can only be garnered when licking the iceberg.

i can’t avoid missing my sister and feeling cheated and dumped by her, by trying to manage and maintain everyone else’s feelings and brains and moods and therefore avoiding thoughts about my own. i can’t control the chaos of the universe by creating order in housework – no one i love judges me by the state of my domestic self and i won’t feel anymore in control with a spotless house.

at some point i have to breathe.

puppies and christmas trees and other wholesome shit. and starfish.

christmas tree up. puppies born, all 10 of them. well, originally 11……

 i have numerous pictures of these things, which i will post at a later time, most  likely tonight or tomorrow.

i just want to sleep. amphibian in me. my bloodstream is filling with glucose, and soon i will freeze in suspended animation until… until…? huh. christmas eve? spring? maybe just tomorrow.

adam thinks china and vagina are the same word, so that’s making for some interesting conversation.

my greatest wish is for 48 hours alone, to sulk, read, sleep on and off, write, watch House of 1,000 Corpses in 10 minute spurts alternating with Memento and Titus, and the entire time i would have perfect assurance through telepathy that my husband and son were happy and healthy and having a fabulous time in Disneyland or something.

okay so that’s not my GREATEST wish, but it would be nice. it’s 2nd on the list. one girl knows what first on the list would be, but it’s a selfish and impossible wish.

dreamed the two of us went to the beach again, and there was snow everywhere – snow even on the beach, but the water that washed up was warm, melting the snow on the sand as it touched it. the air was freezing and the key was to undress and get into the warm seawater as quickly as possible. starfish were washing up in the surf and we were tossing them back in fast as we could so they wouldn’t freeze. there were frozen starfush, dusted in snow, scattered on the beach. the worst was when you stepped on one and felt it break and mash into the sand under your foot. so we stood, wrapped in towels after the swim, our breath visible, chucking starfish back into the water as fast and far as we could. it felt like a noble and pointless endeavor. like we were doing our best at accomplishing absolutely nothing, but unable to give up hope. we swam to warm up, then wrapped up and walked the beach for starfish, over and over. we were still throwing starfish in the blowing snow, in our bathing suits with blue feet, when i woke.

(photo from Smithsonian blog)

Ketch & Yoko

chalk up another to my “almost get to have sex with someone (semi)famous” dream affliction.

dreamed amy and i were in athens to see old crow, super-exclusive tickets to a very small venue where they were filming a concert video for release – we ran into mitch and told him we’d sneak him in with us, we were front row and figured we’d just go right up front and if there was an extra seat next to us he could just confidently sit in it and it woud be no problem – this turned out to be exactly how it worked out.

the place was super small, with those old-fashioned chipped wood fold-down seats of an old theater at a super steep angle, i’d guess 100-max capacity.

in the course of settling ourselves i spotted the side door to the left of the stage and managed to weasel my way confidently back there (as is my way) after explaining where i was going to amy & mitch. there were only a couple people in the “backstage” area, it was more like a plain waiting room type area with generic dark green upholstered chairs and a long table with snacks and a coffee pot on it, i struck up a conversation with ketch (main objective from the beginning of course, go right for the money – money not meaning money of course money meaning dick – shameless me) and i remember he laughed and was nice and flirty and we talked and he remembered meeting me from  long ago (i’m so damned MEMORABLE and effortlessly charming in my dreams, these people are powerless to resist me), notably a real life concert in athens at the blue gator in  2006 when i honestly had managed to weasel my way  backstage through sheer honest politeness and hang out with the band for the half hour before they went on – to namedrop even more, the kid that goes by the name Woody Pines now and just introduced himself as Woody then was also there and he ended up guesting with them onstage playing washboard and harmonica, but that’s enough real-life BACK TO THE DREAM – anyway, ketch remembered me, we were talking, there was arm-touching of that hubba hubba flirty way, but what got me and made me think he LIKED me and the conversationing was that he took the styrofoam cup of coffee from my hand and poured it into a mug, things like that strike me as kind as opposed to just get-in-your-pants, and the mug was red and ended up on the table, i missed my coffee later, but i digress…

it was closer to concert time and more people were occupying the backstage area and suddenly a dumpy blonde yelled at me from across the room to stop hitting on her husband – i’m not going to play dream-ignorant and say i was unaware in my subconscious of the existence of lydia peelle, but my dream was UNKIND to her appearance, her arms were not in fact her low point – and everyone around got this embarassed sort of vibe and kept conversing though it was at a lower decibel, and i was incredibly brave and turned and asked what she wanted or something equally neutral and she said she was the WIFE and the mother of his CHILD and she wanted me OUT there was going to be a concert and they were trying to get ready and suddenly everyone was on edge and i told her that she wasn’t a member of the band and if i was to leave then her husband should tell me so and i would gladly return to my seat, and i whispered sort of out of the side of my mouth to him to aske me nicely to leave, because i remember feeling it was very important that i not back down to her, it was bizarre. so he sort of apologized quietly and she started to yell and he said “maybe you should go, we’re getting ready to start” and she was yelling and someone was escorting her out, too.

got back to my seat (sans coffee) and amy and mitch asked me what the hell was going on and i said i’d been hitting on ketch and his wife came in and started yelling (i remember laughing while relating this, and mitch was very lowdown in his seat expressing extreme guilt on his face for his stolen seat, he even had a toboggon low on his head, but amy was laughing with her hands over her mouth)  and as the band was coming onto stage some people came and asked us to leave, and we were a bit confused but the lights were going down and the audience was clapping and i knew they were filming so we went, and in the lobby the manager was there and the wife, and everyone seemed to want to know the deal and the wife (dumpy redneck subconscious-loathing version of lydia peelle) started yelling at me again telling me to leave, she was responsible for us being escorted out.

the manager lost it and started yelling at her about always starting this shit and blah blah and to shut up about the father of her child, everyone knew the baby wasn’t his etc etc, there was a very jerry springer-like scene in the lobby and it became clear this whole thing was the LAST THING the manager was going to take, this fight had been long-brewing and i was morbidly satisfied i had been the catalyst.

i also realized during the fighting that the concert was NOT still going and the doors to the mini-auditorium were open and the rest of the audience was hearing everything, and the band was off the stage, and the manager was apologizing to us and telling us to go back to our seats and as we went in the wife yelled “if she’s going to be here this concert is not happening!” and the manager yelled back “you’re not in the band, so what you think doesn’t matter!” and the doors were slamming and there was confusion and i was talking to ketch again at the foot of the stage, he was apologizing and asking me to not leave after, not leave, explain, talk, blah blah, and the concert organizers were apologizing onstage to the audience, explaining that they were going to start over from the entrance because of the filming, and the lights went down and the band went backstage, and it was all starting over….

and here’s the kicker – the 3 of us were incredibly happy with the way things were turning out, until halfway through the show when the venue people came in and kicked all three of us out for stealing a VIP seat!!! priceless and hilarious, right? amy and i were laughing and mitch was NOT as they physically walked us out through the dark theater and i was wondering how on earth i was going to get back in after the concert….

that’s all i’ve got. we were bundling up in our winter gear in the lobby surrounded by security and laughing when i woke up.

A Motley Crew

Dream a Lil Dream


everything in the house smells like gasoline this morning,  i keep lighting candles with contradictory scents. it isn’t my fault, i dreamed i went to a re-enactment (found the envelope with heather’s brickhouse measurements right before i went to bed) and only about half the people knew it was fake – big plantation house, not enough staff. simon baker thought it was real, he “lived” there.. there was something about who the baby belonged to, i kept trying to tell the melodramatically distraught grey-clad governess that it wasn’t real, but there were a couple of old women in touristy sweatshirts that chastised me over and over for ruining it.

dinner was poisened. several people actually died, and several people that hadn’t paid for the dinner inclusion thought it was spectacular. gaslighting after dark, and little by little the smell of gasoline, everywhere and on everything. after dark in the yard, crickets, dew on the ground, late, rose byrne/governess with a cardboard box of rags and a box of matches, and i yelled “they’ve soaked your clothes, don’t you realize they knew what you would do?” and she lit the match and the box caught and her skirt, and i was yanking and tearing at her clothes while she screamed and i screamed, and when she was finally naked and the box blazed and i was lost between real/fake, all the people that had gathered on the lawn were clapping, including simon baker and the old women in their keds.

i punched simon baker over and over in that ineffectual girly lower-arms-involved way, but woke up before anything was resolved.

still smells like gas.

an organic dream recasting of Henry & June?

copy & paste from email to andrea this morning:

“it’s largely faded over 2 hrs of morning things, but to tell you before it ALL faded…
dreamed you and i went to n— to see m—, and somewhere along the way in the arrangements he came to believe WE believed he was very poor and not doing well, through rumor or intuition or paranoia, not clear. only that when we arrived everything was fine and welcoming and very not awkward and we all seemd to be getting along fine, then little by little we began to notice all these ridiculous over-obvious signs and fronts he was putting up to show in what he thought was a subtle way that he was NOT in fact poor, or starving, or failing, but doing quite well. like, the apartment was just a regular apartment, minorly cool, average you know smallish with narrower windows, brick outer wall, high up, old wood flooring like in older apt buildings slightly uneven with a creak here and there, imperfect paint that was too bright in some areas from white being touched up, slapdash touchup, pretty wood baseboards but smeared with paint from touch-ups.

the kitchen/living room was divided by an island/bar type with that deep red, flecked-looking old-fashioned linoleum, but i remember a partial wall off to the left somewhere made of different colored translucent glass, and a big greasy-leaved plant in front of it. like things a guy would get to seem hip/domestic. this part seemed slapdash. we had put down our bags and taken off winter coats and you were sitting on the living room side of the island/bar on a tall stool/chair, i was slightly back in the living room settling onto the edge of a red velvet chair that used to be in my grandma’s house – i had time in the dream to absorb all this because m— was on the kitchen side of the bar, bustling around what seemed excitedly, and i was just on the verge of relaxing and thinking it was going to be a nice visit, and looking around (your hair was in a ponytail and you had on big silver rings, i was wearing very tall burgandy boots and a very similiar jumble of rings as yours. the suitcases were near me, they were black and exactly medium-sized and identical.

then m— stood upright on the other side of the bar, and i realized he was very nervous and wearing a dark suit with a bowtie, and holding a bottle of wine – he told us the year of it so that we would know it was very old and therefore expensive – that was when i began to understand what was going on. the round mirror that he’s always had (that looks like the sun) was over his shoulder in the kitchen, but when i glanced back over my shoulder there was a new very large black tv turned off, it seemed out of place like the hip glass wall and plant and suit and bottle of wine…. i got a sinking feeling in my stomach and tried to send you telepathic messages of what i was realizing but you were busy doing the same thing i was – looking around, but you seemed to be getting an odd vibe, too.

he opened the wine and we had it in uninteresting perfectly appropriate wine glasses – no one seemed to want it, it was all show, we just stayed quietly holding glasses and you suggested we go to dinner, mainly to break the silence i think. i agreed, and we simultaneously told him we would treat him to dinner – laughing talking at the same time, ‘let us treat you to dinner’ as a thank you for his hospitality, but he took it completely the wrong way and insisited he could pay, he was angry, he said he was plenty able to pay for us all to go somewhere nice for dinner and he was turned away from us, bustling angry, with all these money things to prove… you and i looked at each other in a sort of “what will we DO?” sort of way, but timeflash and we were walking on the sidewalk in the snow and m— wasn’t angry and we were going to a small bar around the corner and i knew some discussion my mind skipped had mended things for the time being, then we were in a very busy tavernish place with small tables and a crowd and m— was drunk next to me at the bar (for a moment it was a bar in portsmouth, i remember that now the name of it had manatee somewhere in it), his suit sleeve was touching my jacket sleeve and there was a hole in the elbow of his suit and he was telling me he was NOT poor, why did everyone think he was poor, and i knew he wanted me to tell you this, make you understand it, but i also knew you were at a table near the corner and i wanted to stop him talking so we could find you – it gets blurry here, just a jumbled bar scene.
oh my god i understand, i just read henry & june, the whole thing makes sense now…. WOW that was completely organic, how WEIRD……”