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mallorys_cameraKept waking up at intervals throughout the night. So, many, many dreams.
Over the past couple of weeks, my dreams seem to have evolved into something for which, quite literally, there are no words in the English language. Possibly, there are no words in any human language. I wake up, and they’re there in all their swirling, alien montage-hood, but then I instantly forget them because I can’t describe them.
Interspersed within the parts that defy description, there are bits that are recognizable.
Thus, last night BB and I got married—this despite the fact that while I love BB dearly, I’ve never felt the slightest attraction toward him that way. And I knew this in the dream. So, I couldn’t figure out why we were getting married.
Then I broke my phone. I crushed it in a little paroxysm of—oh, I don’t even know what you would call it. Part of the reason I’ve always suspected I’m not quite neurotypical is because I occasionally summon up these… spasms… where I’m transported into my internal landscape and everything around me disappears. The episodes are completely under my conscious control, so not pathology as such. I suspect some sort of willful dissociative phenomenon. Anyway, they’re always accompanied by a kind of somatic clench.
Thus, in the dream, I clenched, and the phone shattered.
I threw it away.
Now, you’ll never be able to talk to anybody you know again, I thought. Because all your contact information was on your phone.
The thought did not displease me.
###
In honor of the day, here’s my mother in 1956:
To me, she looks much older than 22 in this photo.
I can’t figure out whether that’s because she really does look older or because the styling in the black and white photo—the pageboy haircut, the mid-calf skirt, and above all else, the weird placement of the feet—reminds me of what middle-aged ladies used to look like in my childhood.
###
What else?
As per plan, I did nothing but read all day yesterday. I finished the Kellerman novel (Serpentine). Most ridiculous plot ev-ah! But great fun nonetheless, and I was very proud of myself for not pausing mid-paragraph to go off and discover a cure for cancer out of cat food and Arm & Hammer washday detergent, or score Adderall on the Dark Web and write the Great American Novel in 36 hours, or some such.
Oh, wait.
Scratch that.
I did do one errand: I picked up L’s bday cake.
The line at La Delicioza was very long, so I amused myself by going into into full Art Photo™ mode and also by making up a story about a world run by vegan totalitarians where bakeries like this one are strictly verboten, and I am risking 20 years in the Reeducation Camp by standing in this line:
The exterior of La Delicioza is deliciously shabby. You’d never know it was there. Unless you knew it was there.
It is gloriously sunny and blue-skyed this morning, so I must reactivate the To Do list.
Over the past couple of weeks, my dreams seem to have evolved into something for which, quite literally, there are no words in the English language. Possibly, there are no words in any human language. I wake up, and they’re there in all their swirling, alien montage-hood, but then I instantly forget them because I can’t describe them.
Interspersed within the parts that defy description, there are bits that are recognizable.
Thus, last night BB and I got married—this despite the fact that while I love BB dearly, I’ve never felt the slightest attraction toward him that way. And I knew this in the dream. So, I couldn’t figure out why we were getting married.
Then I broke my phone. I crushed it in a little paroxysm of—oh, I don’t even know what you would call it. Part of the reason I’ve always suspected I’m not quite neurotypical is because I occasionally summon up these… spasms… where I’m transported into my internal landscape and everything around me disappears. The episodes are completely under my conscious control, so not pathology as such. I suspect some sort of willful dissociative phenomenon. Anyway, they’re always accompanied by a kind of somatic clench.
Thus, in the dream, I clenched, and the phone shattered.
I threw it away.
Now, you’ll never be able to talk to anybody you know again, I thought. Because all your contact information was on your phone.
The thought did not displease me.
###
In honor of the day, here’s my mother in 1956:
To me, she looks much older than 22 in this photo.
I can’t figure out whether that’s because she really does look older or because the styling in the black and white photo—the pageboy haircut, the mid-calf skirt, and above all else, the weird placement of the feet—reminds me of what middle-aged ladies used to look like in my childhood.
###
What else?
As per plan, I did nothing but read all day yesterday. I finished the Kellerman novel (Serpentine). Most ridiculous plot ev-ah! But great fun nonetheless, and I was very proud of myself for not pausing mid-paragraph to go off and discover a cure for cancer out of cat food and Arm & Hammer washday detergent, or score Adderall on the Dark Web and write the Great American Novel in 36 hours, or some such.
Oh, wait.
Scratch that.
I did do one errand: I picked up L’s bday cake.
The line at La Delicioza was very long, so I amused myself by going into into full Art Photo™ mode and also by making up a story about a world run by vegan totalitarians where bakeries like this one are strictly verboten, and I am risking 20 years in the Reeducation Camp by standing in this line:
The exterior of La Delicioza is deliciously shabby. You’d never know it was there. Unless you knew it was there.
It is gloriously sunny and blue-skyed this morning, so I must reactivate the To Do list.
