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Proactive States of Emergency
Oct. 26th, 2021 07:36 amDreamed the old volleyball gang—which over the years kinda morphed into the Big Bash collective—was publishing a magazine with state-of-the-art printing technology invented by Steve R_______.
We were all still young.
Marybeth informed me with the deliberate carelessness that was always oh! such a studied effect with her that Nef had been chosen to edit the thing.
Nef! I thought. That shallow, empty-headed poseur?
Of course, I would have been a better choice to edit it, to write every single piece in it if it came to that, but it wasn’t likely I would be picked seeing as how I was no longer on speaking terms with most of those people. (Which is true in Real Life, too.)
Maybe, I could write a piece or two, Marybeth continued.
And I was torn between the desire to be represented in this exciting and bound-to-be-successful-‘cause-the-R_______-were-doing-it endeavor and the desire to shout, Fuck all of you! at the top of my lungs.
Then I was talking to one of the magazine people, I think Ruth, except in Real Life, Ruth is an exceptionally nice human being whereas this person in the dream was shallow and undeserving. The dream-Ruth lived in a dream-San Francisco, which was not the real San Francisco, in a mega-million-dollar house at the bottom of a tall hill. And she was telling me how she grew all her own vegetables.
And I woke up.
###
I more-or-less did nothing yesterday except read and Remunerate.
Guilt began to creep in in the early afternoon.
But the sky was pewter grey, and the landscape was shadowless, and honestly—who wants to go tromping in that?
In the evening, Ichabod texted me to tell me that someone had found his Stanford diploma and a bunch of my old diaries.
(Those diaries had comprised several black bags worth of garbage in the purloined UHaul.)
Damn! I thought. Now I’m gonna have to keep those diaries.
Because the diaries have obviously gone to a lot of trouble not to be destroyed.
###
It’s supposed to rain buckets today. A Nor’easter except without snow. The governors of New York and New Jersey have declared proactive States of Emergency.
We were all still young.
Marybeth informed me with the deliberate carelessness that was always oh! such a studied effect with her that Nef had been chosen to edit the thing.
Nef! I thought. That shallow, empty-headed poseur?
Of course, I would have been a better choice to edit it, to write every single piece in it if it came to that, but it wasn’t likely I would be picked seeing as how I was no longer on speaking terms with most of those people. (Which is true in Real Life, too.)
Maybe, I could write a piece or two, Marybeth continued.
And I was torn between the desire to be represented in this exciting and bound-to-be-successful-‘cause-the-R_______-were-doing-it endeavor and the desire to shout, Fuck all of you! at the top of my lungs.
Then I was talking to one of the magazine people, I think Ruth, except in Real Life, Ruth is an exceptionally nice human being whereas this person in the dream was shallow and undeserving. The dream-Ruth lived in a dream-San Francisco, which was not the real San Francisco, in a mega-million-dollar house at the bottom of a tall hill. And she was telling me how she grew all her own vegetables.
And I woke up.
###
I more-or-less did nothing yesterday except read and Remunerate.
Guilt began to creep in in the early afternoon.
But the sky was pewter grey, and the landscape was shadowless, and honestly—who wants to go tromping in that?
In the evening, Ichabod texted me to tell me that someone had found his Stanford diploma and a bunch of my old diaries.
(Those diaries had comprised several black bags worth of garbage in the purloined UHaul.)
Damn! I thought. Now I’m gonna have to keep those diaries.
Because the diaries have obviously gone to a lot of trouble not to be destroyed.
###
It’s supposed to rain buckets today. A Nor’easter except without snow. The governors of New York and New Jersey have declared proactive States of Emergency.
