Another Dollhouse Dream

In that nonlinear way dreams have that’s impossible to render in sequential language, I was simultaneously staging the American Civil War/rehearsing for a play/playing with a dollhouse.

The play was being put on by a group of Ben’s relatives (not his real-life relatives), and I disliked them intensely, could hardly believe I had agreed to appear in their play, nor that they had asked me—but I was the only person among them who could act. And even though they disliked me as intensely as I disliked them, they knew that.

The play was scheduled to begin at 6 pm.

Someone spilled liquid black ink on the dollhouse.

It was relatively easy to wash off, but then there was no more black ink, and I thought, How am I going to write in my diary?

So, I took RTT—in the dream, he was around six—and set off for the store.

The neighborhood Ben’s relatives’ drafty, dilapidated Victorian was located in looked a lot like Lopsang’s old neighborhood in Ithaca, that part of Ithaca near Cascadilla Creek where all the streets are named after American presidents. (Lopsang was my first Tibetan ESL student.)

RTT and I went into a toy store. In the dream, there was this sense that I had visited the toy store many, many, many times before because they had the most magnificent assortment of dollhouse furniture and incredibly lifelike dolls.

But now, it was too soon after Christmas. The toy store was sold out of everything but the crappiest-looking dolls and furniture.

RTT, who was not of the age yet where he could distinguish between value and crap, just wanted me to buy something, buy for the sheer joy of buying.

Went three stores down the street to a drugstore to buy a pack of cigarettes. Had to stand on a line and noticed Jean-Luc was standing at the end of that line. (Jean-Luc is an old Berkeley boyfriend.) Didn’t want Jean-Luc to see me buying cigarettes.

But when I got to the front of the line, it turned out that the drugstore didn’t carry the cigarettes I wanted. In fact, they hardly carried any cigarettes at all except for Native American reservation brands that I didn’t like.

So, I left without buying any.

Happened to glance up at the wall clock in the drugstore. It said ten to six.

Oh, shit, I thought. I’m barely gonna get back in time for the start of the play! And I haven’t even memorized my lines yet.

You go on ahead, I told RTT because he could run much faster than me. Tell them I’ll be there.

And then I woke up.

A Tale of Two Compliments

I got two (count ‘em!) compliments that meant something to me yesterday.

The Exciting Tale of the First Compliment:

For the first time in many months, Marisa called me a couple of weeks ago.

She wanted something.

Of course, she did!

I get that our relationship is purely transactional and that that’s the way the Universe intended it to be.

Apparently, the $$$$ my GoFundMe raised for her driving lessons was insufficient to buy Marisa the number of lessons she needed in order to learn to drive—at least according to the Driving School (which probably looked at her and thought, Chinese immigrant with heavy accent = Unlimited Buck$$$$$!)

So, she was calling to ask me for a favor.

Would I be willing to take her out in my car…?

No, I would not.

My auto insurance does not cover letting unlicensed people drive my automobile.

And anyway, I am quite certain Marisa doesn’t need any more lessons.

Marisa is a smart cookie with excellent coordination and an excellent memory.

I am quite sure she can pass her driving exam without further plushing of the Driving School purse or further interventions on anyone’s part.

Well, NO, I said to Marisa. But I WILL do your taxes! And I will turf the matter to Lois Lane!!!

After all, that’s why Lois Lane is getting paid that miserably pathetic pittance that passes as a salary at Literacy Disconnections.

###

I texted Lois Lane.

And didn’t hear back.

Of course, I didn’t!

Lois Lane’s life is ever a series of rapidly unfolding tragedies, on top of which she is an absolute flake.

Finally, after two weeks—and reluctantly because in my own way, I ❤️LUV❤️ Lois Lane and feel for her tragedies—I turned up the guilt—

You know, Lois, this is your fuckin’ JOB—

And she immediately texted back: I deeply apologize for not getting back to you. I'm not doing well but that's no excuse—

You’re right, I thought.

But I said, Look, Lois, I get that communication is often difficult for you, so I don't need an apology, I need you to do something about THIS—

And, lo and behold! She did! Found some sucker person who is deeply involved in women's rights and domestic violence who was willing to risk her auto insurance by giving Marisa driving lessons!

Hallelujah!!!!!!!

I’ll do YOUR taxes, too! I said to Lois Lane, giddy with triumph.

After that, we slipped back into a normal conversation.

I thought of you today, said Lois Lane. I met this woman who was an editor at the New York Times, and she reminded me of you. She had perspicacity and just a kind of hawkish quality—and by hawkish, I don't mean hawkish, but I can't think of a better word. You pay attention in common parlance. There's a certain attentiveness that you have at all times. Like you're narrating. I don't know how to explain it.

And I was extremely pleased and thrilled.

Because that attentiveness is actually the quality I most prize in myself.

Though the vast majority of people I know never even notice I have it.

Lois Lane has it, too.

And I suppose that’s why, despite how utterly nutty and inconsistent she can be, we remain friends.

Because that kind of attentiveness is its own secret language.

###

The Exciting Tale of the Second Compliment:

You are a talented photographer, Ralph said to me on Facebook.

Ralph is an old Well crony and one of the more decent human beings I know.

Once again, I was extremely pleased and thrilled.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve begun to lament the fact that such small talents as I possess are so heavily invested in words.

It would be fun to know how to play a musical instrument! It would be fun to know how to dance!

It would be rapturous to be able to draw, to create visual worlds that don’t already exist.

Well, yes. I could take piano lessons. I could sign up at the local Arthur Murray Dance Studio.

But let’s get real: I’m not going to.

About five or so years ago, I started trying to train myself to look at things.

Because what I see is very often not what other people see.

I was already extremely good at Photoshop and other photo post-production methods on account of having spent all those years as People Magazine’s Interactive Entertainment Editor. My job was not only to write enticing stories about celebrities designed to make readers feel like celebrities’ lives are one perpetual party to which readers will never be invited. My job was also to finesse and upload pictures of the stars!

So, I had the skills to turn mundane photographs into what I see.

And I began doing that.

My ArtPhoto™ project.

The ArtPhoto™ project has given me a great deal of personal joy, I must say.

And it was nice to see that it apparently has the power to affect at least one other human being—because part of Ralph’s decency as a human being is that he never blandishes, and he never lies.