Implementation

Twice this week in dreams, I was being held. My father holding me from falling or turning, but I wasn't in danger, and I had to scream at him and fight him to let me go.

I don't really recall times that he did this, he was more a screamer. Or he'd grab and spank when I was very small. Once at an overlook, he grabbed me back from a rail. Physically was usually an affection expression, even if unwanted. Angry was verbal, if incoherent. This hold was an arm in front, an arm in back, strong and tight. So I think this was a metaphor, past damage restraining me. I know enough to fight this tooth and nail.

Looking at de-escalation techniques, but they are largely for dealing with violent people in crisis rather than obnoxious bullies in the workplace. Therapist got me talking about my grandma, my father's mother. I never really knew her, since she had little English and was pretty much bed-bound by the time I was old enough to even try a conversation. She died when I was 19 or 20, and I told therapist how I was proud that I was able to sit and hold my father's hand at her funeral mass. Still hated him, but this was grief and I did my duty with compassion. Much like when my brother called to tell me of our mother's death, I responded as a kind nurse, saying the right things. How I felt didn't come into it, I did the right thing.


This I think is the key to moving forward. How to implement it is the issue.

Meds are working nicely without apparent side effects. Probably because I'm sleeping better, Eleanor slept pressed against my back all night. Zeppo has been singing a LOT at night, not sure what's going on with him.

This just around the corner. We've thought about putting up a BLM sign, but the local chapter has had dubious financial issues. This is a bit too much for a private home, it is on an architectural office. We don't want our house to look like one of those cars plastered with every bumper sticker ever made.

Feckless

More rain.

Light Rain
49°F
9°C
Humidity 83%
Wind Speed N 18 MPH
Barometer 29.79 in (1008.81 mb)
Dewpoint 44°F (7°C)
Visibility 10.00 mi
Wind Chill 43°F (6°C)
Last update 07 Jun 11:54 AM MDT

Lots of dreams, cats wandering through many of them. Eleanor chasing through a meadow that used to be at the arboretum. And I rode back and forth on a sort of short skateboard along the center axis of a house, an amalgam of this House, Aunt Alma's, on flat floormats. Once, my mother reached a hand around as I rolled past, and I took it and swirled around and hugged her. Not a warm happy, but not bad either. Weirdly neutral.

I sent my niece a b-day text yesterday, and got a friendly enough reply. I'm not sure why I did this, but it felt like the right thing. I try to respond when an internal prompt says, "do this, it's a correct action" without overthinking it. I can always overthink it later. I always have remembered her birthday. But when I tried to think of my other niece, her sister's, birthday, I had no idea. I looked it up, and it rang not a bell in my memory. I knew neither of them well, and only as small children, intermittently, as they are 13, 15 years younger. Teenagers are wrapped up in their own drama, especially when the drama is real. Then the bad marriage. Then lived thousands of miles away. And never had a feel for kids. Or family feeling, rather the opposite, more of an anti-family impulse.

Rains poured down last evening, and my rain barrel out front toppled, missing the newly planted grasses. I set up again this morning. I've looked into stands, and they get terrible ratings. The concrete tiles and blocks are sitting on dirt that I recently dug up to remove the shrub and defunct sprinkler controller, which is why it failed. Ah, well, there is supposed to be more rain today and tomorrow as well. The weather seemed to keep most of the helicopters grounded, which made sleeping easier. Tired of the racket, can only imagine how stressful living with that over years would be.

The rainbow flag went up this week. Took me three tries, the wind took it down, so I put up a new nail, wind took it down, I added gear ties, it stayed. I want to do something for Black Lives Matter, as well. It all seems rather important, but also important to do it right, and I'm not clear what that will be.

Found a knit, all cotton, long, shapeless, dress that is working wonderfully as a nightgown. Not at all flattering, so I won't be wearing it out and about, but it's lovely to sleep in. And it was 60% off. PJ pants were getting more and more uncomfortable, riding up and digging in. I don't like sleeping without any clothes, and sleep shirts wind up at my waist, bunching at my back. I like when I get up being able to walk around more or less decently, again for my own comfort. Sit down and have fabric between me and the chair sort of thing. My changing shape, more like a pear, and fluffier, wants clothes that waft, slip and breathe. I get that women of my mother's and grandmother's generations would sometimes only wear slips about the house in hot weather. Haven't owned a slip since I'd've had to buy one myself, and I've never done that either.

Waiting for the elm seedlings to declare themselves definitively as elms, then plucking them, or even digging them if possible. Everything seems to have grown by several inches overnight. On a half inch of rain. Also picked a fair amount of trash off the front garden, blown in by gusty winds or dropped by feckless pedestrians.

Long long ago, I saw Apocalypse Now in a theater with my roommate. Driving home, I made some sort of flippant remark, which seemed to shock her. It was my way of coping with that disturbing movie. Dark humor is my first and last refuge in the face of horror and loss, probably in the middle as well. All the welling up of ages old injustices with a light froth of current injustice, rattles me to my bones. I have to get up and go to work, so I quip and let it break over me. Or it will take me under.

Cotyledon

Rain totals 0.28" from last night, ground soaked deep. Evidence of germination, lentils and beans and sunflowers, they all look alike at this stage. Ontology recapitulates phylogeny†.

Mud in it's season
Soft for the cotyledons
Hidden underground.


We took to bed early, nothing else to do and so much time to do it in. Dylan has a book. Eleanor stretched out on Dylan's right leg. Zeppo jumps up, steps over Eleanor, presses his face into my nose, I start a belly rub as he drifts up onto Dylan's left leg. One big lump of cuddle.

I slept oddly. Dreams that I didn't register as dreaming until I woke up enough to think about it. No, I wasn't actually checking someone's mail surreptitiously, but legally, leaving no trace, but confiscating one package in a strange apartment with a mailbox in the wall beside the door.

Woke from one, got up, checked the weather, Zeppo singing for food. Fed him at 0345. Crawled back in bed, Dylan got up briefly, put on an audiobook, we settled back down. Eleanor had not moved from the middle of the bed. Zeppo jumped back up, stood on Dylan's shoulder, then flopped down between our faces, pressed his nose to mine a few times, and purred and purred. His purr is loud, truck engine with extra gravel.

Heard a guy roaring outside, Dylan went to check. He was struggling with his plastic bagged groceries, but seemed to be moving on. A moment later, the same screams. I'm in my pjs and robe, crocks (this is what I do for slippers), so I hesitated, but watched him in front of the neighbor's house struggling to carry his groceries. Fuck it. I grabbed a Trader Joe's bag, and ran out saying "Do you want a bag?"

He was wordless with frustration, but not angry, his hands out in despair. He took the bag, and I did my professional soothing voice.

"This will hold all that. It's ok, you're going to be ok. Take it easy, breathe."

I glanced behind me, and our local blind* guy with cane and rolling bag was walking toward us. Impeded sidewalk for someone with a cane. Frustrated Guy still flooded, so I talked to blind guy. "There's a man who's dropped his groceries here, take it slow."

Went back inside, no more wails of distress.


† It doesn't actually. But my biology teacher in high school had us learn the phrase to show off.
* I've spoken to him a few times, he knows my voice.

Wasp

-More here.

I've gotten to know the local wasps, and have no trouble with them. I was taught to be afraid of them as a child, like most of us. Thread-waist wasps and some variety of paper wasp. They are important creatures, and I will fight the arrogance of people who hate all wasps in lordly contempt. What right have we to disdain any creature because they are inconvenient* to us? Reduce their numbers because they destroy our food or are in a dangerous spot is one thing. Hate them because they'll defend themselves from our attempt to kill them out of distaste? That's monstrous.

Everything eats everything. We all compete for space and resources. This is normal. But to deem an entire classification of insect evil out of overblown fear? This is vicious. This is projection.

This is dualism.

All things dull and Ugly
All creatures short and squat,
All things rude and nasty,
The Lord God made the lot.

Each little snake that poisons,
Each little wasp that stings,
He made their brutish venom,
He made their horrid wings.

All things sick and cancerous,
All evil great and small,
All things foul and dangerous,
The Lord God made them all.

Each nasty little hornet,
Each beastly little squid,
Who made the spikey urchin,
Who made the sharks, He did.

All things scabbed and ulcerous,
All pox both great and small,
Putrid, foul and gangrenous,
The Lord God made them all.

Friends came over last night. Zeppo appeared. Hopped up for me to pet him, then... went over to Nicole. Briefly, but then tried again. This is the first time we've seen him approach anyone but us, and we quietly cheered him on. I figured it would be Nicole he tried first, though. She has a deep kindness. Yeah, he's going to be a sociable cat, in his own way and in his own time. Watching him become his best cat self is going to be fun.

Eleanor was all over them, sniffing John's beard, and loving on Chris. She's gotten more confident. Especially if there might be a bit of really good cheese on offer. And with this crowd, there always is. Feels really good that we've given her the space and peace to become her bold and cuddly self.

Two days work in a row, and although I am tired and my feet hurt, I'm not entirely exhausted and feet are nowhere near as bad. I'm getting back a measure of elasticity.

In my dreams, I was walking around the steep part of town, it was cold with snow on the ground. Couldn't remember where I'd left the car. A skinny middle aged woman with a mullet is walking behind me, telling me my shoes are going to hurt me and I shouldn't wear them. I thought, no - these are the shoes that are helping my feet heal. I tried to hurry away, she kept following me and shouting at me, using my name, about the shoes. Until she ran up in front of me, yelling at me for not responding and listening to her, went to grab me, and I grabbed her throat to choke (compress carotids) her out. She was so confused and angry as she passed out, and I left her unconscious on the lawn. I woke afraid I'd be arrested, even though I was defending myself.

*Ok, I do hate snails, but they are invasive here and destroy my garden. They aren't evil, I don't want to eradicate them from the earth, just from my garden. I think it's fair to say I hate 'too-many-snails' not all of them as individuals. I get freaked out by swarms of anything, especially bugges. The gut horror of being overwhelmed.

Skedaddle

In the dream, I knew I was in an afterlife. In the kitchen. A bit worn and cluttered, but clean. A good sized wooden table, mostly elderly women coming through for a snack or tea. I'd just made myself a hot mug of tea, a dash of cream. Then, I knew someone was coming in for the first time. Through the wall, sort of materializing, an ancient woman in a high backed wheelchair, holding a steel kettle. I welcomed her, and offered her tea, which she gladly accepted.

For a moment I thought of just giving her mine, I hadn't touched it yet, but that felt both too generous and too iffy since she didn't know I hadn't sipped yet. But then there was a teapot, and another cup, so I poured her one of her own. Took her kettle from her and washed it. Another person came in that I knew and who'd been there longer than me, she exclaimed. "Oh good, we finally have a kettle!" And I realized that everything in the room had been brought by someone, as their favorite object, or the one they'd grabbed on their way out. Which explained the preponderance of tchotchkes, mostly flower vases. There were lots of dishes, every one unique, odd utensils, teapots and mugs.

Last night I was thinking about a very telling story, when I was first taken to a public park to the slide, and there were lots of kids already there. Lined up on the steps up to the tall slide. I waited patiently for them to finish, so I could have a turn. Seemed a bit unfair that they were running around and getting back in the line, but nothing I could do anything about.

My family told me to go get in the line. With all those strangers. I was confused and aghast. I did as I was told.

I can still feel the press of bodies as I went step by step up, one step per child, one in front of me, one behind. Strangers telling me to hurry when I reached the top. I slid down, got off, figured I'd done my duty, and absolutely refused to repeat the exercise in obedience. I proved could do it, I did not like it.

A similar tale of my only public park Easter Egg Hunt. My brother took me. At the starting line, waiting, I spotted several eggs - excellent, when all the other kids were gone, I'd go in and pick up those and avoid the crush.

Yeah.

Nope.

One of the organizers gave my brother a couple of spare eggs so I wouldn't go away empty-handed.

I don't know which event came first.


When in Basic, we formed lots of lines, and had to stand toe to heel, the toe of my boot touching the heel of the soldier ahead of me, the boots behind me with their toe against my heel. This was never comfortable for me, but at least I wasn't supposed to see it as fun, but as practical, saving space inside with too many people. And an order.

When I first worked in the OR, scrubbed in very close to surgeons and residents, holding retractor with my arm under their arm, pressed into them. It was all very close, but impersonal. The only place on me for the circulator to silently get my attention was on my upper back. Getting inured to the touch from behind, so that I didn't flinch, took time.

Anyone suffering, I reach out my hand to them. I had to learn to put my body into my work, to keep my patients safe, sometimes by throwing myself over them if they were struggling to get off the bed coming out of anesthesia.

With those I like, people I know, I'm quite affectionate. I like hugs from friends. I give massages unasked, for those I am sure want them. Dylan and I touch each other often, although there are still times when one or both of us do not want to be touched. We don't take offense, we back off.

What I most fear and dislike in myself is that I am intrusive, or letting others intrude upon me. The other side, that no one actually likes me, they're just putting up with me. That I'm a pest, that what I think is helping is useless or worse - hindering.

The cats communicate clearly about affection, which I appreciate. This morning, Eleanor got up on Dylan's lap in his chair in the music room. This is new. "You need a cat." At one point she looked at me, standing in the doorway, as if to say "This is ok with you, right?" I gave her a slow blink and said "Yes, that's fine." She didn't completely settle, which is typical for her, but she purred and enjoyed him petting her.

Then Zeppo ran through, and seemed to want to get up there as well, or at least do whatever Eleanor was doing. She huffed off, "Fine, I was done anyway." Dylan amused. We've never seen Zeppo really asleep, he's always moving, ready to skedaddle. Eleanor was like that at first, too. As was Moby. Adult cats with trust issues find us, and we let them work through their issues in their own time. We get it.

Planted this.



The bulb looks like a big thick tarantula, a good 8" across. I got two, planted both (forgot to photograph, not digging them up now), and welcomed them home. Oh, and looked up the etymology of Eremurus.

eremurus | eremuri [plural]
Origin: Modern Latin from Greek erēmos, desolate (see "hermit") + Modern Latin -urus from Greek oura, tail: see "uro-"

Batches

I had a dream. At work, and something flew by in the sterile core, which became a bird. Sparrow or small dove sized, with a very long and fluffy tail. I knew I had to get it out, and we talked about getting a box perhaps. Then my manager and an anesthesiologist walked through, in deep conversation, manager had a parrot on her arm. Anesthesiologist put her finger out, and the bird stepped on to perch. I thought, Oh, good, she's taking care of it, but they walk on and the bird is still there. So, I put out my finger, and the bird steps onto it. I hold it gently, and with help, get it to an outside door and let it go. It flies off. But then a large bird foot with shackles drops. The bird is far off, but seems to be fine, so I don't know where the foot comes from.

I woke a bit worried.

Only days later did I remember my grandmother's superstition that a bird in the house meant a death. Given that I only knew about this is because birds regularly came in my converted from a bathroom childhood bedroom, and no one died in that house, I never took it seriously.

The U bookstore had a great deal on tech supplies, and Dylan urged me to get a laptop so I could write again. Compared it to his guitars, we need our creative outlets. And he reads here. Spending money on myself makes me very anxious, but I accepted with gratitude. Had a mandatory meeting at work this morning at 0700, bookstore opens at 0730, so he came up with me and read in the waiting areas. He set it up when we got home, and the pent up words are flowing out.

Feeling rusty, awkward, but eager to stretch out. Wanting to write thousands of words in a batch of story.



The sun was streaming in. I put Moby up on the arm of the chair, and he paused, decided this was a Good Thing, and took a bath. Eleanor sat in the window close by.

Rains

Dreamed two men with hermit beards and hair were camped out in front of our house on the verge, and one took a dump there. And in the back, a man had put up a portable basketball hoop right outside the bedroom window and was shooting hoops in full color gear. Within the dream, this felt so real, I had to check when I got up that none of this had happened.

The homeless are camping out more in this part of town, preferring makeshift tents attached to shopping carts to the overcrowded shelters. It's disturbing, but I blame our culture and government for not taking care of these poor people. They should have a safe place, food, shelter, care. I give them margin, because although I recognize their right to whatever space they can carve out for themselves, I also know they are potentially dangerous. There is no judgement here, only due care of my own safety.

The garden becoming lush and full of greenery. I'm weeding out the grasses with spiky leaves, this is just becoming possible this year because of all the other intentionally planted stuff taking over. I tend it all carefully, which is not work, but love. Like love, it requires attention and effort, which is not quite the same thing as work.

I managed to sleep in this morning, Dylan came in to kiss me before he went out. Eleanor was scrunched up beside me, and chirruped at Dylan. As if to say "Hey, what about me?" So he leaned over and she sniffed his nose, and he kissed the top of her head.

Expecting rain again. The mustard flowers are a rather pretty and bright clear yellow, very tiny. Allium blooming, as are the lighter irises. I don't think the black irises will bloom this year, maybe they only do so in alternating years. The tree is just starting to bud, as usual, it's the last in the spring to do so.

Puppy

She's shown House the Home her soul. The kind of gift there is no point in even refusing for the sake of polite form. Wow. Amateur, but no less awesome. Folk art to a point.

Dream.

In a hospital or barracks, putting on oxygen for myself. A nurse I work with frantic that I had to come kill something, a bugge maybe? I remove the nasal cannula and follow her out to a muddy, rutted parade ground with a market set up, then to a sort of concrete bleachers. And a tiny, day old or fetal puppy. That I had to put down. I couldn't just step on it, or snap it's neck, but I knew I was the one who had to take care of this suffering creature. I got a cloth from a woman crying and useless, held the living thing in my hands in the cloth and stopped its breathing. Seemed the most kind way to kill it, and it squirmed a little in my cupped hands. I came to realize it's mother had rejected it, so it probably was wrong in some way. I held to my duty, but resented being the one who had to do this. Wanted to be sure to bury it properly, near the edge of the grounds churned up by tires and cars.

Woke with my hands to my side, but felt like they were still cupped, holding the near-fetal pup. Not wanting to let up until I was sure it was gone and I'd done what was necessary.

Year of the Dog.

Miserable feeling lingering.

PT exercises inducing sobbing. No particular memory, only the intense urge to weep. Pain more of an ache, referred, like a toothache.

Dyed a streak of hair, turned out rather lovely.

Waiting for snow. Took until February, but lows around 12°-16° F later this week. Never feel right in any year without proper winter. Northerner in the bones.

Dark day, strong winds last night. Waiting.

Backslide

Bad dreams, heavy sleep. Cat play got too intense last evening, fur flew. No one hurt, but bad feelings all around. A setback. Knowing this was inevitable didn't make it easier.

Dreaming of being out with Moby at a park. He had a fuchsia ribbon, claws painted the same color, not my doing. He did not want to leave, and ran off, trailing the lead. Eventually got him to stop, as I put him in the bag he became a young man who was also Moby. Put the bag on a lawnmower to get home, but as I drove it up the driveway, snow fell so fast and thick, I had to abandon all. Two feet of snow so quickly.

A later dream, cooking a complex meal for D's family. Had it all laid out, and let everyone know to come eat. When I went to the room with the table, everyone had just taken the food and eaten elsewhere, nothing left for me to eat. D trying to explain, console, but I was so hungry, and he'd told me not to cook the extra, and I started screaming, banging the countertop, losing all control. Glad to wake a bit and break the distress. Although it occurred to me, if I really lost my mind in a rage, the next thing I'd remember would be waking up in a bed, tied to it, having been taken to a psych ward.

Called off today, one room running.

Prediction

I dreamed I was at work, and my mother called through the recovery room, left three messages. The forth time I was there, and talked with her. She was snide and critical, and I quietly hung up the phone. And apologized to the nurses there for her many calls - I don't know how she got the phone number. No anger, just resignation. Her number is blocked at home.

All the weather predictors were warning of a strong front to push through last night, with rain, snow, acute drop in temperatures. I checked the noaa site, in particular the animated map showing water vapor. The movement was there, but the moisture was not. I thought, well, how is it going to rain/snow if there isn't anything wet on the way? And indeed, although quite windy last night, and probably some places got very strong gusts, it never got that bad, it's not as cold as predicted, and there was no rain at all so far. Listen to the experts, but always look for yourself.

Disownment was a theme of my family growing up, right along with unconditional love. The irony was not lost on me. But I never considered it in terms of disinheritance, since I knew damn well there was no money, no estate, which never bothered me in the least. I knew I would work for my own income, send myself to college, everything I had would be mine. No, I saw disownment as exclusion from the family in emotional terms only. I think it is why I always kept as much of my heart in reserve as I could.

Remembering when I got the scar on my shin, playing with the older neighborhood children, moving a concrete catch for a downspout. I was perhaps 4, maybe 5. It slipped and scraped down my leg. My father panicked and my brother (maybe 12 or 13) took over, got me cleaned up, used all the band-aids to close the long wound. I sat on the toilet seat as he carefully washed and bandaged me, while the parent ranted uselessly outside the door. I thought my railroad of band-aids was rather wonderfully funny.

When I had my lip stitched up in the ER last year, D, who is quite squeamish and after his own medical encounters, very sensitive to these situations, sat holding my hand throughout. Didn't bother him at all, because, he said "it's for you."



Ok, it's snow/raining now. Day late, inches short.

Bunk

Doing a bunk. Genuinely at odds with my gut and other organs, but mostly I suspect the stress just decided to kernel panic and data dump. Dreaming about drips and floods in the house. Walking along the hallway, my feet and ankles warm and heavy in a layer of warmth that turned into water pouring over the wood. A kitchen tap draining unstoppably. Walking around a city in a downpour, Chicago for some reason, found something valuable, gloves perhaps, near a car. Was going to keep them, but I felt others watching, and I put them into the car. Woke, or not quite, to a flood of my own. Cleaned up and snarled at D and struggled back to bed and an uneasy sleep.

Got up when the alarm chimed. Hugged D and apologized, he encouraged me to call in sick. Apparently I look as bad as I feel. No big chores today. Hanging with the cat, drinking tea, reading about the New Madrid earthquake and the history in that time and place. Cat has claimed my robe, so I'm using D's big blue one.

Above my head, our art project of the weekend, more of our postcards, collected over the years.

Ecru

Strange ecru boredom.
Dull, invariable brown.
Yearning for wild storms.

Dreamed I was in a weird, plotless sci fi film on an alien station under nuclear attack, with lots of corporate logos and a bad soundtrack song, a time-card that wouldn't work, and I had to babysit something - possibly several enormous cats.


For the better part of the last month, the weather has been the same 80 high/60 low every damn day. Three more days of it, and then, possibly, maybe, it will all change.

Thickening

Dreams thicken my sleep.
Grandmother, too young, alive
And speaking English.

My father's mother only spoke French, River Canard French, rural and uneducated. Her English was rudimentary. She was mostly bedridden since before I was born, and I hardly remember her sitting up, walking only when I was very small. There were many reasons given for this, including a hip surgery in her 70s, at a time when this wasn't a safe course for someone younger. There were lots of pills, and whispers of cancer, and the surety that she would not make it through the summer, through the winter. I suspect she was sick from being in bed too much, although I never questioned it at the time. She lived to be 98, cared for by her daughter, the aunt of mine I most disliked. She died when I was 22.

I have very little feeling for her, good or bad. She was a non-entity, who called me June. Given that I was the only granddaughter, and only one of three grandchildren, it probably says a lot about how children were seen on that side of the family. I have no rancor about this, a matter of no real consequence to me. So, why was I dreaming of her, as a middle aged woman speaking to me kindly and in good English?

Should

Long ago, I saw a student production of a pretty forgettable play. But a phrase out of it has been stuck in my head ever since, and I find myself still saying it. "Should'a, could'a, would'a, if my aunt was a man she'd be my uncle."

Should never helps. Just because one has plans doesn't mean life will cooperate. Putting in effort does not guarantee results. Hope is more often dashed than fulfilled. Dreams fall apart on contact with waking life. Belief has fueled a lot of misguided missions. We can always choose to love, and find happiness, and live well. But we can never demand love of others, expect to be given what we think we need to make us happy, nor force health and wealth out of the world for ourselves. Life does not guarantee our next breath, why do we so often think we are owed a One True Love, a Great Career, Happiness! and Health? Or any of a number of benefits?

Lucky to be alive.

I once read an interpretation of the Pandora story, where the final evil was leaving humanity with hope. That desire to hold on and keep on trying, beyond reason, and to call it a virtue. Hope, not as the opposite of hopeless, but as the kind of idealism that keeps us from actually solving a problem, instead merely wishing it will get better. Wishes are chocolate kettles.* If wishes worked, a lot of awful people would be dead, I should know.


Worn out and squished out, will be better in a day or so.


*That waxy chocolate that tastes of chalk.

End

It's The End of the World as We Know it (and I feel fine) is Our Song. In the circumstances of our courtship, this seemed perfectly reasonable. Reminded of it today, and it still seems apt. Unromantic, but very Us.

Keep wanting to figure out how to plot my Fortean Novel of the Post Apocalypse, still stuck. Not about to be raptured, wouldn't want to spend five minutes with those folks who think they will be, not to mention eternity. Anyone wanting more eternity than this moment has clearly not thought it through.

Crashing, rolling thunder through in the wee hours of Friday, and Moby leaning against my leg didn't stir. Extremely unusual, to the point that I strained to feel any movement, breathing. Eventually he stirred slightly, to my relief. Apparently just utterly crashed, too asleep to care even about lightening and thunder. D never heard it either. And yes, I did check noaa, to confirm that it had happened.

Strange dreams about The Queen having died, and I got an informal tour of her apartment that was under renovation. Nice place, but not an interesting view out the large windows. Turned out she was alive, and I told her my view in Boston was much better. She was doing very difficult acrostic/number crossword puzzles with Stephen Fry, in pencil, which he kept erasing. I then moved across the country to a very white room in a house, had trouble with the locks. Brought with me two to four small dogs that used to belong to the landlady, but were mine now. Woke up to Moby draped across my knees.

Went to hear Vieux Farka Touré at the Living Traditions Festival last evening. Sadly, the amplification was extreme, added to high pitched tones in the stopstopithurts zone. Outdoor free concerts are always a mixed bag. I'll stick to recordings. Still, we had a lovely walk, the rain had abated earlier in the day, and the air was mild and welcoming.

Gears

Moby melted.

"Again with the camera."

"Well, you are cute."

"Oh, yeah."



I've wondered about the whole surprize proposal thing here, and according to the article at Mental Floss, we can blame DeBeers for more than sentimentalizing diamonds.

I would prefer this gear ring over any gem. If I wanted to wear a ring other than the silver band I wear now, which I don't.

Bad dreams about living in Natick MA, in a tiny, rickety apartment, with no job, no car, no access to public transportation. Cold and rainy, but mostly worried sick that our savings were not going to last long enough. Why Natick? No idea, as far as I know, it's a perfectly nice place, can't ever remember being there. Perhaps because it's near Boston, but not quite easy access to it without driving. In the dream, there wasn't a train line. Feeling displaced, perhaps.

Yesterday busy, but nowhere near as bad as we were prepared for. Three surgeons were ahead of schedule all day, and the one running an hour, then two, behind, meant my room didn't get any of the fast room's last cases. Wound everything up by 1600, making for a a sweet end to a bitter week.

Tooth cap broke some more last night, repair appointment not until the end of the month. But there is probably nothing else he can do until then anyway.

Why

Bad dreams, woke crying at 0430, feeling abandoned and alone. Unemployed, I had to take a room in a convent, other elements. Got back to sleep, and dream of bathroom stalls and men in work boots and a surgeon complaining to me of not ordering blood for a case. An orthopedic surgeon doing a major general case.

Never quite got out of that mood all day, although I tried very hard to stay cheerful all day.

Why, oh why, do rental apartments in this place always, always, always have crappy beige carpeting? Never hardwood floors?

Transit

Hard night. Took me a long, exhausted time to make myself get up and trudge to bed. Once there, my body kept whiny "But I'm sooooo tired!"

"Yes, now go to sleep."

"But, I'm so tired. I want to go to bed!"

"Um, you're in bed, now go to sleep."

"But I'm sooooo tired….."

At which point I gave up, and in a while, kept awake by my own whining, I got up for a while. Came back to bed, and however beat up tired I felt, I could not drop off. Got up again, back to bed, finally went for a half benedryl since it was after midnight, and the next day was going to be a long haul. This worked, although I woke up at 0530. D already up put on a recorded book (The Truth, Terry Pratchett) for me, and I know I drifted off because I missed bits of the story, and dreamt.

I dreamed I was at work, or at least in an OR, as a patient woke from anesthesia. She startled awake, complaining of weird, and to her real, peculiarities, very upset and trying to get up and run away. I settled her back and told her "You're dreaming, relax." But she was still trying to get away, telling me more of the oddities of what her perceptions were, I assured her again. Then she tells me, "There were curtains on the floor!" I told her, "Sounds like a dream to me." Finally she seemed reassured enough to lie back. I can only remember the last one, but the other strange experiences of the patient were very clear in the dream.

Then we were cleaning the room for the end of the day, and found out we had another case added on. So, we set up, and the patient rolls in on a gurney. Older guy, very large, and I look at his paperwork. The consent is almost entirely defaced in blue ink. The signature is there, and at the top the usual "I (name) consent to the procedure below." I figure he's blued out the parts about allowing blood transfusion, use of images for teaching, all the details. But as I look closer, even the surgery is obscured with this intense mass of ink. It's a redacted consent. I'm a bit upset, because this is just not ok, and we are all set up and it's the end of the day. We have to send him back to get a new consent, since this is very far from legal, not to mention useless. We need to know what he's consented to.

At this point I woke up for good, and we were both ready more than an hour early, so we decided we had plenty of time to take the bus, and save cab fare. Lovely morning, and even with the bus running ten minutes late, we still got to the airport way too early. As is our wont. But we ate at a satellite of a local restaurant in the terminal - legally obligated to provide menu items at the same price as their main location. A bit early for beer, but hey, I wasn't going to be driving for hours, and it eased my anxiety a treat, on top of a very hearty breakfast. Should see us through. The in-flight free wifi is an example of getting what one pays for. Glitchy as hell, and ultimately, broken. So I took to just writing locally. As it were. Will post when I can connect. Preferably with photos.

Kneaded

Moby beside me, kneading and purring. Cat sitter came by yesterday to meet and orient. They'll do fine together, as we miss him when we are gone. Forgot to tell her where the thermostat is, but she's a bright woman, she'll figure it out.

Lots of weird dreams, having to crash at a friend's place rather than return to my parents' home. One of those long recurring nightmares, although much faded over the decades. Friend's place has a huge bed, lofty ceilings, and I lie down on the wrong one, as I slowly realize, then find another, smaller one in a different corner. Much confusion over setting the alarm clock, trying not to make noise or disturb anyone, even though I seem to be alone. Worried about how long I can stay. That my friend is male is worrying me, that I am making him uncomfortable and intruding.

Reading several blogs about wedding nightmares. Not a good idea, but very addictive. Makes me even more glad we stayed very simple, and did a friend reception years later when we could afford it.

Crush

Series of bad dreams last night. Living at my parent's house, having trouble getting out in the morning, all my necessary things mislaid. Finally kiss them goodbye, and find that two keys are missing from my keyring, and I know I didn't remove them, frantic and furious and just want out. ANY dream where I still live there is inherently a nightmare.

A yellow school bus, and something is pushing the seats, crushing people then pulling back. The official who is supposed to be watching for problems is having an irrational argument with a woman on the curb. I try to slide myself out of the central path, pull another girl out of the way. Right before the final crush, it opens up and most of us get out, but then the thing compresses completely and people are killed. I get out and stab the official repeatedly. Dream ends, and I am deeply comforted by Moby's presence, leaning against one leg.

In the middle of an operation, my scrub needs to break to get some food. It's close enough to the end that the surgeon, resident and med student can manage without a scrub, so I tell her fine. But she doesn't come back, so I go out to find the scrub, get in the car to a local cafe, and find D with two friends eating, and ask when he's going to come back. He wants to finish eating, so I drive back. When I'm in the hospital parking lot, a cop stops me, then seems to let me go. I get into my spot, and cop is there again, demanding my insurance papers. I know they are in my bag, but I can't find them. By now D has walked back, and we are going through everything to find the papers, the cop standing there, in helmet and sun glasses, waiting. I find old photos, ID of all sorts, but not the insurance. And I'm getting very worried about the surgery going on that I have to be in the room for. And if anything's gone wrong, I could lose my job.

Woke again to Moby leaning on me, and I get up gladly.

I don't know why I've been having so many vivid dreams lately, but I'd much rather not.