I didn't speak to them. I went through the door, and stood off to the side, looking for my ride, which wasn't showing up. Somehow without speaking, my mother offered me a ride home in her van, and I accepted. I find myself inside their van, which on the outside, looked like their current dark blue dodge caravan, and on the inside looked exactly like the old blue and white Chevy touring van that my mother drove for almost 15 years, my whole childhood. Once seated on the plush blue couch in the back of the van, conversation started, but I don't remember it. There was talk of our silence towards each other, and I think she apologized. She was acting extremely maternal. While I remember Earl in the grocery store, he wasn't present in the van. During the course of the unremembered conversation, I kept turning up articles of my clothing, a favorite bra, a favorite pair of pajama shorts. Comforting things that I wear now, that aren't lost, but seemed so, in the dream, like "I've been looking for these shorts forever!". It was stifling hot in the van, which contrasted with the icy deep snow outside.
A dream from last night: There was some kind of house party, that started in a public place, like a high school. There was a group of people there, all from my past (blank faces, but it was determined that they were all grade school peers, appearing in my dream as adults) and James. The crazy guy that Phil introduced me to, in real life. I must have dreamed about him because the last thing I read on FB before going to bed was about how he played the lead in the play Mr. Roberts in his town playhouse, and I thought about how charming that is. Anyway, a large group went to his house, which was a perfectly adorable white clapboard house, with a manicured garden and a white picket fence. There was an above ground pool around back, and this seemed to be the centerpiece of the party. Everyone was extremely excited about it, and went diving in with abandon. I hesitantly got up to the edge of the pool, and discovered that all these people were frolicking around in two feet of water. I went inside his charmingly sunny kitchen, to be alone, and read. I was feeling the same way as I did in middle school, which amounted to "I don't understand what you're up to, I don't see what fun that could possibly be, you don't care what I'm up to, and I don't care what you're doing, so I'm going to separate myself and go read." But I remember looking up with anxiety every time the kitchen door opened, preparing to get hassled and made fun of, just like I did throughout grade and middle school. A few people came into the kitchen here and there, but when the tide of people finally came into the kitchen in bathing suits, and dripping wet, that's when the mocking started. It wasn't the brash in-your-face ridicule I used to face, but a more snide, subtle and psychological assault to make me feel alone and singled out. More catty, or something. I took myself outside to the front of the house. There were other partygoers outside hosting a yard sale. I joined them, and did what I could to help manage the sales and feel useful, but I still felt very alone in a crowd. My dad showed up and I tried to sell him tribal looking wooden carvings, like the kind they have in Africa or the kind we saw in Jamaica.
Non dream: I finished Brave New World yesterday, and I feel richer for it. I'm going to continue on that path and read more classics. I went on a kick of reading trashy novels for awhile, but that got stale fast. With this rut I've been stuck in, lately, reading thick, dense deliciously rich and brain-healthy material is a healthy form of escapism and mind expanding goodness. Up next: Henry Miller's Crazy Cock. Then I'm going to start on a few books that Chris recommended, one called Earth Abides by George Stewart, 1984 and Animal Farm by Orwell, Slaughterhouse Five by Vonnegut, and Dying Earth by Jack Vance. I still have a handful of Pratchett novels in my Kindle that I've yet to tackle, and I might read them between those other books just to lighten things up.
Luiz just called me out for "needing a hobby". He was chafing at the time I spent on FB this morning, after work. In reality, I skimmed the updates from a few people, and commented on two status updates, one about a friend and his longtime girlfriend breaking up, and one for Mindy's pinched neck nerve. Then I spent about 20 minutes on Serious Eats skimming headlines and posting twice there, too. Once contributing to a discussion about nut butters besides peanut butter, and asking for some recommendations for myself, and one totally free-of-virtue post on a McDonald's breakfast thread. He heard me doing these "inane" things, and got annoyed about how much time he perceives that I waste. Immediately, because I wasn't spending direct time with him, his brain assumed what I was doing was mindless gossip and chatter. Even if I was, who cares? I got defensive, and said "just remember before you assume I'm wasting my time, that I read ten books to your one." After I explained to him in detail what I was talking about, he was like "OH, well, that's ok, I just couldn't relate to why you spend so much time on FB" Thanks for your permission, pal. In retrospect, I feel lame that I had to explain and justify and defend. The idea of me "needing a hobby" no matter what context, kind or cruel, deserves a hearty "fuck off" from me, and nothing more. I hate when I get defensive.
I seriously fucking hate that shit.
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