Rescuing old entries: dreams

Important Public Service Announcement from my brain

My brain sometimes dreams in pure words: no images, no stories, just words. Sometimes I wake up and catch the tail end of this loghorrhea.

This morning, when I woke up, my brain’s Parthian shot was “Talk ON the phone, don’t EAT the phone.”

Thanks, brain. Duly noted.

Sex advice from my dream friend

Had one of my verbal only dreams. This one took the form of a phone conversation with my friend James, who told me that his kink was stuffing a live chicken up people’s butts. This made me laugh so hard I woke up.

Freud says our dreams are expressions of desires that we have to hide from ourselves. What is it I want? Not to stuff a chicken up my butt, I’m pretty sure. Mostly that I want my friends to do really stupid things and then make me laugh by telling me about it.

Rescuing old blog entries: What’s the payoff?

I’ve been thinking about this question a lot lately. I’m knocking myself out on very little energy to each, be a mom, be a friend, get my health back, put together a theater show and write a major work proposal. And what’s the pay off for doing all that? I remember this brilliant moment in Pete Bagge’s Hate when Buddy and Lisa are contemplating learning things about computers and getting their lives together, and Lisa says, basically, yeah we could do that, but jeez, being healthy and normal and having jobs with computers? Yuck! What’s the payoff to that shit?

Now the theater has more payoff than that, a lot more. I noticed this week that as I move through my life and thoughts come and go like clouds and wind, that moments come back to me, and some of the moments are so sweet it’s like a burst of candy, and some of the moments are bitter and I have to stop a moment and hyperventilate with embarrassment at my past self. And some of the sweet moments are bound up with theater, both performing and getting compliments on performing. Like the moment, right before I performed my first monologue on the Marsh stage, when I suddenly felt a surge of confidence and knew…KNEW..that I was about to fucking kill. It was a great moment. Or when I’m performing and it is going so well I feel the audience with me, I feel possessed by what I am doing.
But I have had other sweet moments that did not require work and risk and suffering, like drinking beer by the side of a stream or even JUST NOW, washing my kitchen floor and howling along to “Werewolves of London.” And I was totally engaged in that moment, completely joyous.
So what’s the difference between the sweet moment that I earned and the one that was a gift? Why will I remember some moments forever and others, maybe just as sweet to live through, will be forgotten? I know I’ve had other moments singing at the top of my lungs along with music. I dimly remember being on the grapevine to LA and singing–but it’s not sharp. Am I imagining it, mixing it up with a different moment? Does work etch our memories deeper?

I made apple pie on Saturday and watched Duck Soup with Shout. Also a nice moment. Other people were out there partying, but I had pie and love and the Marx brothers…

Rescuing old blog entries: I don’t like to grade papers

Sept 29 2008
I don’t like to grade papers

And I’ve got a big thick stack of them leering up at me. MMMM, baby, they say to me. Dig in, Mama. No matter how many times you tell us in class, we refuse to format our papers properly or put our quotation marks in the right place relative to a comma or a period or even learn the difference between your and you’re. Because we know you love it, baby. You love being so distracted by mechanical errors, floating on the surface like old boots and soda cans, you can’t even see below to the tangled kelp jungle of shoddy thought lurking just below the water line.