Four for the Price of One
Worked a half-day today. I took yesterday off because of the event in the previous post. Slept in until nearly-noon for the fourth day in a row (delicious). My brain syncs better on that schedule.
I did escape the parking garage last night, about 45 minutes after getting into the car and waiting in my parking spot. Horns honked and turn signals blinked angrily and the surrounding concrete grew colder as tensions mounted and the afterglow goodwill of the home team's win wore off. I was the last to leave and only a police officer in his cruiser remained on the lower level. Traffic was clear and I cruised down Newtown Pike back onto I-75 N without difficulty. I listened to music and sang along to songs on the ride home--a lot of music that I haven't touched in ages, brought on by digging through digital shoebox and the shape of my dreams. The night was dark and the road was mine.
--
The dream I had the night before was peppered with the people and places from the 00s that I read about while catching up on old posts in this journal. It is so full of instances and moments and actions that have not crossed my mind in ages--while others are there, firmly planted in my mind and my subconscious (usually with a greater emphasis on place rather than person). The Kemper House never leaves. There are a number of stories from within those walls written in this account. Sometimes I dream that I've gone back inside (I do still have my door key, though I am certain the locks have long-since changed), and it's become a 5 1/2 minute hallway House of Leaves labyrinth. Sometimes I find that I have moved in and become a squatter. Once, we had moved into an edition on the back of the building but could not access the original rooms. In another, I made it inside to find that it had been gutted completely. It never appears in dreams exactly as it did in reality. I wish that I could remember to lie on my back in the kitchen floor and look for all of those squares that I scribbled in china marker under the cabinet. If I ever managed to master lucid dreaming, I'll give it a go. & I want to see the stained glass window in the closet under the stairs again. & one more heavy heave of my pocket door to the closet in my parlour bedroom. The ugly Rookwood tile of my bedroom hearth. Just a peek at my sadness as I sat alone in room--because it seemed corporeal at that time and I want to prove myself wrong. I think that the house must represent a particular iteration of self for me--a time of uncertainty, the death of adolescence, afterparty comedowns, chipped paint, sleeping in my shoes, longing, revelation, and art supplies.
This winter is a lot like my first one in Cincinnati. No crusts of glittering snow, just greys and browns. But instead I am an entirely different person with a support system, lessons learned, and I can manage a winter without snow or Diane Di Prima's Oreos.
Time, words, and many events have passed since that time. I don't have any real connection to anyone from those days (I am still on semi-annual speaking terms with a couple of people, though we drift apart more each year)..and I wouldn't want to attempt to converse with many of them at this point. I do wish that I could retrieve versions of the people that I knew before I knew them and talk to them. We were all unformed lumps of people, but some of us became more prickly or bitter or unbearable or hoarder-y or non-art-y (moi) than others. I'd like to share war stories of how we remember it.
But no. Drama-o-rama and mileage are hurdles that are sometimes never overcome.
--
Jeremy is snoring on the couch and I can just barely hear Echo & the Bunnymen on the Sonos in the bedroom. "Ocean Rain". It was playing at the Fivehands Curiosity Shoppe in Salem on our honeymoon when we bought our Victorian hair mourning wreath.
(I'd call that a perfect paragraph.)
--
In my hour or two of free tis this week, I'm making Valentine's doily sparkle things (sure its January, but VD can strike at any time, soldier!). My desk is incased in a strata of stamps, heart stickers, paper shreds, and double-sided tape. It's nice to make silly things. Silly things are the prettiest things.
I did escape the parking garage last night, about 45 minutes after getting into the car and waiting in my parking spot. Horns honked and turn signals blinked angrily and the surrounding concrete grew colder as tensions mounted and the afterglow goodwill of the home team's win wore off. I was the last to leave and only a police officer in his cruiser remained on the lower level. Traffic was clear and I cruised down Newtown Pike back onto I-75 N without difficulty. I listened to music and sang along to songs on the ride home--a lot of music that I haven't touched in ages, brought on by digging through digital shoebox and the shape of my dreams. The night was dark and the road was mine.
--
The dream I had the night before was peppered with the people and places from the 00s that I read about while catching up on old posts in this journal. It is so full of instances and moments and actions that have not crossed my mind in ages--while others are there, firmly planted in my mind and my subconscious (usually with a greater emphasis on place rather than person). The Kemper House never leaves. There are a number of stories from within those walls written in this account. Sometimes I dream that I've gone back inside (I do still have my door key, though I am certain the locks have long-since changed), and it's become a 5 1/2 minute hallway House of Leaves labyrinth. Sometimes I find that I have moved in and become a squatter. Once, we had moved into an edition on the back of the building but could not access the original rooms. In another, I made it inside to find that it had been gutted completely. It never appears in dreams exactly as it did in reality. I wish that I could remember to lie on my back in the kitchen floor and look for all of those squares that I scribbled in china marker under the cabinet. If I ever managed to master lucid dreaming, I'll give it a go. & I want to see the stained glass window in the closet under the stairs again. & one more heavy heave of my pocket door to the closet in my parlour bedroom. The ugly Rookwood tile of my bedroom hearth. Just a peek at my sadness as I sat alone in room--because it seemed corporeal at that time and I want to prove myself wrong. I think that the house must represent a particular iteration of self for me--a time of uncertainty, the death of adolescence, afterparty comedowns, chipped paint, sleeping in my shoes, longing, revelation, and art supplies.
This winter is a lot like my first one in Cincinnati. No crusts of glittering snow, just greys and browns. But instead I am an entirely different person with a support system, lessons learned, and I can manage a winter without snow or Diane Di Prima's Oreos.
Time, words, and many events have passed since that time. I don't have any real connection to anyone from those days (I am still on semi-annual speaking terms with a couple of people, though we drift apart more each year)..and I wouldn't want to attempt to converse with many of them at this point. I do wish that I could retrieve versions of the people that I knew before I knew them and talk to them. We were all unformed lumps of people, but some of us became more prickly or bitter or unbearable or hoarder-y or non-art-y (moi) than others. I'd like to share war stories of how we remember it.
But no. Drama-o-rama and mileage are hurdles that are sometimes never overcome.
--
Jeremy is snoring on the couch and I can just barely hear Echo & the Bunnymen on the Sonos in the bedroom. "Ocean Rain". It was playing at the Fivehands Curiosity Shoppe in Salem on our honeymoon when we bought our Victorian hair mourning wreath.
(I'd call that a perfect paragraph.)
--
In my hour or two of free tis this week, I'm making Valentine's doily sparkle things (sure its January, but VD can strike at any time, soldier!). My desk is incased in a strata of stamps, heart stickers, paper shreds, and double-sided tape. It's nice to make silly things. Silly things are the prettiest things.