I dreamt that my friend showed me her new phone. It was an old school flip phone, small and white like an angel’s marshmallow snack. She showed me how it worked and I watched like I was learning about an artifact. How do you get your emails? I asked. She looked back at me, and smiled wickedly. I don’t.
Sometimes I forget that Morrison can dance his face off like a love interest in an movie a la good ol’ Bing Crosby days. He studied ballroom dance in high school, and so when the right song is on, he morphs from gentle giant who prefers to not draw attention to himself, to SLICK AND ALLURING DANCING SWAN MAN. The footwork alone is insane and he busts it out at dance parties like a secret trick. People tend to watch. And when this happens, sometimes I just watch him, too, with a big stupid smile on my face, as it’s sort of a thing from a dream, having a man who not only CAN dance, but WANTS to. I can usually get away with a bit of objective staring, until he pulls me up to dance with him, at which point I promptly step on his feet, at which point he spins me around, and which point I fall on my face laughing like a kid on one of those spinny things, at which point he catches me.
I have always fancied myself a nighttime writer, whose brain is the most open and active and night, who types best cloaked in darkness. Maybe that was once true. But lately, by ‘most open and active at night’ I mean ‘only ever wants to watch Food TV and refuses any sort of creative thought.’ I think, with age, I’m turning into a morning writer. Now, in the AM, as soon as I open my eyes, my brain whirs with ideas, and I have to fully wake up to catch up with them. Like this gem from this morning, as my alarm went off: There are all different kinds of alarm sounds, some small like bells, some big like sirens. They could be separated into bins like candy and scooped out with giant spoons, taken home like fish. GOLD, RIGHT? GOLD? GOLDDDDDDDDD
Dreamt I was writing in a beautiful green meadow, with a pencil in a clean white college ruled notebook. I was JOURNALING, even, writing towards figuring out exactly what it is that’s blocking me from becoming the best person and writer I possibly can be. After a page of writing, I arrived at it. The very thing that I needed to confront. The one thing that needed fixing. I stared at it there on the page, circled and underlined it, felt sort of free, and ready to fix. So what is it? What is the thing? NOPE. NO CAN DO. DON’T REMEMBER EVEN AT ALL.
Morrison’s aunt, uncle and cousins, the Klanns, live in San Diego and are basically the perfect people to escape to, which we did for Thanksgiving yesterday (and the previous Thanks, too.) It is so cool to accumulate kin. In just this one family alone: A historian! A yoga teacher! A biologist! A visual artist! A DJ! A jovial retired Oil tank manager! A child! A dog! An aunt mom after my own heart who sent me home with rosemary bread and cooking magazines! I HAS CALIFORNIA FAMILY!
THREE MONTHS TIL THE WEDDING
MORRISON IS GOING TO START BULKING UP
I’M GOING TO START SLIMMING DOWN
SOON OUR SIZES WILL ECLIPSE EACH OTHER AND HE WILL LIFT ME LIKE A BABY CARROT UNDER A PECAN TREE
Every month, it seems, a major publication releases an article that basically just says, hey guys guess what! There is going to be a major earthquake in LA REAL. SOON. Every time I read one, I inevitably waste heart and brain space worrying about collapsed roofs and visualizing pillaged Whole Foods, cracked jars of almond butter, and people peeing in gutters and what if I can’t get to my contact lenses. So what if, just hear me out, All of the Newspapers, what if we all just agreed to know the fact that at any moment, California could aggressively shake for two minutes straight and kill us all, either with its shaking, or with the disease and mania to come after? To know it, and forget it, to go about our lives as if we live on something solid and safe and unflappable and NOT ‘locked, loaded, and ready to roll.’ MUST WE CREATE SUCH FEAR ABOUT SOMETHING THAT CANNOT BE PREVENTED?
I dreamt of a baby with a full beard. Which of course sent me straight to google image search, and the results are just. Equal parts horror and intrigue.
I just can’t.
But then of course, I did.