Dreamin'

Posted 8:47 AM by Michelle
I can't stop dreaming. I never sleep the night through these days, which may be why I have bursts of energy and then all I want to do is go back to bed. But each time I wake I have to disentangle myself from whatever brilliant-hued imaginary life I've been living for the last hour or so. I have to realize that I'm not a vampire, that my tongue is the appropriate size, that there is no crazy shattered casing surrounding my teeth, that I am not Jewish, that my friends did not just thwart my attempted rape in a country club (?), that I am not going to Iceland with one of my mormon aunts, that my brother Steve is not out walking aimlessly in the Netherlands, that no one painted a beautiful picture of my 6 foot tall Mediterranean husband and I sleeping face to face. Oh yeah, and that I'm not married to an incredibly gorgeous 6 foot tall Mediterranean guy.

And this is just in the last two days.

Each dream is complete, all of them tinged with woe. I read once that dreams are 70% negative, 30% positive, but I can count the truly *good* dreams I've ever had on one hand. I used to have recurring nightmares, when I was very young, about having to save my parents from some evil- there was always a hot air ballon in these dreams- and the bad dreams have followed me into adulthood. But I can't figure out why I'm dreaming so much these days. About a month ago I noticed that I wasn't dreaming at all, and hadn't since I moved here, and then that part of my brain switched on with such vehemence that it wakes me ten, twelve times a night. My dad suggested I write them all down, but I'd never get back to sleep.

I don't know how much dream content is actually relevant. But I would love to know why these are the topics that haunt me, that won't allow me to sleep more than an hour or two at any time.

My dear friend Elizabeth stopped by yesterday while I was working from home, and we chatted about the parts of our lives that are brimming with goodness, and the parts of our lives that are black holes. I was left wondering how many people in the world love both their job and their life partner. It almost seems to much to ask... hell, I'll ask for it anyway. But I wonder if my dream life has been inspired by my waking creative life, or if I've been dreaming this much my whole life and I only pay attention to it during certain times. Do I only pay attention when I'm busy asking myself questions, like the ones Elizabeth and I were discussing yesterday?

The guy who tried to rape me last night in my dream was tall and bearded. He looked like Paul Bunyan. My friends totally kicked his ass- I hit him so hard that my whole arm jarred. The Mediterranean guy? My goodness. He was a piece of work.

I'm going to try to keep paying attention, but I don't know that anything will be clearer for it.

Forgetful

Posted 10:09 PM by Michelle
In July of 1997, I started work at a Kansas City restaurant, now closed, called Parkway 600. I interviewed there because they had a beautiful flowered patio and it was one of the few places left in KC where my boyfriend and I had not had a fight. We'd only been there once. My first week there was a little hard, because the women were excessively clique-y, and the men all too pretty. I was introduced to everyone at family meal. "This is Michelle, from Chicago," said my manager. "Please make her feel like home." They didn't so much. But the next week, there was another new blonde. "This is Hayley. Please make her feel like home." Hayley had long blonde hair and was dotted with freckles and had the hugest brown eyes this side of the equator. After family meal, as I remember it, I overheard Hayley say quite loudly, "I just got back from college and I don't have any friends. Will anyone be my friend?" I sidled over to her and applied for the job. We went on our first "date" that night, moved to Los Angeles together a year later, then to New York two years after that. She's now in Chicago, and I'm here in Napa, but pictures of us line my cottage and I think about her all the time.

We've had some crazy stuff happen to us during the last seven years, stuff far too delicate and precious to discuss. We have managed to get the other in plenty of trouble, and then find the way out every time. We've nursed each other's hearts (and hangovers). She watched my cats for three months when I took to the woods, I slept on couches and floors for two months looking for a place for us to live in New York. We've seen death and life together, and fought and played and celebrated like any two sisters in the world.

She's never felt as far away from me as she does right now. She's making a life with a truly good man, and she's finally following her greatest passion and talent. Maybe that's what it is; maybe she doesn't need me like she used to. We both struggled, searching for that path that would finally make us feel some degree of satisfaction, any sense of worth. And she lept, lept far from New York, and as she fell she found not just a net but a web that will lead her to the life she wants. I saw her briefly last month, just for two days, and it was bittersweet. I used to worry about her all the time, like I worry about my brothers or my mom, and during those two days I saw that she's not on my watch anymore- not right now. We will circle back in a few months, or a few years- it doesn't matter, I'll know her as long as I live- but for now, she's building a life and a future and a *self*. And it's just not about me. We were symbiotic for so long, and now we are both doing exactly what we should be doing, separately. But I look forward to the day, or year, that we live near each other again, and we will pick up right where we left off.

For the first time in seven years, I forgot Hayley's birthday. This realization knocked the wind out of me, because birthdays are sacred to us, and every one of my last seven are distinct and memorable because of Hayley. So, finally, my dear Hayley, my beautiful friend, a belated, but very happy birthday to you- I hope it was wonderful and sparkly and ridiculous fun. I should have been there, and barring that, I should have remembered. I will do better next time.



Love,
Michelle

Writers Write

Posted 8:10 PM by Michelle
This I understand. I also understand that writers read. I am deep into Stephen King's brilliant "On Writing", and it is haunting me day and night, even worse than the clown from "It". I get it, I get it, writers write and writers read. They do these things almost constantly. I read like crazy, I write like crazy, but he (and all the others- Lamont, Kingsolver, Dillard) insists that writers have a schedule. He's got my panites in a bunch over this whole schedule thing; apparently hellfire and brimstone and utter despair is all that await the unorganized writer. He wants me to churn out 1000 words a day, at least. I double that number every day I'm at work, but none of them are for my own project. I have to leave for work at 8:30 AM at the latest, and I (albeit feebly) run in the mornings, and even if I didn't, I still couldn't write 1000 words between 7:30 and 8:30 AM. And that's if I don't bathe, which is problematic. My evenings are about 75% full, and when they are not, I leave work some time between 6-7, getting home around 7 or 8, and then it's the end of the day and I'm too...

I was about to say that I'm too drained to write, but it's not true. I just do everything better in the morning hours. I could tuck in right now and do that 1000 words, but truth be told, I've had a nasty cold for almost a month and I'm about to go to bed. Because apparently that's the OTHER thing I should do- stay healthy. Where does the full-time job fit in with the healthy and the reading and the writing and the schedule? I understand that lots of writers write at work. Lots of writers have subsistence jobs where they actually have time during the day to put pen to paper. Not only do I not have one of those jobs, I have a job for which I am constantly WRITING. Which is great, hey, I'm not complaining, but I am having a helluva time trying to figure out when I can schedule my three hours- three hours a day, is that asking too much?- in a row that I can close the door of my study and write for me. My mom often bemoans that she's tired of working on other people's music, because it starts to interfere with her own. I finally understand. Mom, apparently it's all about schedule.

Could I swing it from 6-9 PM? I'd have to leave work on time, and stop dating entirely. Wait, maybe that's not such a bad idea. But it is the holidays, and I am booked most nights. Could I start getting up at 6? Even then, I'd have to be in the shower by 7:30, and that means no run. Could I start going into work at 10? UGH! HOW CAN I DO THIS?! My characters are going to become unfamiliar and stale and my plot will start to fade and everything will be ruined IF I DON'T GET ON SCHEDULE!

Did I happen to mention that the lovely board of my super arts non-profit offered me a new contract with a raise? AND we're having a holiday party? Now if only I could figure out my writing schedule.


yet another obstacle in my schedule...