I've started charting my dreams. For the sake of curiosity, and also, who knows--maybe they hold the cosmic key to my destiny. My poor submerged iceberg has certainly been sweating it out, working overtime. I mean, Baz Lurhmann would be jealous of these productions. I haven't reached any epiphanies just yet, but I have been mightily entertained. Here's a sampling:
A mountainous tidal wave of the clearest crystal water (ug, I can still see it!) is about to slam me to smithereens before the dream jump cuts to me in a bar on the beach, where a man whispers instructions for a secret mission to break into the principal's office.
(I should drink more beer to avoid problems and find my purpose. Um, thanks subconscious, I think that's called alcoholism.)
I'm supposed to rent out a house, but the rooms keep expanding and rotting as I show potential buyers. Just as I get really discouraged, Sufjan Stevens organizes a private concert in the back room and offers artistic advice to all who attend.
(I should focus on my art and on swarthy, artsy men, and not on my secret desire to become a real estate agent.)
A Bomb! This one takes place at Point Loma's library, where I'm warned, by a guy who once asked for my number but didn't call, that bombers are flying in, and that I need to get to the underground shelter S.T.A.T.. I think to myself, well, he's saved my life, I guess that's worth more than a silly lunch date. When I get inside, I'm herded through door #8 by my elementary camp counselor, downstairs and into a bomb shelter where we all dance to some bumpin' trance music.
(Perhaps I should not be so quick to write this guy off--perhaps he will save my life...or at least clue me into the hottest underground discoteche in L.A.)
It's a Sunday morning and I'm writing. I find a new coffee shop that looks like the Ikea cafeteria. The extremely flamboyant barista offers me the best Chai I've ever had. Behind the bar, willowy African women weave floral bouquets. After chatting with my high school choreographer for a while, who is also loving this new hot-spot, I ask the barista if it will cost money for a refill. He gets flustered, walks away, and comes back to inform me huffily that this coffee shop, in several studies, has been linked to many Pulitzer prize winners. I am extremely impressed.
(I've got nothing. Um...find that coffee shop and write there all. the. time.)
Also, at one point I murder someone, at another I poison someone...I have a child that I only see for an hour a week, I play a "game" of volleyball where the ball appears magnetically attracted to my face, I am car-jacked by Rita Dove and forced to walk 40 blocks with my arms full of books, a poem of mine is accepted for publication but then accidentally misprinted into a roll of golden coins with kitschy mountain scenes stamped on the front.
But my favorite was last night!
I am working in the White House as the 'coffee girl' (it's an official title). My duties extend to sitting in on every meeting Obama holds. Nancy Pelosi and I are totally besties, and we gab through most of the meetings--I don't hear a word Obama says. Later, back at the coffee station, she tells me that a female spy will be coming in and will need the Toddy coffee and NOT the iced Americano, and it is up to me, and only me, to make sure she receives the correct cup. Both are already in the fridge, unmarked.
Again, I don't know what any of this really means, but I do know that I'm enjoying it all. Perhaps my budding career in coffee will lead to Pulitzers and politics. Yeah. That's it.
I miss your writing!
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