I’m standing at the top of Bishop’s Peak, eating a mango like an apple. My backpack is painted in dust with a suggestion pasted to it suggesting correctly that (for me) ‘death can wait’. I am crusted in dirt and a sunscreen resemblent of a thick, white paste not unlike like Elmer’s Glue. I’m basically in my underwear, drinking a tepid combination of water and sugar free monster from a canteen covered with stickers bearing slogans about feminist topics and one or two from the Airfield Supply Company, Twitter, and various breweries. I look like freckled, happy Delores Park Trash. The beautiful blonde Cal Poly kids that started the same time as me, just reached the summit and look like death, with their collapsed and sunburned little shoulders.
I feel great. I could keep going, like a small, disheveled mountain sprite .
I made it down.
On the descent, the rocks were too hot to touch and the dirt radiated heat back up at me, like an asshole. An asshole complicit with the sun.
I need food.
Bishop’s Peak, you’re a beautiful thing.
On march 23rd, I’m taking myself to be sterilized: I literally couldn’t be more excited about this, but I’m also bloody terrified because like most invasive surgeries, it means I’ll be put under. That fear is a small price to pay for not being made bat-shit nuts by hormonal birth control. It feels liberating to make that choice with minimal interference. Yesterday, I had an appointment with my GP to follow-up on blood work: It’s clear that I’d been previously misdiagnosed, which can happen when you have no insurance for all of your twenties and move all the time, leaving you with a broken chain of sporadic doctor visits for separate but inter-connected issues. That’s a clear perk of the American medical system, friendos. When I get to the office, She, a woman in her mid-to-late forties with a beautiful and grainy russian voice not trimmed by her 20 years in the US, (I know this because she gave me way more information about her than I wanted) tells my I don’t have RA, and long story short, have fibromyalgia. I have an MRI scheduled to rule out fractures in my spine, a possible result of my less-than-idyllic childhood. Here’s where think start to feel heavy and uncomfortable. She asks why No-one has done imaging of my spine. I tell her that I’ve spent ten years with no insurance. She asks why I had back pain as a child, and I briefly explain it was very abusive. I do this with my face made of stone, my tone the tone of someone who is used to this conversation and begging to have this over with. She begins to blubber. I know doctors have feelings, but this isn’t the first one who’s cried, and I am uncomfortable being put in a position to think about comforting someone whom I am paying for the time of. That horrible phase of my life, my childhood,has long passed. I left home more than 15 years ago. I rarely cried then, and I don’t often now. I don’t have the time. After what feels like 30 minutes of stilted convo about how badly women are treated and the #metoo movement, we move on to talking about my upcoming Tubal Ligation. She begs my rapidly angry-growing self to “think about it”. What if I realize I’ve mad a mistake after? Is this because of my childhood? I assure her that I have never wanted children. My life-plan involves travel and unencumbered fucking of the man I married for as long as possible without the risk of accidental procreation. She prescribes drugs. the conversation ends.
It wasn’t until 3 hours later , sitting in my car after running a million errands and realizing how little goddamn time I have in a day, that I began crying out of frustration. Frustration at the American Medical System, at misdiagnosed illness, at the diagnosis itself, and most of all, another persons patronising gall . Frustration at how little time we have for life as adults, and how doctors visits eat up that precious time.
I have “thought about it”. I’m looking forward to not thinking about it. So, on march 23rd, I’m looking forward to starting the first day of the rest of my life unencumbered by the idea of childbirth and pregnancy. So save your tears, Doctor What’syerface, do your job, take my money, and STFU.
I dream almost every night, and for the past 3 months I’ve tried with a reasonable success rate to write down what happens when I’m asleep. This means that a black leather book lives beside my bed, it’s heart filled with tiny scribbles of varying legibility, the messages running the gamut from seemingly symbol-Laden- probable gibberish, to complex storylines that feel like ghosts around the edges of my waking life.
I write down my dreams in this book while my brain is in that hazy, San Francisco Fog State between asleep and awake so I often have to go back and rewrite when fully awake. I feel like one’s brain starts to forget what happens in dream worlds very quickly so it’s important to do it as soon as possible.
Some patterns have emerged. I’ll highlight a few of them.
- I dream about fully fleshed – out people with names. Sometimes I know them, often I don’t.
- I dream about sex with women. (don’t we all)
- I dream in muted colours
- I have no idea what my face looks like, but I am very small, my hands remain the same: long, thin, and boney. Sometimes I am aware of my hair, which is long and in my way
- I dream the same dreams often . Some of these dreams have been recurring since I was a child.
- There are, so far as I can see, 5 worlds that are connected to each other but don’t exist in the same time. They seem to be connected with a subway line of sorts that I can exit at any point, and the train is also a part of different times. My real-life fascination with fashion seems to mean that my brain is created wardrobe as an identifier for time-period.The worlds are as follows :
- An apartment where a number of people who reoccur in these dreams live. I don’t know how many floors it has but it seems endless and is More or less in the present. Sometimes there’s a fire pit in the common area. It’s very gray and always night.
- My own childhood time-period,during the late summer.
- A junkyard (I guess) but in a sort of soup ladle shape, basically hanging in nothingness.
- The weird-ass Subway
- An old west construct.(this makes no sense because I have zero attachment to the Olde West, western films,ect. Even while I’m having the dream, I feel like “wtf is this corny ass shit”.
- Somewhere that that feels very old, is slightly cold but not so cold that I am uncomfortable, and has no noticeable buildings. I have been inside structures on this world, but I couldn’t tell you what they look like from the outside. This is the one that bothers me because when I’m awake I feel like I remember it randomly and it makes me feel as that I’m out of time. It seems to be nothing but trees and cliffs and I feel very very small, physically.
Some other noticeable patterns are these:( at this point I’m going to point out that I practice lucid dreaming so I have decent amount of control in some situations. I’m not great at it and I’m off and lazy and don’t try to use it)
- So many crows, why all the crows. Who invited those assholes.
- I am completely capable of using the internet in my dreams. Or at least my phone. I don’t see the face of it or anything but I know that I’m using it
- Sometimes there are clear messages that are just one sentence. Sometimes these repeat themselves and they always make no sense within the context of what’s Happening
- The most noticeable is this. I am helping people in my dreams. I am always helping people do something, find something, get somewhere, Etc. Sometimes I know them, usually I don’t. And often times it’s something sad. I realized this a long time ago: That often the dreams that I dream don’t feel like my own. They feel like something I am doing for someone else, whether or not I want to.
I’ll write more about this later. But I wanted to get the outline of how I’m dreaming out there first before writing about this further here. This probably seems strange to you, all this listening to what happens when I’m asleep but as long as I can remember I have been dreaming dreams that that are big and strange and pointed and recurring.
Its 6:30 right now and I’m slightly jet-lagged. I desperately want to grind coffee but I also don’t want to wake up Alvin who is so peacefully asleep in the other room. I think I’ll probably just poked my head in there and see if he’s on his phone or not and if he is, then all bets are off. I’m grinding. It’s the second day of the new year, and I’m wishing that you’re having the best start to your year possible , and maybe, maybe, I’m dreaming about you.
It has taken me this long to realize my brain isn’t mad; it takes the elevator, and not the stairs, and dreams in colours science hasn’t words for yet.
How’s that for a creative title?
We got home last night. Thankfully, we didn’t need to use Lyft because the one of the two wonderful humans who cat-sat for us came and got us from the SFO, thus reducing any chance of my maiming a Lyft driver because they talked too much.
When did we decide that using Puddle-jumpers for continental flights was wise, btw? You know what I mean, right? The small planes with the terribad concave seats made of cardboard and shame? Fortunately even though that’s what I flew from Montreal to SFO in, there was no one in my isle, so I just slept across all three seats.
Theres an epic amount of laundry and unpacking to do, I have to work at 11 and I have a ton of writing to do, but at the moment I’m doing nothing but drinking coffee and compulsively lotioning myself while smiling at the California sun I haven’t seen in 2 weeks.