I crawled into bed last night, my red notebook and red pen easily accessible on my bedside table, and fell asleep to the most appropriate bedtime story. I’ve decided to keep a dream journal.  I’m convinced I’ll get premonitions about my future.  I know that sounds very tidal chart moon sign of me, but I believe the power of the mind is our greatest strength.  Look how fcuked up we (read: I) make ourselves by over-analyzing everything anyway.  We use our minds to escape pain, to create drama, and to lose weight.  I’m using my powers for good this time.  Just call me Glinda (I’m so desparate to see Wicked).

I’ve been a wandering stranger looking for a soft place to fall for a long time.  I’d complain about it. A. Lot. Spewed letters and hiccuped words all over this monitor… "I haven’t been able to commit to a relationship. I am too intrigued by others stories, the way they handle stress. I love the intimacy and learning that comes with them, but I want a lot of those, so I can learn more about people, and about myself. Or maybe I just haven’t met the right guy. Realistically though, I think I sabotage any chance of a relationship right now because I have an idea that I’m really not ready for one yet. I think I will be come September. In the fall, I’ll be in love, and it will be right. I’ve convinced myself of something based on nothing."  I posted that once upon a short slice of time ago. 

I think our dreams hint at our core desires.  It’s not about predicting the future as much as it’s seeing what your real hopes are.  Self-fulfilling prophecies are hopefully going to find their way onto the pages of my red notebook.

I saw a man in a thick green sweater near our front door.  I knew it was ours.  We had an SUV in the driveway.  I was coming into the house, my hair in a long braid down my back. I had to kick mud off my feet at the door.   An enormous tree stood like a force in our front yard.  I loved our front door.  It was everything I wanted, right there, in a heavy stately door.  I love the voices and sounds of homes.  If dreams could smell, this one smelled of fall leaves and firewood.  We had children.  One was still in a car seat, the other grabbed the man’s hand and pulled him toward a red tricycle.  I loved that dream.  I awoke feeling yummy.  I braided my hair… and then I remembered, in my dream, my mother told me my haircut was too drastic.  She said she didn’t like it because it looked like I had two haircuts, like a mullet.  (When my hair gets too long, she says I look like a country western singer… and when I get layers, she complains they’re not gradual enough). 

Freud said artists and cooks have an innate desire to play with their feces.  They learn appropriate as they grow up. I love learning more than French fries.  I adore learning about people, hearing their stories, following their gestures, and lingering on their observations.  And when I got into mini-relationships, even, that process was stymied.  I didn’t realize I could get that need of the "new" met without involving another man.  It’s called friendships.  It’s called volunteering.  It’s called reading.  I felt more myself when I wasn’t in a relationship because I was able to "learn" and love "new" without feeling guilty.  I’ve learned how to do appropriate.  I now know how to sublimate.