February 1, 2014

Saint Brigid’s Day.

Woke from an odd dream. I was in a town where there were many hills, and I had been trying to make it as some sort of artist, perhaps an actor. When I looked into a store window, I looked like Darrell. Nothing was happening for me, and I was a little desperate. It seems that I had once worked in a donut shop, and I went back to see if I could again get a job there, carrying with me a stool missing two of its legs. I knew I needed my own stool for the break room, but for some reason it had lost the two legs, or I had decided it showed the proper attitude (hopeful but not too confident) to appear that way. I stood in line to get an application, but then grew fearful, and fled into a dark room, like a theater lobby. In the dim light I could barely discern money on the floor, wads of it, as though someone had dropped it in haste. I began picking up the money, thinking it a windfall, but then wondering if I had dropped it myself in my distraction and confusion.

I’ve been up for ten minutes and have already plucked a stinkbug off the nozzle of the Jergens lotion bottle and off the trunk of my elephant lamp. Praying they do not follow me across the street.

The moving has become almost unendurable, one of those processes to which there is no perceivable end. I thought doing it in dibs and dabs would reduce stress, but I must not know myself very well to have thought that.

I began adding up the time and expense I accrue trying to please or help other people, then turned my thoughts aside lest disappointment with all that turn my deeds aside as well.