Last night I dreamed that Paul and I went for job interviews at American Express (don't ask me why). It was a huge building, lots of very faded looking people. Reminded me of when I worked a temporary job at GE Information Services. Everyone was washed out - very white, more so under the fluorescent bulbs. They all looked very judgmental (or was I the judgmental one?) The lady who interviewed us was quite nice, not bleached or blanched at all. She was quite friendly until she began to look over our credit report. Bear in mind, we don't have "bad credit." We pay our bills, but we have a lot of them. That drives down our "score." She just shook her head.
"You didn't tell me about all of this," she said.
I began to go over everything on the report, but it didn't seem to matter.
"I'd be surprised if you have 90 cents," she said.
"Well, we do," I said.
We were on our way out, and I ran into a nice lady in the elevator. She was talking about how she got into her current career.
"It's funny," she said. "I used to be creative. I made lots of very cool crafty things. But when I interviewed here
On my way out of the building I grumbled to myself that I didn't want to be in risk management or financial planning or any of those other things associated with the company. "I guess this is the universe's way of telling me I'm a writer," I said.
And so it must be. That dream was pretty clear. They aren't all that way. I still have psychedelic dreams that seemingly have no meaning. I still wake up in a cold sweat sometimes, running from the boogey-man. Overall, I don't remember many of my dreams, though. They seem to just come and go. I wonder if that happens to everyone as they get older? Maybe dreams are just less fascinating.
In other news, I'm still recovering from the rhizotomy. I have several puncture marks in the left side of my neck and the whole side is sore. I slept a lot yesterday, only worked two hours. In fact, I'm ready to go back to bed right now. I think it's partly the medication and partly the fact that my body is trying to recover from an internal fire. I keep saying, "It's fine. I'm fine." But it doesn't feel fine. It feels like hell. It feels like someone had a sadistic good time with the left side of my body.
You know, it's not easy to have a chronic condition. Seems like in this day and age, everyone just wants you to act like nothing is wrong. You're just supposed to suck it up and use a little "mind over matter" - oh, and throw in some extreme sports and team-building while you're at it! (I once turned down a job because their training program included a trip out of town with all of the other trainees. The culmination of the trip was for each of us to climb to the top of a pole and leap off, grabbing for the proverbial brass ring. Though we would be harnessed up, I flatly refused. That was the stupidest thing I'd ever heard of for job training!!! They may as well have said, "We only want young, strong, adventurous people who have nothing better to do than to risk their necks for the company.")
Sometimes I think the universe really is trying to tell me something. One of my favorite authors (most people don't know him), Reynolds Price, credits his spinal cancer for his writing career. He teaches English at Duke University, but he never wanted to sit still long enough to write. (It's a damned lonely job - why do you think so many famous writers are depressed alcoholics? Think of how lonely blogging is! I get scarcely any feedback or comments, so I do this mostly for me!) Though I don't have spinal cancer, I have loads of spinal pain, so I know what he means. I will never be a landscaper, a sculptor, a carpenter, a mason, a crossing guard, an aerobics instructor, a skydive instructor, a circus performer, or a horse trainer! Never mind that I never wanted to be any of those things. I keep running into things that other people do and thinking, "I'll never do that." I have a nice bicycle in the garage that is going nowhere until I get better. I just bought a yoga mat that I can't use until I get through this recovery. And right now I can't even sit and type for long (you wouldn't believe how long it has take me to write this.) But this part will pass. I'll be back to typing without pain soon. And then maybe I'll get back to the book.
I owe it to my cousin, who haunted my dreams for many years after her death, to explore the other possibilities of her demise. They closed the case almost immediately, calling it a suicide, but most of us in the family know better. It wasn't like her. It wasn't her at all. That's my first book I hope to put out (well, not counting the technical books I've published - that's a different part of me and not something I want to do for the rest of my life). Someday I want the person who killed her to read this book or hear about it on television and go, "Oh shit! Someone knows what happened." I want that person to feel haunted for the rest of his days, worrying that the cops are going to come to his door. Killing my cousin's body and her reputation in one fell swoop has earned him that much.
I'll get to all of this .... just as soon as I have another nap from this medication ...
Peace - D