I can turn back the hands of time - you better believe I can

Everyday between the hours of three and five pm, I get ridiculously exhausted so much so that I'm struggling to keep my eyes open. Several times a week this results in me falling asleep on the train on the way home, which I don't mind except it's not a very long nap -- when I lived in Evanston it was perfect because I got a 45 minute nap on the train and felt refreshed in time for dinner and the evening.

I went home last night planning to nap, but ended up having some "alone-time" as I'm known to call it that lasted longer than five minutes. When I was done, I was too hungry to nap, so I got up and fixed food. After spending some time online, making a few phone calls, and watching chunks of Queer Eye on the Straight Guy, I was ready to be in bed, even if I wasn't sleepy, so I went through my rituals and got cozy with the pup and a book and a magazine. I drifted off to sleep to the sounds of Waldeck's The Night Garden.

I woke up at midnight to the phone. I talked for awhile but can't remember much of what was said, except after I hung up I put on clothes and Sophie thought she was going out again, but instead I found myself gliding out into the night alone. I mean, I'm sure from another's perspective I was actually stumbling through the night and across town, but I felt sort of high and outside myself, moving effortlessly and floating on instinct. Wearing my house shoes probably added to the dreamy effect.

All for the reward of sliding between the sheets and finding that other body to curl up against and fall asleep next to. It was a very "first month honeymoon" type action, in some ways. Lay with me because you wish to, not out of obligation.

Tell me something about Boston.

You want to rectify this mad look in my eyes

I heard you twice the first time, subconscious.

The night before, I dreamt of being in the ocean, up to my chest and before swimming and submerging myself, I panicked about not seeing all the oceanic life swimming around my legs. Last night, I dreamt that Damon and I were "trying out" for some sort of swim team -- or it's more like we had to prove we could swim in order to gain membership to a public pool. So we were in giant pool with tons of other guys (it was an all-male tryout) and I was in the pool with swim trunk and no top and I was a little concerned that someone would say something about my chest, but then figured no one would notice. Right before time came to start swimmming, I started to panic again, thinking I should just get out of the water and not risk being ridiculed or being unable to pass the test.

Being submerged in water has obvious meaning when it comes to deep subconscious experiences, swimming around in the watery depths of my brain and heart, immersed in psychic and spiritual feelings. In both dreams, I'm about to go under and right when I take in a deep breath it becomes more akin to hyperventilating and gulping for air, rather than preparation for floating.

These aren't quite anxiety dreams, which makes me feel hopeful. I don't ever leave the water. I just experience a significant moment of hesitation and questioning my own confidence and decision. In both dreams, I awoke in the midst of my internal debate. But the water feels good, always the perfect temperature and I feel comfortable being surrounded by it. I don't feel physically threatened or panicky, only momentarily doubtful, a tiny bit freaked out in the midst of excitement too. I wake up neither fearful or energized.

Big stuff is going on, internally and extrenally. It makes sense to panic sometimes. It doesn't mean I'm headed in the wrong direction. In fact, it probably means I'm doing something right if it induces a little bit of fear. Good change can be scary change.

I was in a crazy motion till you calmed me down.

I was supposed to go see "Pirates of the Carribbean" this evening with Roberto, but he got sick and went home. And apparently is really sick, not just I-can't-be-at-work sick.

I think I might go to a movie anyway. Though I'm having dog parent guilt, so maybe I should stay home. I would say "or just sleep all night" but I know I'm just under the influence of my sugar crash. By the time I ride the train home I'll be somewhat perky again.

Oh, and the main reason I'm even writing an entry is because I nearly got killed while walking to Tower to pick up the Windy City Times with Burlesque photos. I was walking in front of a parking garage entrance, which as been the location of several stand-offs between cars trying to ease out onto Wabash. But for the first time ever, I witnessed someone pulling into the garage from off the street. They turned quickly into a nearly empty sidewalk -- I saw nearly because I was the only person there, with a 12 foot gap between me and anyone else. They literally had to slam the brakes and possibly left skid marks. It stopped about six feet from my legs. I froze. People around me not in the path of the car froze. Several people not nearby turned around. It's like the world stopped completely for 0.8 seconds. I resumed walking. As I passed into safety, I heard the whirr of the automatic window and a voice say "sorry".

I held up my hand as if I was waving it off, though I was actually making an obscene gesture while doing so, then kept walking without actually looking at their face, since I knew I'd probably get angry and yell or have an aneurysm. It just didn't seem worth it.

The harder they come

I have one of those urges to write a to-do list made up primarily of things I've already done, so I can feel a proud sense of accomplishment. But not much would even make it onto that list except 1) consume an entire pound of edamame for dinner and 2) think about topics of conversation with Xtina Aguilera for when we marry. I think it should be painfully obvious that I succombed to watching E! while eating my "dinner" of soybeans. I managed to drag myself away from the television to put myself in front of the ccomputer monitor. An improvement? It's unclear.

I love how these grad school application essays are supposed to be 2-3 pages double spaced covering approximately five topics. Have they met me? I write 2-3 pages everyday in this thing about topics like how much I like a Jewel song or what I ate for lunch or hatred towards an advertisement. Distilling my literary experience and writing goals down to more manageable quantities shall be quite the task for a verbose fcker like me. I mean, one wouldn't necessarily guess that I have an intense love for minimalist fiction. I suppose I shall be channelling that in this case.