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Dream-like: 1.21.19

January 21, 2019

I slept for 12 hours last night, and I remember pieces (some are long) from 4 overlapping dreams. However, I just finished (another) book on dreaming, and the way that author interpreted her own dreams was much more straightforwardly than I’ve been doing.


I’m in college, as a 20-something, but it’s weird because it’s simultaneously a science/technical track (which I’m excelling in), and “art school”… which I’m flunking.                    In media res, I’m pulling an all-nighter, along with most of my art school cohort, to “finish” our final project and take-home exam. My classmates are all bonding over the exhilaration of finally finishing this stuff under such a tight deadline. I’m … panicking, because mine are barely started. I would need weeks to finish.

My mother is going to be pleased; she has never supported my attempts to do both things.

And during the term, I realized that the “left-brained” stuff, I could fairly easily achieve getting into a groove with, then churning out the assignments and tests with ease.      “Art school”, though… it wasn’t just that it was switching gears to “right-brained”. Everything required… looooong stretches of time, for ideas to incubate. And then, more long periods, of doodling/sketching and experimenting/iterating.    So doing both STEM and Art during semesters of the same length was a big part of the problem. In several years at the college, I was supposed to be preparing to graduate in another year or so, but I’d only baaaarely begun to figure out what sorts of Art problems intrigued me.



I’m home alone with my father, and he’s trying to explain what procedure I should follow if Vicky calls back, but he keeps getting distracted.

I’m (inexplicably) bare-chested, but wearing lots of strings of beads, which I tell him are from projects I did in art school.

Later, I catch sight of myself in a mirror. Not only am I wearing two silly-looking knitted hats in blue*, but I don’t recognize my body at all. I’m shorter in stature, my chest is quite large while my shoulders are narrower, my skin color is more golden.



I’m talking to my parents, and decide to ask them just which highway it is that reliably “takes me home, when I’m lost”. You know, it’s the one that’s like a rollercoaster? That is, you drive up a very steep incline (as if it were a drawbridge opening), and then you drive down the plunge on the other side? Before the lanes separate into 5 different highways. That one — what is it called? It’s always there when I need it.

My parents look at each other, flummoxed. They have no idea what I’m talking about.



I’m at my aunt and uncle’s house in SLC. A big family reunion is happening, but… I don’t recognize a lot of the people.

At one point, dream-HO is giving me a hard time, and a girl passing by tells him to knock it off — which I appreciate — but… she does it while calling me DeadName — which I don’t.

Later, I’m with Y, playing with K’s baby/toddler. I introduce myself to the baby as Mea, and she beams at me. I wonder aloud how hard it would be to get everyone to switch over.

Later, someone’s talking to Vicky on the phone. I jump on, and am prompted to tell her about the much bigger reunion that she should totally attend, that’ll be happening in Queens, in 2020.

Huge (hand-sized) “ants” walking across the sandwich on my lunch plate turn out not to be me hallucinating, but instead are remotely-controlled robot ants that a bunch of the adolescent guys are fooling around with. I feel left out, but I’m also wondering if I can eat my sandwich.

Much later, I realize this reunion has been an opportunity for (a) me to ‘reintegrate’ with my extended family, but also (b) poet Natalie Diaz to revitalize her relationship with her husband, and 2 teenaged sons. Instead, though, ND and her husband have, regretfully, decided to divorce, and her sons are heading out into the world for their adult lives.   And I… feel just as alienated after a family reunion as I do before a family reunion.



*Possibly the same-ish “radioactive-spider-blue” as in Spider-Verse? But why??


I know poet Natalie Diaz is a lesbian, and thus, has no husband. I don’t think she has teenaged children.

Natalie Diaz is one of my poetry heroes, so I would normally be excited about her appearing in a dream. I’m grateful my brain did it this way, instead of more nightmares about ARCTIC SEA ICE MELTING.          (Per her IG feed, her brother has written a book called The End of Ice (because global warming), so now I’m going to have to stop following her. Dammit.)



The knitting community on IG, heavily white and privileged, has just recently discovered racism exists in their midst.

I found out about it when one (white) knitter I happen to follow started linking to stuff in her stories. I got all caught up in it, emotionally, even though I’m not part of the community at all — I don’t knit; I don’t buy knitting patterns (and I couldn’t and wouldn’t follow them, if I did); I don’t spin; I’m not on Ravelry; I haven’t woven since before we moved to Maryland — almost 11 years; I don’t buy yarn.             The only aspect connecting me at all is… I do like looking at pictures of pretty colorways in fiber.


I don’t ‘belong’ in groups.

I don’t know how to navigate groups so that I don’t, eventually, become a scapegoat.

I don’t feel safe in groups.

Groups accomplish things lone individuals don’t, however, so (on some level) I wish I could belong to a group, the ‘right’ group.


A group in which I can be defended, publicly, but only by being misnamed? No thank you.

A group where everyone is fine with the time scale, but I can’t make it work for me, and therefore am not just failing, but feeling shamed as a ‘loser’? Nope.

I don’t have a relative named Vicky. My cousins might have a cousin Vicky  though. ‘Belonging’ to those cousins had to come through my uncle, whom I don’t think ever liked me much. Also, HO set himself up as the arbiter of who was allowed to ‘belong’ to his clan, and he always pushed me out. I saw no way to go around both males. But even if I had… The whole clan is devoutly Catholic, which means patriarchal, authoritarian, all that.      I’m none of that.


Why do I keep trying so hard to be accepted by people who aren’t interested in me?

It’s time to learn different.

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