Dream Journal

Alone with a List

Making a list of things

Things that are googled as I type them

All of which center around dying this horrible navy-colored hoodie I just got (I actually just got a cozy red hoodie)

(and actually it was Lynae who posted this morning about how much she hated an ugly navy-and-grey ModCloth ensemble)

And it’s hard to type because Swiftkey keepsfuckingup thewords

I realize that I’m alone in the attic space, where a moment ago the rest of my classmates (tenth grade history, Mr. Conklin) had been all around me

And that they were all downstairs now, and I was about to get locked in with my depressing craft search list

That’s when I woke up in my loving lukewarm bath and knew if I spent any longer there, I’d be trapped all night

Dream Journal

Replay, Shaving Confusion, Cesar Chavez Funeral Home

Replay of experience in February 2014 from an impersonal perspective. Why they thought I was crazy, and how that thought contributed to the problem.

Shaving in the bathtub, but not wet. Miss a lot of spots, very uneven. Lynae texts me and tells me to be where she told me to be when we’d texted previously. I don’t understand for a moment and then Edgar comes to the door. He begins saying something about how we can’t put things in the garden. Before he can finish, a giant dog that I didn’t know was in the apartment bursts from behind me and to my left.

Driving to a Chicken John show, I have to back the truck into a wall along Cesar Chavez. I get out and walk along the outside of a Victorian funeral home that I’ve helped empty. I’m then inside, walking along a hallway. I am counting my distance and imagining the cremation rooms that I’m passing through beyond. A woman passes me from behind and to the left, she’s in her twenties, white, hair done up, and as she passes me and enters a different room she says something like “this place is [fascinating/amazing/built for us], isn’t it.”