February 9, 2006

• A New Wind Blowin’ My Way

  On Thursday nights, with Shaun off at his writing class and nearly a week of honest to goodness hard work behind me, there is nothing I like more to do than to kick back with a frosty mug of peach ice cream, some good music, and my good ‘ole trusty blog. Sure, I have my short story that I should be working on, dishes in the sink, a leak that needs tending to in the bathroom and a presentation to revise, but why make myself wrinkle prematurely? Yes, blog time makes me happy, even when I’m not up for writing anything particularly eloquent, which I’m not. In fact, I think I’m going to produce a mundane “day in the life” entry that I’m sure only those related to me might give two squirts about. With that raving endorsement said and done, lets begin, shall we?

  I began the new position that I was promoted to at work on January 30. You must believe me when I assure you that work is nothing but peachy now, but I’ve got to admit, the first week and 1/2 of it was knarly. I’ve never handled stress well. But unless you lived with me, I doubt you’d ever know it. I’m the type to smile publicly about hellish situations; it has been brought to my attention on more than one occasion that I have remarkable grace under pressure. I get things done. I am a problem solver. The trouble is, I internalize the stress to the point that not even I recognize it until hours later when I wake up in the middle of the night in a puddle of my own piss.

  “Shaun, you have to wake up. I’m sorry but I pissed the bed.”
  I’ve never heard my husband laugh so hard at 3:30 in the morning.
  I could have sworn I was on the toilet.

  Aside from pissing the bed, I also passed out thrice this week and last, made friends with a rustling little bird that flutters around my ribcage midmorning, and endured four days without a decent shit. But it’s all better now. I swear.

  This Tuesday I began to feel the perks of my new position in a tangible, non-stressful way. My new position makes the days fly by. Along with a bunch of other things, my primary responsibility is to act as the liaison between departments for revisions on ad copy that I write and work with the design and editorial department to create. I also play a large role in planning an event that the MCA hosts called First Fridays.

  Another sure sign that I am finally adjusting to my job is that my blurry, anxiety ridden nightmare about accidentally calling a museum donor my “homeslice” in an email has been replaced by my usual lucid, beautiful, story-like dreams. Last night I dreamt about one of my best friends in high school, Lindsay York. We were hanging out in a beautiful house in LA. Some of the walls in the house were exposed brick and others were merely cloth, brightly colored reds and purples that flapped about joyously in the desert breeze like a circus tent. Just like old times, we were cuddled up on a beanbag, talking, laughing, drinking chocolate rice milk, and doing impersonations of celebrities. Suddenly, Robert Downing Jr. plopped himself down next to us and joined our conversation. He told us that we were hilarious and he had to make it down to the valley more often for these types of parties. This made Lindsay and I burst out laughing because there was no party—it was only the two of us and Robert Downing Jr. When Robert got sulky because we were laughing at him, we complimented him by saying that we found him attractive because he was the type of man who looked “utterly destroyed by his emotions.” Then we cackled like evil witches. I woke up giggling.

  Ideas for my short story have also been stirring around in my brain as of late, which is always a good sign that all is well in my life. I’m writing a thematic piece with a dose of physiological thriller sharpening its edge. I’ll end with an excerpt from that. It’s another dream sequence, because nothing gives me a bigger thrill than dreams—even scary ones.

  Excerpt from Mothers Day
  By Truly Render

  Like every time she closed her eyes, she remembered the dream.

  It started simply enough. Julie would be coming home from a day at her job at a weekly entertainment listings rag, eyes burning from copy-editing mindless pieces about Boulder’s hottest holistic day spa, and unlocking the apartment door when music from within would catch her off guard. In the dream, she was convinced that Sam wouldn’t be home for hours, off teaching his night class at Naropa. With her face pressed against the door, the music swelled and revealed itself to be an old spiritual, played on a crackling record player: Soon a we’ll be done a with the troubles of da world/the troubles of da world/the troubles of da world/soon a we’ll be done a with da troubles of the world/I’m GOIN’ to meet mah LORD!

  Suddenly, the door pushed forward, and she was inside the apartment that she thought was hers, but was not. Blonde hardwood floors were replaced with a decrepit, pilled green rug tossed over a dirt floor. The ceiling to floor bookcases of the living room had been replaced by rotting planks of soft wood, brandied sunlight and breeze peeking through the cracks. The record had stopped but a woman’s voice murmured the song softly from the kitchen before calling in a gentle southern accent, “I know you is in here.”

  In the dream, Julie walks slowly through the living area to the adjoining kitchen. A sinewy Creole woman stands at a wooden counter top rolling out a piecrust. A monstrous wood-burning stove is crouched in the corner, a saucepan simmering atop it.

  “Don’t you think you can go sneaking in here with out as much as a hello. I knows your kin and I don’t take too kindly to you actin’ as if you a stranger.”

  Julie tried to get a look at the woman’s face, to place the woman, but so hunkered was she over her crust, shaping it to her pan, that it was impossible to see her.

  “Where do we know each other from?”
  The woman laughed a witchy laugh, “Where do we know each other from? My, my Adele, you certainly outdone yourself this time.”
  “But I’m Julie…”

  The woman began to ladle the contents of the pot into the pie, “I know you come a long way, so I’m fixing’ you your favorite dish.”
  “Oh?”

  The woman spun around, her eyes milky and blind and open wide. Julie backed into the corner of the room, aghast. From behind her back, the old woman thrust the uncooked pie forward for Julie to see. From the hatches of the top crust, a lugubrious, menstrual burgundy sauce coated short, bristled strands of hair. A full set of teeth surfaced and the contents of the pie began to thrash about, making low, guttural dog grunts.

  “What’s the matter, now?” the woman said, edging the pie closer to Julie’s horrified face, “Can’t recognize your own child when you sees it?”

  At that point, Julie would wake sweaty and terrified, the woman’s vacant white eyes, the vicious noise of the pie, chasing her as she leapt out of bed to flick on the light. Julie would stay awake for the rest of the night, too upset over the awful images to sleep. It had been two months since her last full night of sleep, and even more frightening, two months since her last period.
  ________________________________________________________________________

  So, did my story segement freak you out? Also, how do you handle stress? When do you know you are fully acclimated?

  • 10:01 pm
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