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This is what I get for reading the John Stamos Wikipedia entry in the hours before I go bed...
I only recall snippets, but I know that this dream was a fully formulated mash-up of Full House and Twin Peaks with Mary-Kate and Ashley caper film-style plot for good measure. I know it was titled, "The Twins Speak". And I know, most assuredly, that it was amazing.
Bob Saget was "Agent Cooper", dressed in a sleek, slim, black suit. He owned a diner, one that only served damn fine cups of coffee and cherry pie. Sadly, no doughnuts. My view was external, reminiscent of Edward Hopper's Nighthawks painting (shown above, in crafty Lego styling), but more head on. He was speaking with a huge crow that sat on the counter, who had with him several talismans. He and the crow had been friends since the Middle Ages, when the crow, who was a shapeshifter, was human and owned a pub called The Stick and Cauldron. They were quietly, jovially reminiscing about some bawdy evening at the pub and were the only creatures in sight.
Meanwhile, Nicky and Alex, John Stamos's character Uncle Jesse's twins (who you may recall from the latter seasons of Full House), were out solving a mystery. They were aged about six, with long curly hair falling about their shoulders, wearing little pinkerton suits and ties. They were mute, and spoke to one another telepathically. I recall them running through a mall parking lot, into the mall, trying to apprehend their suspect.
Unfortunately, this is all I recall. But it is enough.
My dream brains beat your dream brains every goddamned night.
Boo yah.
I am struggling a ton with the future.
IT IS FUCKING TERRIFYING.
I want to make music. Very specific music. But I do not know musicians who could assist me, and I feel, more and more, that perhaps this is something I will have to do very much on my own. In a house. In the country. In Tennessee. The urge to flee comes on strong about every three weeks, and each time it's a little stronger, more desperate, than the first.
But, perhaps more desperate, is the complete lack of actual creative drive. I feel that there is shit working in there, and that one day I'll paint, or write or put together a tune, but fuck all if it ain't just dust right now.
Things I want in my future (projection of this "future" about three years from now):
At least half if not all debt eradicated (current: approx. $18,000)
Not being a waitress
A complicated, loving relationship that constantly keeps me on my toes; i.e. Andy
At least something resembling a firm plot to have a child
At least something resembling a firm plot to own a house
One solid showing of my art not in a coffee shop or middling gallery
A second book of poetry published (I think next year's the year for that; the first, Chaos to Grace, was published in 2001)
The completion or at least major progress on my novel(la), Sumtime Silver Snippety
At the very least, preliminary work on music project, A Deceit of Lapwings, which will include learning how to record music, accumulating instruments, taking voice lessons to regain my high range and hone tone
A stint in Tennessee of about 6 months to 1 year to refine/do most of the above
Careers I could take on/would enjoy doing to make a living which I'll likely never get in creative pursuits:
carpentry and framing
landscaping
anthropological work in the fields of Christianity and/or pop culture
Now that I've put all that down on "paper", how the fuck do I get there? It's that question which brought me to tears today. So I decided to figure out what I want, put a reasonable timeframe on it, and get crackin'. The debt goes first, and at the close of this year, I expect to have a solid dent in it.
Someday, I'll be a real girl.
Something kind of magickal happened the other night with Andy. See, I was tired. Hella exhausted. Speaking softly, unable to muster volume, and words were escaping me. He'd come over to my place and was making us dinner, a lovely couscous with fresh asparagus, ramps and morel mushrooms; a spring vegetable heaven. He'd put out the plates and had just finished pouring the vinaigrette over the salad (vinaigrette: olive oil, balsamic vinegar, dill, shallots, stone ground mustard and honey--his papa's honey at that). I mumbled to him that I wanted "the heavy fork" and that it was in the dishwasher. He pulled open the door, and within seconds pulled out the right fork.
He pays attention. He knows these things, and he knows that I'm very particular about what things I eat and drink with, so he'll ask if I have a preference of coffee mug, or salad bowl, and it's without any chiding or condescension about how silly it really is. He knows what the heavy fork is. He loves me.
