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I'm afraid I've not much to say.
The demons are at bay;
I ache from work*, not from play.
I see my friends, I drink a little wine,
I catch the eye of a cutie from time to time**.
It's all nice, it proves to suffice,
And I sleep soundly in the winter's rime.
*Temp job at a hospital through the end of the month; will at least pay my bills for the rest of this month and rent for next, methinks.
**As a function of said job, I was at a hardware store with a medical supply rep trying to get 504 plastic dividers cut to spec. Cutie was cutting our dividers. Definitely a spark there, we smiled and made googly eyes at one another. Medical rep took me back to the hospital so I could get started on assembly, and he told me he was gonna get me a date with this guy. ha. In the end, he wound up cutting his finger and had to be taken to get a stitch by his boss. So med rep guy asked the lad's coworkers about him; 31 and single. I've got an apology bottle of Rogue's Dead Guy Ale in my fridge to take him tomorrow, along with a note including my phone number. He makes me wish I had an Econoline van. He's definitely "If this van's a rockin' don't come knockin'" material.
I think it's time to get back on the old saddle and have a proper shag partner.
I've made a Tumblr account on a whim and I think I might enjoy it. Brief blogging, but not Twitter bullshit brief, and I can utilise it to post photos from all my archives of art, friends, lovers, nostalgia, pretty and creeping things...
Thumbs up.
I've always strongly identified with Beastmaster. Sure, it's funny.
But can you talk to animals? Like, not just with your mouth, but with your brains? Cuz I can.
Or, at least, I do all the time in my dreams and sometimes in the really real world.
Like the time I met a wolf in the woods outside my grandparents' cabin. I was what, 11 or so? I gave him the 11 year old in the late 80s version of a nod and "'sup" and we just looked at one another for a while. I told him with my brains, "nah dude, we cool" and he gave me a wolf nod and turned to walk back into the woods.
That was one time in real life.
But in dream life, animals talk to me more often than humans, especially the past year, and there are definitely far more animals just running around in my dreams than humans, too.
Up until recently, I never dreamed about animals. What does it MEAAAAAAN!?!?!
After speaking with the capybera like spokesperson for the forest creatures Thursday night, last night I hung out with the feathered (?) hatchlings of a large iguana, who were sitting on the front stoop of the humble small-town Mexican home I was passing by on my way to get some sundries. The hatchlings were chillin' out with chickens and bunnies, and the folks who lived in this home could not have been more tender or proud. I obviously knew them well, and called them by name, gleefully shouting, "Oh, they've hatched!" The iguana mama and I exchanged knowing glances.
Then I wound up in my maternal grandmother's old house in Worthington, MN, a place I've found myself twice in dreams the past week (I took refuge there after being raped by a man in his 70s in full view of a gazebo full of people who ignored my cries). This time, I was watching America's Next Top Model after my family went to church (prior to that moment, the house was a huge, modern farmhouse and it was raining heavily; I was talking to my father about buying me a horse and also explained to him that I did not want to go to church and would instead prefer to worship in my own way, outside in the rain--the fact that I segued into watching America's Next Top Model is a little unsettling to that end), and a young, fat girl was there. She went outside, and when she came back in...
There was a great big farkin' OWL in the living room. I looked at her, standing in the doorway, "Did you let that owl in here?!!"
And then my cat Odin, stupid dummy that he is, walked right up to the owl and of course the owl went for him and cut him all up with his talons and flesh ripping beak, and then me in the process as I tried to separate them. My calves and ankles bleeding, I yelled at my sister in the kitchen (she was, for some reason, about 14 in the dream, she's currently 25) to grab a blanket and wrap Odin in it until I could get the owl out. Instead, she stared dumbly at me and went into the cupboards in the kitchen, rummaging for something.
I ran into the kitchen, screaming at her to do what I'd told her to do, and she stood up, holding something in her hand, looking proud. I slapped her across the face soundly and told her to do what I'd told her to, that this owl was going to kill Odin if we didn't act immediately.
And then I saw what was in her hands; potato chips.
Suddenly, in my mind's eye, what should have transpired unfolded: I'm feeding the owl potato chips, luring it away from Odin, Rachael is folding Odin up into a blanket and keeping him safe.
The world slowed, and I began to weep; "I'm sorry. I didn't know. I didn't know. Why didn't you tell me? I wouldn't have hit you if you'd told me..."
Beastmaster always made me cry.
Last night's dream brain produced the following:
Washed up on the shore, floating in the water of some large woodland lake which felt Lake Superior-ish, fifteen or so dead mini deer (think about six inches tall) plus one regular sized deer, their legs chopped off, their stomachs lacerated with short, deep cuts. I spoke with the forest creatures, who were all afraid; "Who did this to the mini deer?" "Well, you know about Val, don't you?" said the forest creatures' spokesperson, a large, upright rodent-like creature (capybera?) with a white belly. I nodded, and looked at my human companion (who had heretofore been the forest creatures' translator, until they realised that I was not in need of an interpreter and then won their trust), "Yes, Val Kilmer. He's in town to do an episode of Law & Order: SVU." The forest creatures' spokesperson nodded, "Yes, we think he's done it."
I investigated the situation, finding that the regular sized deer had been found like that and was used as a prop in the episode, but that Val had an alibi (he was shooting) when all the other, miniature, deer had been murdered. Val Kilmer was not responsible for killing any of the deer, mini or no.
The mystery of who had so brutally killed the mini deer remained unsolved.
This dream segued into a large house, where I lived with a woman who represents many qualities I'd like to have; physically athletic of build, with olive skin, dark, wide eyes (doe eyes? This idea was not unnoticed even in the dream), effortlessly beautiful, stylish, confident.
(It should be noted at this point that I had a date last night that went very, very wrong; the first two hours were fine, even great--talk of our various approaches to various art mediums, life goals, how we'd watch any movie starring Vincent Cassel or Vincent Gallo even if they were largely featured stapling papers or watching paint dry, tattoo ideals, my pulling away entirely from Facebook and text messaging, which he soundly commended and said he respected, and the various strangenesses of people we know mutually.
It was after I'd said I'd just watched The Fall with a friend, and had made dinner at his place that things took a dark turn. He asked what my relationship was with this friend, and when I explained we'd dated but had broken up over two years ago he started to grind his teeth. He went into a lengthy monologue about how his brother [his twin] had just broken up with his girlfriend of six years and how he [happily] felt he'd had a part in that because she was a "cold bitch" to him and "bad" for his brother. This segued deeper into how this girl withheld sex from his brother and that it was probably because she was cheating on him and didn't want "two cocks in her holiest of holies". His language veered consistently toward crass and I calmly expressed my discomfort at it which only incensed him more. He said something about how I'd "already told [him] about everyone [I'd] fucked" [untrue; we'd talked about one person we know mutually that he's been aware I dated since the night we'd met, and of the aforementioned friend] he couldn't be "worried about all my exes showing up at my door" when he and I were together and when I said that 90% of my male friends are exes, his eyes quite literally bulged at the news. Conversation continued to grow darker and it ended with him informing me that he'd been attracted to me but there was now no chance [as if any interest in him lingered other than in psychological case study on my end at that point], and he then spat out several invectives including belittling all the people we know mutually [insinuating some of them had herpes, implicating that I probably did too] and calling me a bitch, then said that he "disagreed with almost everything" I'd been saying including distancing from Facebook and texts. He quoted Oscar Wilde to this end. He seemed to want to make me feel pointless. I found myself acknowledging the futility of the situation and despite feeling actual fear [there were two points at which I thought he might hit me], I laughed lightly and told him it was time for him to leave. He told me to "continue with the popularity contest" [a reference, apparently, to my earlier statement to him that I have little drive to make myself successful artistically, unfortunately, despite having made many helpful connections the eight plus years I've lived in Minneapolis] and got up from the table. He went to the bathroom. Then he stood at the bar, awkwardly, for a couple of minutes. I busied myself signing the credit card slip for my drinks and didn't watch him go.
To his credit, and oddly, he stated several times that he knew he was being an asshole, and when I said that he was behaving a bit crazy, he agreed with me. He seemed incapable of stopping himself once he'd gotten started. He never raised his voice, and was polite to the server when he asked for the tab. I told him he seems to have a hair trigger when it comes to trust and jealousy with women and he agreed with this too. And yet he was still conveying to me that his action was my fault.
All of this is a damn shame, of course. He's a very, very physically attractive lad with perfect fashion sense [last night's outfit: pea coat, light long sleeved v-neck tee with navy stripes with a white thermal shirt layered underneath, dark grey jeans with belt, and tan loafers]. He's about 5'11", slender, but not thin, with slightly shaggy dark hair, intense blue eyes and thick eyebrows. By and large, he's a darker, Slavic-looking version of Lee Pace [a fact observed while watching The Fall earlier]. And until things took their dark turn, we were aptly flirtatious and got along quite well [it should also be noted that we'd kissed several times at the bar on two previous occasions, but in our relative sobriety last night were enjoying flirtation mixed with the proper kiss pre-cursor of staring briefly at one another's lips instead of actual kissing]. It seems charmingly fitting that the entire time we were being serenaded by live music called the Bookhouse Trio doing string/brass versions of Twin Peaks songs at Café Barbette, a candlelit and intimate setting.
A damn, damn shame.
And, in writing this out, I now feel less completely shaken by the experience. So, I shall commence with the dream [if you're still with me].)
This girl and I were not friends, just housemates. I'd just slept with The Mexican Who Does Not Want Me (a frequent topic of this blog, who at this point I am over but apparently my brain likes to use him as a dream archetype), and I think he lived with us too. Knowing what was going to happen, I went upstairs to clean and hours later, I found them together lying naked under a blanket. I attempted to explain to them why this was a little fucked up, but they just laughed coy, post-coital laughs. Things jumped to TMWDNWM coming downstairs with a slightly decomposing, bloated rodent corpse, which he said his mother had found in the ducts. He looked at me pointedly, as if it were my fault a thing like that had gone unnoticed. (His mother, notably, died recently.) The girl took this corpse, and we determined that it was a ferret. She skinned it, and we found that it was possessing a biomechanical jaw (I recently injured my own jaw with an electric drill). Through an elaborate process, she removed the bones one by one for me and placed them in a bowl. Then she replaced each bone with a metal, mechanical counterpart. I could smell that the ferret's flesh was rotting. I got the impression that the end goal was to bring the ferret back to life.
Dream jump to a Gothic architecture version of The Fall's Labyrinth of Despair (where everything had a blue tinge like we were in Underworld) and me being a 22-year-old me in Paris; long dark blonde hair, ankle length beautifully tailored black wool trench coat, Doc Martens with black jeans and black sweater. I was being chased by a very strong vampire (who feels like a proxy for last night's date); there were trickeries with an elevator, and when I finally reached the highest point of the Labyrinth, where, in The Fall, the woman trapped there realised she could only escape by jumping and therefore killing herself, I jumped and found that by grabbing the voluminous lower portion of my coat and flapping, I could fly. The vampire was bound to the Labyrinth of Despair and thus I was free of him.
I landed safely on the ground, next to a very nice dog I know named Oxford (who, incidentally, could also fly). Oxford is owned by a pretty incredible fellow I was dating briefly a month ago. Ox and I went off down the path to find him, together.
This gal can't play Scrabble anymore. It was such an intrinsic part of mine and Andy's relationship, it feels like a betrayal to engage in it with anyone else. He beat me every time of probably a hundred games in a year, excepting four. He was a shitty loser, blaming bad tiles or a failed strategy for his loss, which pretty much made my wins moot since it had nothing to do with my own skill and everything to do with his lack of it, obviously. But I went into every game with him knowing that's the way it would be, and I didn't play to win, I played to play with him. Because it was two, three, four hours of listening to records, sipping coffee or wine, with breaks for lingering love looks and smooch breaks.
He's got in his custody our Scrabble score book, which has the scoring of each one of our games since mid-October, 2009. Sometimes, while the other would be taking his turn, the other would start a drawing, and we'd take turns adding to it. The book is full of our insane doodles, some sweet, some creepy, some a commentary on the relationship at large. Last we discussed the book, post breakup, he said he'd been playing Scrabble with friends, but hadn't, and wouldn't, use the book with anyone else. I hope that remains true. In that book, and its designated use, and the fact that he's still got it in his possession, even though we currently cannot bear to be around one another, well, in that book is something akin to hope.
I miss Scrabble so much. And by Scrabble, I mean Andy.
It's 3 a.m. and I cannot sleep. I find myself mostly fine all day, excited, hopeful at the opportunities which surely await me, one day, soon, which will once again alleviate my stresses and find me going to sleep peacefully.
But when my head hits the pillow, and darkness comes over my computer as it too attempts to sleep, I just start sobbing. Quietly, if Lief is home, loudly if he is not, for sobbing silently has less a purging effect than just letting it all loose. And then I fear the couple upstairs will hear me, and I stifle myself once again.
I have genuinely not ever felt more alone. I could rattle off fifteen reasons for this, but it would hardly elucidate the situation any more than simply saying that I feel really, truly alone. I have, in the past, felt that the Universe has ceased to be present, and even then, felt less alone than now, for there was hope. Hope which is scarily absent. Instead of my usual get-out-of-this-mindset-mindset, which is that things always get better, I've realised a bone-deep truth, and that is that things always get worse again, too. Thoughts of offing myself are less and less what they've always been, which is, impossible, but comforting. Instead, it feels like something to sincerely work out a plan for. A contingency. Because, truly, I haven't got it in me to weather another swipe like this, like it seems to be, on all levels. I've no lover, no prospect of a lover, and most definitely, no prospect of anyone who wishes to keep me as their confidante and lover for the rest of our lives, have children with me, grow old. My friendships are in varying degrees of disarray, and with Andy being the only person I've allowed to see me vulnerable for some time, I'm ill equipped to even try and discuss anything with anyone. I feel that in person, with people I care for, I come off distant and cold. I feel I've worn out my welcome, and that it is best for everyone if I just don't try and reach out.
And there is the matter of my lack of job, the again ruinous state of my finances, which so precariously relied on the job I was quite easily terminated from, without warning. A job I loved, a job I really, really needed. In the dark, when I try to sleep, it's this fact that causes the sobbing more than any other. I wrote letters to my former manager and one of the owners. Neither has been met with any reply. I find this so rude, and hurtful.
I just can't do this anymore. I'm just hoping having written this, I can maybe fall asleep. I've got to get up in five hours to go to my parents' to work off a small sum advanced to me to pay bills, where I'll face guilt trips and badgering instead of support and love.
The goal of late has been to write one blog a week, and make one piece of art per month. Well, I've made two pieces of art this past week, and this blog is three days late. Ah well. I am very happy with both, which is a giant milestone since there has not been a whit of creative energy in me for the past six months, maybe more. Worse, these are pieces fulfilling obligations to lovely, patient people; i.e. they were paid for last...JANUARY. 
