Tag Archives: dreams

House Dreaming

I am lusting after this house:

Look at it.

Isn’t it cute? The dining room, the kitchen, the bathroom, the backyard, oh, the backyard! How I lust after this house and it’s backyard. It’s in the central valley of CA, about 4 hours away from LA. Now then- why on earth would I lust after a house far away from the big city, in a small town known for its conservative attitudes and lack of cultural variety?

Because I could ride my bike around there without feeling like I was in danger. Because there is a theater company I could involve myself in for doses of creativity. Because there are places I could work, friends to help me find work, friends to socialize with. Because it would be more quiet. Because it would be (much as I love her) farther from my mom, whose things still fill this place, whose things are impossible to move or condense any further, who checks in when I’m away and moves things, leaves weird things in the fridge, sleeps on my clean sheets, gets dishes dirtier by washing them than if she just hadn’t bothered, takes away things I use and leaves things I don’t. After a year of living in her crowded apartment, of leaving cardboard boxes full of packing hope to be emptied with time and neglect, of waiting around helplessly while nothing happens, I just want to leave. I want to leave this entire city just to get away from this living situation.

So, a pretty house in a cheaper area that can offer me a few nice things, with wide, empty rooms, unblemished by any one else’s packrat habits- it seems like a dream. That’s all this lovely house (and every other house and apartment I looked at in this smaller town) is right now, dreaming- I’m applying to grad school here in LA, won’t find out about it until mid-March- but the dreaming gives me a wistful sort of hope that all these damn cardboard boxes I’ve still got around, meant for her stuff, may someday still be used, even if only for repacking my own things in to.


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I Care Not How Silly They Are

My fantasies are still outdoing my real life.

Actually, my dreams out-do my fantasies. My subconscious brings me through adventures I would never encounter in real life: encounters with mystical creatures, gatherings of people I have met throughout many years spent in different parts of the country, bold dramas that would seem farfetched in even a prime time television spot. It’s all very dramatic and exciting.

My daydreams, however, my fantasies, are much simpler.

I dream of visiting back east and having every old friend/accquaintance be glad to see me.
Of being accepted to grad school and getting a job.
Of being able to drive and having a car to jump into to go for weekend wanderlust trips.
Of throwing small dinner parties of interesting people and being considered a good host.

Mostly, though I would like to tell you that I am FAR too mature for this kind of thing, I daydream about my enduring crush, Tom.
I daydream conversations about nothing with him while we lounge or take walks.
I daydream of us going to the bar we share and him showing all the bartenders that I am not just some girl who comes in regularly, but the girl he likes.
I daydream that, in bed, he is laying behind me, dozing in the mid morning light.

Sometimes I go out on a real stretch and dream up scenarios for us to inhabit:
He asks me to be his date for a family wedding and his mom likes me.
He drives me up north for my board meeting and kisses me on the way. All my non-profit friends like him.
I take him for icecream off of our shared campus when he is stressed out.
We move up north together as friends and realize we’re in love.

Sometimes I accept a time gap and dream up things like:
After a few years, we run into each other in a northern city and are struck with awe of each other. We begin to shyly date and it’s a happy ending of dinner parties and art and dreams fulfilled from there on out.

Oh, they’re cliche and banal and silly, I am sure. But they still beat the pants off my real day to day life.

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Dreams Beat Reality

I have a problem.

I have returned to a place in my life where there is nothing better to do in the morning than enjoy my dreams. The tales my head leads me through are so much more exciting and  entertaining than anything my real mornings hold that I end up staying in bed long past the time I could have comfortably woken up. In my dreams, I fight werewolves, teach preschool classes with mini dolphins in knee-deep water, skip town just because I feel like it, escape kidnappers, compete in vocal competitions, spend time with Tom, and my best friends, and characters from 90’s TV shows, and people I haven’t seen in years. I scandalize prairie women, raise burnt children, lose my way in scandalous interior design offices and oversized dollhouses, and oh, I don’t even know what else. Those are but a few of the things I have done during the last couple dream sessions, and I’ve been dreaming like this for a couple weeks now. There is too much to remember.

I might sound spoiled here: oh la-te-dah, I can just lay around, comfortable in bed, dreaming! Poor me! But think of it for a moment- yes, poor me. Poor me, because there is so little in my life, such a lack of anything to get out of bed for that my mind has to try to entertain me in my sleep so that I don’t just crumble into bored, atrophied dust.

I am a little bit vexed at the library right now in relation to this. Some time ago I approached my local library about volunteering there. They had me fill out a generalized city-volunteer form and told me that they would wait until they had a build up of applications before going through them and possibly calling me. Now, I can understand that this system might work for them, but oh, oh, it doesn’t work for me, because I need a reason to get up in the morning, to get dressed and leave the apartment. I need it most seriously.

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Brain Scatters before bed

Right now, when it comes to Him, at this very second (for who knows how I’ll feel by morning time) I feel used. Used, because how can you treat someone like they are so important to you, so trusted and wanted, and then flip it off like it meant nothing? How can you yell at someone that they aren’t special to you, and then lay in bed all night crying over it? How can you spend years almost kissing someone, always treating them like the one more special than any other girl, finally act on it, and then decide – what, oh well? How could he spend so many years treating me as he did, only to treat me like this now?

I’m over it, over him, over the way that he treats me, the way he behaves and lives his life, but that doesn’t mean I don’t still hurt. Doesn’t mean I don’t lapse into someday revenge fantasies in the shower. Doesn’t mean I don’t cringe or glare as the same thoughts drill over my head again and again, anger and hurt all over again.

And any time I catch glimpse or word of their new relationship I feel used again- used that he could suggest I was such a special person to him for so long and let me act on that, while never bothering to treat me like it.

I think it will take a long time to move past him, and so long as my life remains stagnant and unhappy, it’ll only go slowly.

Another thought on him- it angers me every time I see a picture of him happy. He’s such an asshole. I’ve been told so many times over the years how little he deserves, for that. I’ve been told how great I am, how much I do deserve. So why am I the one left unhappy? Why does he get to move on to la la smile land? It’s unfair.


I don’t like preschool. I don’t know that you could find a more unwilling preschool teacher. I’ve been there only two weeks, and already I’ve had more times that I would have loved to throw something, to snark back, to declare “I quit” with relish, than I could’ve imagined. I seem to grow in hatred for the place and drain of hope for another job in equal parts daily.


I’ve been dreaming odd dreams. Dreams within dreams, within dreams, peculiar epics all. I dream of someone stealing my dna from the wound I received while upset over him. Of traveling through unfamiliar places with groups of assorted and sometimes unexpected friends. Of waking up bewildered only to embark on some new chapter of strange. Most of all, I dream of fish. Of wading through shallow waters and finding tiny fish stuck to me with sticky scales, of trying to find someplace to wash them off, hoping I’m not killing them, suffocating or squishing them on the trip, of desperately rinsing. Of trying to catch the big fish in the tiny tank and being inexplicably upset.

I spent half an hour today looking up fish in online dream dictionaries. According to them, I am observing unconscious thoughts rising to the surface, or seeing an omen of weath, or trying to capture thoughts, or I am cold and unfeeling, or think I ought to be, or think someone or thing in my life is, or am pregnant, or want to be, or, if the fish were a carp, am in for some bad times. After googling to find out what a carp looks like, I think I can rule that one out.

Of course, all of these definitions referred to one seeing fish, as if passively observing. I do not find this helpful when I remember the sensation of the wiggling little fish adhered to my skin, the rising panic. My dreams do not fit in passive dictionary definitions.


So sure, everything else in life right now is making me unhappy. But one thing of late made me happy:

(500) Days of Summer. I found it delightful. I suggest you go see it.

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