Dear Diary . . . day by day

Tuesday, June 19th, 2001 - Upon Waking

This morning I'm paying for that energy from last night. My body is refusing to wake up properly. I kept hitting the snooze, going back into a dream where I'd married the wrong man (who I think was the main character from _Slam_ which Tim and I watched with Susan Saturday night) and I was running around after the wedding, trying to talk to my sister (who had slept with him in the dream, so I thought she'd have some insights), my mother (who worked in a cafe and had also dated him when she was younger?!), his mother (who admitted there was something I should know but wouldn't tell me what it was) and an erotica writer I'd never heard of but had the most to say on the subject. In the middle of this dream I notice a sign for the Body Shop above a lingerie store and I think to myself, "Ah, I should tell Susan that there's a Body Shop close to our neighborhood." But, of course, it wasn't our neighborhood at all, it was a dream neighborhood.
I don't know where Tim was in this dream. Usually, lately, I'll dream vividly about Tim. Strange dreams happen, but usually the cast of characters - at least the main character - at least some of them - make sense. This one didn't. And I'm disturbed by how I kept hitting the snooze to go back into that dream, although I think by the end I just wanted time to annul the marriage and get the hell out of there. I woke up fully wondering why Tim wasn't sleeping next to me, why he wasn't there to hold me and tell me I wasn't married to a man who was about to serve time in jail, it's okay honey, everything will be all right. It took half a coke to shake the feeling he should be here.
I miss him.
Speaking of Tim, you should all go read his poem over at Strange Horizons. I particularly like this one because I distinctly remember him reading it to me that first day when we hung out in the rose garden. I like masks, trying on different masks, seeing what fits, what looks best, what feels right on the face. I could smell the leather of the masks in that workshop when I heard that poem, could feel it against my cheeks.

Exercise log:

Writing log:
I wrote a poem that turned into a really neat, compact story titled "The Janitor's Night Dive". And I think the language is prettier than my other prose because I was trying to write a poem. Too bad I didn't write this a month ago; it's perfect for MA's anthology.
I'm currently reading:
Stranger Things Happen by Kelly Link
My new PO Box is:
Heather Shaw
P.O. Box 13222
Berkeley, CA 94712-4222

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