Two-Oh-Twelve

When I picture the coming years, I'm content, an ascetic (which, unfortunately, means, inevitably, that, try as I might, my lifestyle often contradicts itself), sitting on the front porch of my little house in the desert, with Otto by my side.  (Otto's my dog of an as-yet-undetermined breed.)  He doesn't laugh at me for singing off-key on purpose or for salsa dancing in the kitchen while I wait for my pasta to finish boiling, and he keeps me warm at night in a bed too big for one.  On the days I spend writing and painting (because, of course, it's understood that I will take up painting, my true passion) in the backyard, he sits on my feet, preferring our solidarity to puppy adventures.  No matter how long I linger over it, my morning cup of coffee never falls below the temperature of boiling, and I am present at every sunrise and sunset.  All other details--how did I get here? where do I go next?--are irrelevant.

The Truth

"Remember that you are dust, and unto dust you shall return."

God said that.

"We're all just matter that will one day scatter."

Noah and the Whale said that.

"Life is too short to hide out in college."

I said that.

A Valentine's Day Dream Sequence

In observation of the 14th of February: a dream about Valentine's Day...from January 22.

I'm laying on a mattress that's on a stage in an auditorium where a spotlight in the distance is paying no mind to the mattress on one end of the stage or to the other two people who are on it with me. I know that Zoe is there too, but in the dark, I can't see her, and she doesn't say anything throughout the entire dream. A man in the distance is announcing the next bachelor up for auction, and it suddenly hits me, that I, or Zoe and I both, have purchased this bachelor, a.k.a., the third person on this mattress.

We aren't allowed to see the man until the next morning, after having slept next to him, but before sleeping, he kisses our foreheads and whispers his "Happy Valentine's Days" in our ears. Then he gives each of us a book of poetry by Edith Wharton.

In the morning I am slightly disappointed to see that this Mr. All-American seemed to have shown up to this bachelor auction on his yacht...

The Lemon Bars of My Dreams

I've always gotten a lot of criticism from friends who can't understand why I would be interested in some of those more abstract studies of the world (astrology and dream symbology come to mind), but I can't help myself. I won't go into that here; I have no desire to defend illogical, mystical, and magical superstitions, but I feel a need to preface this account with a nod to my own delusions. Now, a story.

I dreamt of a family gathering attended only by me, my brother and his girlfriend, our grandmother, and a cousin and her eight-year-old daughter. Andy was in ecstasies over a dessert resembling a cross between gooey butter cake, lemon bars, and blonde brownies. After having eaten his fill, he put some of the leftovers in a plastic container. Putting his face down next to the container, he gave the bars...butterfly kisses, with his eyelashes.

Other leftover bars had been placed on the top rack of the dying dishwasher at my parents' house. As I was noticing them, Katie appeared at my elbow and stated matter-of-factly, "Oh, Go-on-'n' cookies." "What?" "You know, Go-on-'n'-get-up-in-my-mouth cookies." Oh, right...those...

A few days later I discovered this recipe on the homepage of msn after I signed out of my email. As a part of a slide-show of recipes, it was the leading picture and caught my eye. The lemon bars looked exactly like the ones in my dream, only with a slightly smoother top. Now, I'm not particularly fond of lemon-flavored anything, but I feel compelled to make these sometime. Besides, the possibility of seeing my brother give butterfly kisses to a dessert would be reason enough to try them out. Oh, and be sure to notice the first line in the description of the lemon bars...

In a delightfully surreal segment of that same dream, my cousin's usually hyperactive daughter was a more serene version of herself. Gracefully flitting around the house, Lauren gave her mother a cup filled up to the brim with dark soda. This excited my cousin to the point of hysterics, and she bent in half and slapped her leg with a shrill, exaggerated belly laugh. She seemed to be over-compensating for a sorrow that was tormenting her. "She said, 'This is to tide you over.' How great is that?!"

Lauren just continued circling the house, holding a balloon on a short string. The balloon was opaque and flesh-colored and had a face on it. The face looked like a porcelain doll with calm, blue eyes, a petite nose, and a delicate mouth. The face was Lauren's face. Both she and the balloon were quiet and angelic...


"I dream my painting and then paint my dream."
-Vincent Van Gogh