Saturday, September 15th–From 1974 to 1976 I attended O. A. Reaves Intermediate School in Conroe, Texas. I was in the first class to start Fifth Grade there. The building had three main sections and was laid out in the “open-plan,” so popular in the 70s.
The central section consisted of offices, clinic, library, art room, music room, “cafetorium,” and kitchen. The Fifth and Sixth Grades wings were to either side, each divided into five “pods,” with five classes per pod: math, social studies, science, reading, and English.
The class “rooms” were divided from one another only by means of wheeled cabinets. The noise was incredible. Over the summer of 1975 they built walls between the five pods, but not between the individual classes. This cut down the noise somewhat.
Reaves is now an elementary school.
Anyway, I dreamt that for some reason I was back at Reaves. At one point, I dreamt I was standing in the front hall just outside the offices, with two other guys. I looked out the window at a bricked-paved patio (that wasn’t there in real life), and remembered it fondly, though I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was that happened in that patio.
I turned and walked through a doorway into some utilitarian hallways and passages that I didn’t recognize and which seemed designed either for the use of janitors and maintenance men or the back-stage area of a theatre. I emerged into a wider back-stage area, and found myself in the company of a large number of young people who couldn’t have been younger than 16 or 17. Most seemed older.
They seemed to know me and were showing me around. The one who seemed in charge was a young woman, who seemed to be of college age, and was at least seven feet tall.
There seemed to be something important going on that day, possibly some music or drama contest between the schools in the region. There was a lot of hub-bub and people rushing about.
Then someone opened a set of double-doors, and I saw, for the first time in thirty-six years, the Fifth Grade wing at Reaves. The whole thing had been torn up and converted into a huge auditorium, with my old pod now occupied by the stage.
While I was taking all this in–the room after all this time, the people rushing about, the drama of it all–I heard, coming from some place, a children’s choir singing “Somewhere” from “West Side Story,” and I was overcome with emotion. I almost cried, but I was still overwhelmed by the whole experience. I had no idea I would feel so strongly about seeing that school again.
Eventually, I announced that I had to take my leave. Everyone bade me farewell, and I worked my way back through all the service passages.
Later, I dreamt I woke up from a nap. I was in my grandfather’s old house, on our old property in Conroe, Texas, now owned by my estranged step-brother D___. In the dream, though, D___ owned just the main house.
I got up directly from bed, without pausing to really wake up, and walked out the back door. I did not bother to put on shoes, which is odd, since I never go out of doors without shoes.
It was twilight. My grandfather was sitting in a car in the driveway, getting ready to drive off somewhere. I assumed he was going to a store, for a quick run for some food items or beer, and I got into the car to go along with him.
Just then, as my grandfather was starting up the car, an old four-door sedan, eggplant-colored, came up the driveway. An older man was behind the wheel. Out of the passenger side stepped ‘Thelma,’ who was either a distant relation by marriage, or the not-very-beloved friend of a now-dead relative. Whoever she was, I had always despised her, and most of my family felt the same way, if only they’d own up to it.
[Editor’s Note: This woman reminded me in many ways of my father’s hated sister, Falba.]
“Oh Jesus Christ,” I said, “It’s that bitch, Thelma, here to try to sell us some of that shitty red wine of hers.”
I don’t know if she made it herself, or got it from some low-grade vineyard or manufacturer, but Thelma always had this awful red wine that she was trying to sell to people.
Was she coming to try to peddle that shit to my family, whose relations with her were strained, at best? Was she coming to try to sell wine to my step-brother’s family, who were all pompous, pious Baptists, and presumably teetotalers?
My grandfather tried to pull his car out of the driveway, but Thelma’s car was in the way. And one of our smallest dogs bounded out of nowhere, very irritated by Thelma and her car. The dog ran around, jumped, bounced, almost got run over by my inattentive grandfather as he tried to back out, and finally ran out of the front gate, almost into the street, barking, putting herself in the way of crazy, dangerous drivers.
That did it. I shot out of the car angrily, screaming, presumably to Thelma’s driver, “GET THAT FUCKING BITCH OUT OF THIS DRIVEWAY! GET THAT FUCKING BITCH OUT OF HERE! GET THAT FUCKING BITCH OFF THIS PROPERTY RIGHT NOW! GET THAT FUCKING BITCH OUT OF THIS DRIVEWAY! GET THAT FUCKING BITCH OFF THIS DRIVEWAY!”
My bare feet kept getting poked and cut by broken twigs and sharp rocks in the dirt, which only made me angrier. “GET THAT FUCKING BITCH OFF OF THIS DRIVEWAY! GET THAT FUCKING BITCH OFF OF THIS DRIVEWAY! GET THIS FUCKING BITCH OUT OF HERE NOW!”
After Thelma and her driver had finally left, I walked back to my grandfather’s house, making a mental note of the changes in landscaping my step-brother had made to the front yard. I noted in particular the smooth red brick terrace as I walked over it.
I walked up the front steps of my grandfather’s little house, in through the front door, and into the living room. My mother and some lady were sitting in the brightly-lit living room. Presumably they’d heard everything, and had stopped talking in mid-sentence to see what I’d do when I came in.
I perceived that my father was back in my bedroom for some reason.
I made a fake smile, asked, “And how’s every little thing with you two this evening?,” just as if nothing had happened. I raised my left hand to reveal that I was holding by the necks two bottles of the cheap red wine that a frightened and frantic Thelma had thrust at me as she tried to make her escape from my wrath. With a self-satisfied smile, I set the bottles down onto the coffee table.
When did I get up? I know that when I walked Belle, we came across a herd of at least eight deer, including some adorable little baby fawns, grazing and sitting on the lawn of Phase II of the apartment complex.
James has all sorts of questions for me in preparation for his trip west in the near-future. He wanted to know where certain scenes in “The Big Lebowski” were shot, and thought I should write a book about the subject. I assured him that the information was very brief. So this morning I sat down, consulted about five sources, and prepared him a fairly complete locations list that took up about one page.
I checked my online Library account, and saw that someone had requested I return Charles Bukowski’s “Burning In Water Drowning In Flame: Selected Poems, 1955-1973” within two weeks. I’d planned to re-check it and read it next month or so, but now that this stranger had put my tit in the wringer, I sprawled out on the living room floor and read the whole 232-page book in one sitting. That might sound impressive, but remember–this is a poetry book. The margins are extremely wide.
The effort, however, wore me out. I attempted to do an HTML tutorial, but was too tired to get very far. I went to bed, read a little in Douglas, and retired about 2:45pm.
Sunday, September 16th–Belle woke me around 11:30pm, Saturday. I could easily have slept longer. I got up, puttered, and did the lengthy prep involved with making my Big Ass Soup. I cooked the soup from around 3am to after 7am, and it still wasn’t very good.
I finished the HTML tutorials for one site, and plan to do at least the CSS tutorials there, then go on to the more detailed HTML and CSS tutorials at another site. Plus I need to start another round of tutorials in some other area on the Atomic Learning site.
I watched “Longford,” with Jim Broadbent. Belle wanted to go out, but the rain was so heavy we stayed outside less than a minute. I read in Douglas and retired around 3pm.
Monday, September 17th–I may’ve had several dreams, but I do know I had my recurring one. I was knocking around a Half-Price Books. I didn’t find any books to buy, but I did find some toys and non-book items. The thing is I either couldn’t afford them, or if I did buy them, I’d have been in serious trouble financially. And the odd thing was I didn’t have a huge, overpowering desire for these items.
At any rate, I found myself talking with the young store manager, holding forth about my old days with the store. There was a huge, flat cardboard box that had been delivered and was outside flat on the ground. He couldn’t imagine what sort of books were in it, as it didn’t seem deep enough to hold that many books. Then I explained that with a box that size it probably contained signs or possibly cardboard cut-outs with attached stands.
Then, before I knew it, he told me to come in next day and report for work. I laughed and said I’d obviously need to make sure and wear a buttoned shirt, because in the dream I was wearing a white shirt that was almost completely unbuttoned, and my gut was hanging out.
He laughed, and we went our separate ways. Then I had a violent mixture of feelings–excitement, that I was finally employed again and about to start making money, and dread, because I hated working for Half-Price Books, and didn’t want to go back there, or do any other sort of job that was physically exhausting.
I wonder why lately I’ve been having these paradoxical dreams–where I am almost eager to go back to work at a job I hated, or where […] are acting nice to me.
Belle got me up at 3:24am. I could have slept longer. I’ve been exhausted every since that blood-letting Thursday.
I took Belle out three times in six hours, but she wasn’t so much interested in relieving herself as she was trying to find poop to eat, which annoyed me. It was, however, perfect outside–cool, with the ground, bushes, and trees water-logged from twenty-four hours of solid rain. That’s the kind of climate in which want to live.
I had a panic attack that lasted for hours. I think it might have been prompted by drinking strong coffee, Belle pestering me to go out, and trying to do tutorials with music on, instead of concentrating on them in silence. I started tutorials on CSS and Quark X Press 6.5, and gave Belle another Frontline flea treatment.
I was going to toast some bread in the oven, but found the bottom of the oven full of standing water. Was this from the rain or the spill-over from my soup dripping into some crevice?
Tuesday, September 18th–I dreamt I was on a college campus. It looked a little like my alma mater of SHSU, but there were more trees and greenery and shady dells and clearings. The landscape looked more like that of North Carolina. The other people with me were a woman who was supposed to be my mother, and “Uncle Joe Carson” (Edgar Buchanan from “Petticoat Junction”).
As we wandered the campus, I noticed many of the older buildings had been demolished, but I could see the outline of them in a grey haze. I’m not sure if these were the ghosts of the buildings, or some modern monuments erected by the school to honor the buildings that once stood in these spots.
At the end of the dream we rode on a log flume ride near the campus.
In the next dream I was leaving an airport at night. I’d just taken a short trip to Paris with some co-workers, and everything about it had gone wrong. I resented the fact I’d had to take the long flight over there and back and still only managed to spend one night in Paris. I was very angry and irritable and didn’t stop complaining.
As I got into a vehicle (van? taxi? SUV?), I was re-united with my dog, who in this dream was a female, black all over, and of undetermined breed. We were glad to see each other, and I said to the dog, sarcastically, considering my dislike for the US, “Well, at least we’re back in America now, aren’t we?” I petted her head and noticed a flea running across it. How I was able to see a flea on a black dog’s head at night I have no idea.
My co-workers wanted to make a stop or two, including, I think, at the office. I was insistent upon getting something to eat, since I’d not had a decent meal all night. I was thinking about getting a big sandwich somewhere.
We arrived at the office. Not once did I stop bitching and complaining. People walked in and out of the room. I was seated next to a desk. I’d placed a stack of my papers on a shelf directly under the top of this desk.
I began thumbing through a brand new issue of “National Geographic” which I found in the mail pile on this desk. There was a big feature on Mexico in the magazine, which I found fascinating. But where was the map that was supposed to be inserted into that issue? I decided to take the magazine with me. I would decide later whether I’d just flat-out steal the magazine or eventually return it to the owner after I’d finished reading the article.
There was one Hispanic employee, who looked a lot like Luis Guzman, whom I caught looking at a piece of paper on top of my stack of papers. On it I had written comments for my eyes only. They would prove embarrassing or or even incriminating if others saw them.
I reached out and snatched the paper from under this guy’s nose, flipped it over, and then on second thought just grabbed all of my stack of papers and moved them closer to me.
Eventually, my sour mood took its toll on others and everybody left the room.
The Hispanic guy contorted his face at me, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a switchblade. Unlike most switchblades, which are usually slim and have just the one blade, this was a fat knife with lots of blades and other tools folded in. But he opened the main blade, then tossed it on the desk in front of me. I sneered.
“What’s this supposed to be?” [In real life I’d have been shaking in my shoes, but in the dream I acted tough.]
“I want you to stop bothering K.C.” (K.C. was some female staffer towards who he felt protective, or with whom he was smitten.)
“Oh? So I’m not allowed to get angry or irritated anymore, is that it? I lose my temper or get annoyed and that’s all it takes for you to revert to a … little gang banger?…Who do you think you are? Who THE FUCK do you think you are?”
And with that I picked up the switchblade, and to his surprise I stuck it into his belly, then pulled up hard.
I pulled out the knife and got up to leave. Maybe he’d be found dead in that office, on the floor, clutching his gut. Maybe he’d find his way to a hospital and have to try to explain how he’d been stabbed by his own knife by the very guy he’d planned to stab. Either way, I planned to throw away the knife somewhere no one would ever find it.
But not before I got my sandwich.
Belle got me up at 2:08am. I walked her–she finally pooped!–and I had some soup, which was just awful. Then I began the long, slow, dread-filled preparations for my doctor’s appointment.
I did a little work on the CSS tutorials, but didn’t bother with the Quark ones. As the hours passed, I grew more nervous and anxious.
Since I’d not been called back by that gal who’s to do my cognitive behavioral therapy, I e-mailed her, and got a quick response. She suggested I go see her Thursday afternoon. On the one hand, I’d prefer just having one out-of-the-apartment ordeal this week, while on the other hand, I’d like to get this …meeting out of the way.
The events connected with my doctor visit proved to be as full of butt-fuckery as I feared they would.
I got to the bus stop around 11:40am or so. The bus arrived fifteen minutes earlier than I expected it. The elderly driver stopped for a break at the Target store a few blocks away, then later stopped by a convenience store to buy snacks. His driving was reckless, and his sudden braking almost threw an old woman out of her seat. He got me to the clinic two minutes later than the schedule said he would.
I went to the restroom, and signed in at 12:25pm for a 12:30 appointment. I didn’t get called to the back until about 12:45. I barely heard the nurse call my name over the noise of shrieking children and a huge flat-screen TV, which was blaring some mid-day chat show.
The nurse weighed me, checked my blood pressure, asked me a few questions, then left me alone in the treatment room—for FORTY-FIVE GODDAMN MINUTES!!! Now I’d been abandoned in there the last time I saw the doctor, but not for that long. This was infuriating. I had a good mind to gather up my things and leave, and tell a nurse to call me when the doctor can condescend to actually see me.
I planned to ask the doctor when and if she walked in if such a long wait was common. But like most people, I chickened out when she walked in. She radiated professionalism and no malice. Plus, by that time I was in a hurry to get the meeting over with so I wouldn’t miss my bus back home, since the fuckers only run along that route once a fucking hour.
We discussed my medications and so forth. I tested negative for diabetes. I’m supposed to come back for urine and blood tests and yet another goddamn follow-up in three months.
Then she told me another nurse would come and see me about my paperwork. I gathered my things, put on my I-Pod, zipped up my back-pack, and was kept waiting another fucking ten minutes.
The records nurse finally showed up. She was pleasant, but absurdly short.
Though many years and many thousands of dollars had been expended on my education, apparently this woman still thought I required someone to read my medical instructions to me.
I got out of there, ran out of the building, and waited for awhile, wondering if the bus had just passed or was about to come. I didn’t have to wait too very long, and it was a good thing I opted against going to the lab to leave a urine sample, because they’d have surely held me up too long in there.
I FINALLY got back to my neighborhood, and got a Slurpee at a gas station, then bought some groceries at HEB. My sacker had a voice so shrill and nasal it beggared belief.
I was so fucking hungry after being kept waiting for so long, I bought some vegetarian spring rolls and ate them out in front of the store, using my shopping cart as a table, and wedged between a parked bike and a mailbox. “Miss Suzy Career Gal” came up with a big box of envelopes to mail, and turned up her lip at the sight of me, as if I were covered with flies and feces.
From there I went to Petsmart and got Belle some food and chews, and from there I went home, arriving around 3:42pm. I showered, puttered, fixed Belle and myself some vegetarian chili, then went to bed at exactly 8pm.
Wednesday, September 19th–I dreamt I was living in some Asian country, though definitely not Japan. I was working from some guy who sold cheaply-made, garish, tacky shirts in a sort of indoor/outdoor mall that had seen its better days. Because of the language barrier I was not a great salesman.
We had two locations in the mall–one inside, and one located indoors, but off an outdoor walkway. I was trying to show a potential female customer the two locations. I took her to the indoor one and held up one of our shirts for her to examine, but I was having trouble showing her where the other store was located. Frustrated, I finally found a map of the mall and pointed to the spot.
I found myself walking to the outdoor part of the mall, when I saw, to my surprise, some of the still-living cast members of “Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood” doing a personal appearance at the mall. I saw Betty Aberlin, Joe Negri, Don Brockett (who actually died in 1995) and maybe some others. “Chef Brockett” was there in his chef’s outfit, as was a younger man who looked to be his son.
I was surprised to see these people here and even attracting a small crowd. I couldn’t believe “Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood” would’ve been broadcast in Asia. I went over and intended to take some pictures, but instead approached the cast and asked if it was okay for me to hug them. Then I thanked them, before breaking down crying, for having been friends to a very lonely little boy.
I woke about 3:45am.
I did laundry, called the HEB pharmacy to see what my costs would be (the prescriptions hadn’t all been filled yet), and worked on my CSS and Quark X Press tutorials. I took Belle on several walks. The one around the middle of the day was fairly long by our standards, and she slept heavily for hours after we got back from it.
I see where a French magazine is printing more cartoons about Muhammad. I do indeed enjoy watching the French taunt and piss off the radical Muslims, as the latter are so like two-year-olds. But I hope those crazy fucks don’t try to damage or destroy any French monuments or treasures.
God, I hate being awake in the daytime. These days just stretch out like eternity.
I was getting tired and was about to go to bed, when I wound up uncovering the fact that my dad’s hated sister Falba died back in June. I got so excited I was pumped full of adrenaline.
I forget whether or not I’ve held forth on Falba elsewhere. [EDITOR’S NOTE: Remember the “Thelma” dream a few days before?]
She always put me in the mind of that old joke. A guy’s doing a crossword puzzle and he turns to his wife, and asks, “What’s a four-letter word for a female relative–‘blank blank-N-T’?”
She says, “‘Aunt. ‘A-U-N-T.'”
‘Oh….Can I borrow an eraser?”
My adoptive father was the great-great-step-grandson of George T. Wood, second Governor of Texas, and my father grew up on the old Wood plantation in Point Blank, Texas. To make things even more Faulknerian, he was taught hunting and woodcraft by an old man he called “Nigger Jack,” whom I discovered was Wood’s bastard son by a slave mother. (My father, when dying, hallucinated, and saw visions of his grandparents and Jack, and called out to them, saying he would be joining them soon.)
My father had a sister, Falba, who was two or three years his junior, and her entire life she was a spoiled, stuck-up, nasty bitch. When my father and Falba were children, their grandfather, a judge, would go every Saturday to the nearest town of any size, Huntsville, to transact business, and he would bring back Falba a sack of candy, but would bring nothing for my father.
If my father wanted any candy, he would, at Flaba’s request, have to beg, roll, over, squirm in the dirt, scratch for fleas, and generally humiliate himself acting like a dog there in the grassless front yard, while all the family sat on the elevated front porch of the Main House, laughing down at him. Needless to say, this really fucked my father up psychologically, and caused him to hate Falba the rest of his life. And the feeling was mutual.
He also resented her for never changing her name to honor their kind, sweet step-father. Instead, until marriage, she kept the name of their biological father, who had been a bootlegger, an alcoholic, and a wife-beater. She had a long marriage, and three children. All her descendants seemed to have something wrong with them, but that’s another matter, and it should come as no surprise that nothing normal could emerge from her cesspool of a womb.
I met her after my mother and adoptive father married in the 70s. I didn’t like Falba from the start. She was the sort of selfish, hypocritical bitch who is interested only in money and yet who hides behind the mask of Christian piety.
(Now that I think of it, on all the occasions I was in the same room with her over the years, I don’t think she and I ever exchanged a single word.)
When my father died in 1994, I gathered all the biographical material and wrote it up for his obituary and the program for his funeral service. For some reason, the pastor who conducted the service neglected to mention Falba as a survivor in the program (though he did mention her in the service itself). When she came striding into the church, her small army of genetic defectives in tow, she picked up a program, scanned the contents, noticed her name missing, got angry, and asked who had written the program, and was told that it had been me. Later on, when the pastor tried to explain things, Falba would not be mollified.
Less than a month later, while my mother was still beside herself with grief, Falba called to demand money she claimed my father had stolen from their mother. She started off the call by telling my mother, “Well, it’s no secret that I’ve always hated you and you’ve always hated me…,” and went on from there. She threatened my mother with a big lawsuit at a time when the doctor bills, which were well into six figures, were just beginning to roll in.
I was standing in my mother’s kitchen when the call came in, as were a couple of my father’s friends, and they had to hold me back as I waved my arms around, mouthing, “Let ME talk to that bitch! Let ME talk to that fucking bitch! I’ll put her in her goddamn place!”
After the call my mother was frightened and in even more of a daze than before. My mother called my grandmother, Mammy, who later proved to be rather a bitch herself, and tried to get Mammy’s side of the story. Mammy refused to take sides in this. (Falba spent decades sucking up to Mammy, and ultimately inherited almost all of Mammy’s rather substantial estate.)
My mother didn’t know what to do. I said, “Well, I know what my father would do were he still alive. He’d call Sidney.” (The lawyer.)
For several days my rage built up. I got so crazy I began planning a scenario for the first day when this matter would go to trial. I’d hide myself somewhere on the Austin County Court House Square there in Bellville, and when Falba and her bunch got out of their cars, I’d run up and shoot her, then myself. (It’s a measure of how nuts I was at the time that I really devoted some meticulous thought to this scheme.)
As it was, Sidney wrote a very matter-of-fact letter to Falba, stating that any further communications be handled through him. Falba was cowed, and said nothing further about the idea of a lawsuit. Then Mammy suddenly “remembered” a phone conversation she’d supposedly had with my father about this financial transaction. The story was a monument to Mammy’s not inconsiderable abilities in constructing entertaining and even moving lies.
Mammy had nothing further to do with us in the five years left to her. She did make a surprise appearance at my maternal grandfather’s viewing in 1997, where she managed to steal attention from the corpse with her exaggerated “Blind Tom” act. Upon leaving, she insulted my mother.
In 1999, my mother and I learned of Mammy’s death from a friend of a friend of a friend who saw the news in the Houston paper. Neither my mother nor I were listed as survivors–a slight I am almost certain was the work of Falba.
So now her pink-powdered, pampered, and putrid flesh feeds the blind and hungry worms of Conroe, Texas, as it lies beside her long-suffering husband. She is mourned, perhaps, by her addled, mush-witted spawn, but certainly no one else. I just hope for their sakes they can all find work in the same circus sideshow, so they can at least stick together.
Thursday, September 20th–I had a sort of “Blade Runner”-like dream. I kept jumping backwards and forwards in time. There were people to whom I had become attached in this other plane of time and space, and I wanted to bring them over with me to my time. As I wandered a dark and forbidding city I learned that some laws had been passed to ban what I had been doing and planned to do. And I had been under surveillance almost all this time, and was in danger of arrest.
I ran to the train station. I think I was wearing pajamas. I pushed past people to get to the ticket window. A ticket-taker with a thick Germanic accent asked me where I wanted to go. Where was it? Prague? No. What was in Prague, again? Vienna? No. I finally blurted out that I wanted to go to Paris.
The ticket-taker asked for something over 4,000 Euros. I was shocked. Was he serious? A train ticket to Paris actually cost that much? How much was that in dollars? He shrugged and said that’s what he was charging, adding that he didn’t know who I was or anything.
I reluctantly went ahead with the transaction, immediately having buyer’s remorse and wondering if I could return the ticket. I looked at the ticket and it said it had cost me almost $1,000. I would have only about $40 left on me. How would I eat? Where would I sleep? How would I pass the time in Paris with so little money?
I woke with a sinus headache. I woke around 7:30am or so, having retired around 9pm. I got ready, and began having serious trouble with my allergies.
I called the HEB pharmacy yet again, and they still only had four of my six prescriptions ready, though they did find one they could work on. One hadn’t been called in at all. So I called the clinic, and got ahold of some young guy, who seemed to be talking on a cell phone, because the fucking thing kept breaking up. I eventually got him to arrange to have someone call in my sixth prescription.
Once I left the house I was overcome with allergies. I’d even brought along a whole roll of toilet paper so I could blow my nose. On the one-mile walk to the bus stop I felt as if I was drowning in snot and fluid, in my nose, throat, and lungs. And it had started to get hot, so I was struggling for air and breath by the time I made it to the bus stop. (For a bit, I wasn’t sure I’d make it there.)
I got to the bus stop around 12:30, got one bus to Target (I struggled with buying the ticket, and because I had to use both hands, I wasn’t able to hold a tissue to my nose, so snot leaked out of one nostril and onto my shirt, as if from an open tap), got the bus I needed at Target, had to wait quite awhile, got to my transfer spot at Burnet and Koenig, waited 20 to 25 minutes, and caught a quick bus over to Balcones and my appointment.
There were no water fountains in the building. I almost didn’t go into the therapist’s office because I could see through the door that the lights in the waiting room were off, so I assumed the therapist hadn’t arrived yet. But I tried the door, found it unlocked, saw down, sorted through the small magazine collection, laughed out loud at a smutty comment in an article on James Joyce in a two-month-old issue of “The New Yorker,” and then finally got asked into the inner office.
It turns out the reason I had been sent to see that therapist was so she could determine if I would be a good candidate for psycho-therapy. I’m not sure of her findings. I told my story as best as I could, given the short time-frame. I don’t think I got to say enough about my social anxiety, though.
I didn’t have much of a wait for my third bus. I had a long wait for my fourth bus, which turned out to be the ship of fools, full of all sorts of oddballs and half-wits. One looked like the kid brother of a guy I see on that bus all the time, with a rounded, childish face, Vitalis-slicked hair, Coke bottle glasses hanging on to the very tip of his nose, and a complicated repertoire of tics, the main one being the revolving of his left hand up in the air over and over, as if trying to encourage the bus to move faster.
Another passenger was a slim young guy, who also seemed to have something wrong with him. He was wearing a Jack-in-the-Box uniform, with glasses, and a visor that was not only pulled all the way over his eyes, but over most of his face as well. He had to throw his head all the way back and look down his nose to see anything. He looked like a complete jackass.
After I got to my neighborhood I got a Slurpee at a gas station, and some groceries at the dollar store, almost got run over by some woman as I tried to cross at a red light (I really should’ve yelled “FUCKING WHORE” at her a lot louder than I did), and then went home. As I walked Belle I noticed some people from my building moving out. Their U-Haul was almost empty, and a teenaged girl was walking out carrying, not clothes, not furniture, not boxes, but a single watermelon in her arms. Who the hell moves like that?
I was too exhausted to do tutorials or read, and so I retired around 9pm.
Friday, September 21st–There was one dream where I was living in some sort of co-operative housing set-up. In an upper floor was a large, L-shaped kitchen, full of gadgets and pots and stuff. Every surface was shiny with grease, and a young woman was puttering around in there. I’d gone in to pass the word of something, but what?
In another dream I was living in a small rented house, possibly another co-op. It seems my mother had something to do with renting it for me and my friends. In the kitchen was a cool-looking closet, maybe three- or four-feet-deep with a barrel-vaulted ceiling, in the center of what was a hatch with a folding ladder that led up to the attic. I asked my mother (who didn’t really look like my mother) if she’d gone up there, and she gave me a serious look. Then I think she mentioned there were probably rats up there. Or maybe I suggested it. At any rate, there were parts of the house we weren’t to explore, because they hid sinister secrets.
Some of my room-mates were either people I didn’t know that well, or else they had really lousy taste in friends. Disreputable druggie types had been coming around at night, visiting these roomies, and then later other residents discovered possessions missing. Since I would lose my fucking mind and erupt into an explosion of criminal violence if anyone dared to steal any of my precious possessions, I decided to affix a latch and lock of some kind to the outside of my door, so no one could go into my room when I was away. This was in violation of the terms of my lease, but I didn’t care.
I had a dream that involved visiting Gregory Peck’s house for both lunch and dinner. Later on in the dream, he drove me and my party (whoever we all were) to the airport. I thanked him sincerely, and rather effusively, for the hospitality he and his wife extended to us, I complimented him on his lovely, yet unpretentious home, and then thanked him for just everything in general. I think he was a bit embarrassed.
I woke in late morning, my allergies in better shape. I got into a frustrating IM discussion with James, early on. I described precisely a device I needed him to get me for my computer, but, probably because I didn’t use the exact technical term for it, he played dumb and pretended he didn’t know what I was talking about. He’s done this before, and it fucking infuriates me.
My prescriptions are STILL not ready.
Those noisy asshole downstairs neighbors look to be moving out! No more whooping wife. No more chattering kids. No more asshole husband pacing around, yelling into his cell phone at 1:30am.
But the sour old woman is still next door. The inconsiderate dubstep fan is still upstairs, as is the asshole with the two dogs. And the guy with the dangerous and illegal habit of barbequeing on his balcony is still on the bottom north-east corner.
Belle, for the last couple of days or so, has been making very loose, vile-smelling poop. But instead of pooping when we walk outside, she often holds it in, waiting until I’m asleep or busy in another room. Then she goes into the bedroom, plops it out onto a newspaper, and tries to eat it.
I did some tutorials on CSS and Quark X Press.
I got an annoyed letter from the vet who runs the clinic across the street, though not the actual asshole we dealt with a few weeks ago. In the letter, dated on Monday, he said representatives from the Drs. Foster and Smith online vet supply company had contacted the clinic to get an authorization for the prescription I’d sent, but the clinic turned them down. He then spent several paragraphs trying to justify this.
This pisses me off for several reasons. Naturally I hate to have my wishes thwarted, especially by some asshole who has taken a considerable amount of my money over the years. While I like getting veterinary care and having a clinic right across the street, I always feel vet care is over-priced, and I resent the hell out of the fact that no matter what vet clinic I’ve used in whatever locality, the staff has always tried to guilt-trip me into getting more and more expensive treatment which I can’t afford.
And I resent the fact that no matter how much money I’ve brought with me for a given vet visit, it’s always cost me $100 or $200 or more than I had planned. So I have to assume this guy’s high moral tone is due more from resentment that I didn’t want to pay his jacked-up prices for meds.
The second problem is… [censored].
Third, it’ll be a pain in the ass if I have to go through a bunch of extra steps to get more money and so forth to buy Belle’s Frontline and Heartguard, especially since Drs. Foster and Smith got the prescription late, and I wanted to get Belle her meds a couple weeks ago.
And finally, a last point, not annoying, but odd–my Pay Pal account noted that Drs. Foster and Smith withdrew $146.21 from my account around Wednesday. This was the exact amount to cover the Frontline AND Heartguard I ordered, and was a couple of days after the vet wrote his letter, and the vet staff spoke to a Foster and Smith representative. So apparently, Foster and Smith got turned down for permission to use the prescription, and went ahead and filled it anyway. I guess I’ll find out for sure either when I get my order delivered or my money returned.
I watched/monitored “Longford” again for the DVD commentaries of the writer and director. I forget when I retired.