Saturday, October 27th–I woke about 7:25 or 7:30pm, and got up around 7:37pm, albeit reluctantly. I took Belle on several walks. It was colder outside and I turned on the heater for the first time this Fall. I watched the 13th and final episode of “Civilisation,” along with the DVD extras.
Some really annoying, tiresome, pretentious person was on the Tumbler, whining about wanting a sex-change operation. Is this the new fashion now? If life doesn’t work out for you, blame the problem on your genitals?
Sunday, October 28th–At some point I dreamt about hanging out with Cornell West, the black intellectual. Later, I dreamt that I wound up somewhere rather like a chapel, though there were elevated seats and tables such as you’d see in a bar. There was some event about to happen. Reporters and photographers piled into a side entrance, and I was one of the ones who was supposed to get up and see what was happening, but I didn’t want to, because I wasn’t formally dressed.
I saw some people moving in the back of the room. I think I saw some young women I was supposed to know–possibly ones with whom I’d gone to high school. In addition to their usual occupations, they worked as models. (This is impossible, since every I went to high school with is either dead or middle-aged, and from the photos I’ve seen everyone’s aged badly.)
And then I found myself at the bottom of a depression in the ground. There was some sort of emergency, and I didn’t have time to run around to the side, go upstairs and up to the main ground level–I had to scramble up a steep diagonal wall of rocks laid out in a stair-step fashion. (Only after I woke did I realize that this corresponds exactly with the appearance of the wall of the “moat” outside my apartment.)
I woke up about 10pm.
Monday, October 29th–I’m running out of food. I will, however, have enough for my meals until I get my next Food Stamps payment on the 7th, but I really have nothing to snack on, and no money for it. I may get some birthday money in a few days, but I was hoping to spend that on stuff like underwear and T-shirts, since my clothing is getting rather threadbare.
I puttered around all night, read up on the news about Hurricane Sandy, and eventually watched “Tension,” with Richard Basehart.
Around 8:30am, M___t sent me an e-mail, telling me of a job opening in his company which, predictably, he described as a “foot in the door.” (He’s often told me about menial jobs that were supposed to turn into something better but never did.) I immediately had a panic attack.
I read about the job–telephone work, customer service, dealing with irate customers and stressful situations, ten hours a day. Nothing about it appealed to me. It almost perfectly described the sort of work I didn’t want and wouldn’t do well in. Then I looked up his company web-site. Though there are offices all over the world, and quite a few job openings, there were no jobs anywhere in which I was either interested or qualified.
But I did think it interesting, psychologically-speaking, in how quickly this proposal threw me into a panic attack that lasted about three hours….
Anyway, I puttered for awhile, and read in Genet before retiring in the early afternoon.
Tuesday, October 30th–The Sixth Anniversary of Fred’s Death.
I dreamt I was in another old school building, walking down a circular staircase with grey marble steps. I saw sinks here and there (or were they water fountains?), some even on the curving walls of the stairwell. But none really were deep enough to hold water and none seemed capable of being plugged up.
I went downstairs to what seemed to be one of the entry halls, and looked around. I saw through an open doorway into a class of all males–jocks, I believe. I saw a piece of wall without hinge or doorknob that I suspected–correctly as it turned out–to be a blind door. I pushed against it and found an old and filthy lavatory that I assumed must’ve been used by the janitor. I also saw the doors to the mens’ and ladies’ restrooms.
I produced a yellow plastic tub, about ten inches wide, fourteen inches long, and eight inches deep. (In real life it is a relic stolen by a family member during a hospital visit thirty-five or forty years ago, and has been put to a variety of uses over the years. It’s now in my apartment somewhere.) Anyway, I set this tub down into a sink in one of the shallow sinks in the school entry hall, and began filling it with water, so I could perform some important washing of some kind.
Just then, it came time for class change, and students began milling in and out of the entry hall. Someone, maybe a jock, teacher, or administrator, took offense at my ablutions, and began to make a big thing of it. A crowd gathered. I decided to kick the dispute up to a new level, and picked up the tub, dumped the contents on the front of my opponent, and then stood staring abjectly at the floor, like a mental case. I figured if I looked sufficiently out of it, someone in charge would extricate me from this mess, and try to excuse my behavior as being that of someone who is too disordered to be responsible for his behavior.
I woke about midnight and got up about twenty minutes later. I took Belle out and was struck by the eerie quiet.
The mail brought bad news. The IRS wrote me back at long last. It decided I’d not over-paid or under-paid, but also that they owed me no refund. I cannot see how someone who earned less than $3000 last year would owe any tax at all.
I got a birthday card…with some of the month’s checks, but no birthday money. So there goes my chance at some food, and new underwear and T-shirts….
All of this plunged me into a depression.
I fed Belle and myself. She remained insatiable.
I showered and gave Belle a good going-over with the flea comb.
I took her out for another walk, but within a short time, she suddenly turned around and headed to the house, her mouth set in a certain way I’ve come to recognize. I knew she was trying to sneak something into the house, and after two tries, I pulled out a turd from her mouth and tossed it away. We went inside, and she spat up part of another turd, so I threw it away as well.
Later on in the morning, I adjourned to my walk-in closet for the annual ceremony commemorating Fred’s death, complete with music, candles, prayers, holy water, and incense.
I e-mailed M___t about the job, trying to explain as diplomatically as I could why I didn’t want the job he mentioned.
I saw a headline: “Superstorm Sandy: Millions of Americans wake up to devastation.” Christ, I wake up to devastation every day of my life.
I listened to the DVD commentary for “They Live By Night.”
I retired around 8pm.
Wednesday, October 31st–I think my first dream of the night had me wandering around in a nightscape. Someone in a military uniform, possibly in the style popular between 1910 and 1940, was following me in the shadows, and finally leaped out at me. I screamed and woke.
I had a dream where I swaggered into something akin to a hotel in a Third World country. It was very hot, and I had a British accent.
I found myself watching a World War II movie about a commando group working behind the German lines. Tobey Maguire played an American pilot. There was a young woman in the cast.
There was a final struggle, which seemed to involve a fight out on the wings of a plane that was in mid-air–a fight with the second leading man (a blonde German who was fighting for the Allied cause) and one of the villains. During this the German admitted that the young woman was now carrying his child. Then I think the German killed the villain.
Meanwhile, Maguire was trying to fly this plane, which was damaged and low on fuel, into a very small opening in a forest. Here there was a friendly village with residents who were sympathetic to the commandos and their cause. He just managed to make it. It was a rough landing, but the plane didn’t crash.
As soon as this happened the movie wrapped up. I found myself in a fast vehicle speeding through a jungle. Here and there along the road were clearings above some bushes and in front of some trees, where text was flashed up, explaining the fates of various characters in the movie or other plot details. But the vehicle I was in was going so fast I couldn’t read the text before we’d sped away.
The jungle turned into the back end of the hotel, and I walked out the front door again, out the porte-cochere, and got on an adult-sized tricycle, intending to ride away somewhere and go buy myself some provisions and toiletries for the night, since they weren’t available in the hotel.
Some local men, who seemed to be Hispanics of some sort, came up and tried to sell me cheap crap I didn’t want. For some reason, I was carrying in my right hand a damp and dirty hand towel. I forget how the conversation ran, but I reluctantly decided to buy two cheap packs of cigarettes off one of the men. (It’s odd that I quit smoking ten years ago this December, and have not been tempted to smoke since then, but I often smoke in my dreams.) I decided to set up a lab somewhere and test these cigarettes–at least the first one on the left when I opened the pack–just to make sure the locals weren’t trying to poison me.
I woke up at 5:41am. The day was spent almost exclusively going through the over 400 pages I have open on my computer, and deciding what to do with them–copy and paste articles or URLs, close them, leave them open, or what.
Something I ate disagreed with me and I had diarrhea for awhile.
Thursday, November 1st–I woke after 8am. I puttered, did tutorials, and listened to the DVD commentary for “Where Danger Lives.” I had cheap dollar store red beans and rice for the second day in a row, and explosive diarrhea as well, so I’d better lay off them.
Friday, November 2nd–I had a dream where I was in a room with a few other people and said something blasphemous. The door flew open, and there stood the frightening figure of an Eastern Orthodox priest, with a forbidding countenance and big black beard.
I was about to scream in fear, but just then I thought to change him, and almost as if by magic he turned into a woman wearing a burkha. And then, to make her less forbidding–snap–her tits were hanging out, and then–snap–they were old and wrinkled. What had almost scared me now made me laugh.
I dreamt a young friend of mine approached me for help, as he wanted to become a writer. I was flattered, but then I discovered he wanted to write erotic fiction, specifically short stories for erotic fiction magazines that were available for sale at convenience stores. And then I learned the main thing was that he was too embarrassed and felt himself too young to buy such magazines (he wasn’t–he was very much an adult), and wanted to know if I’d go into one of those stores and buy the magazines for him.
My 49th birthday.
I woke in mid-morning. I made myself a larger-than-usual breakfast, then went out to run errands. I went to the bank, and then over to Randall’s for the last day of early voting. The line to get in was over 150 feet long, and stretched along the front of the strip center and out to the feeder road. I waited about an hour before I finally got to vote.
I also ratted out some rather rude, noisy, pushy ass-holish campaigners who were waving signs in protest against a proposition that would fund a new medical school and teaching hospital. A few of them crossed the line they were supposed to keep behind, and went up and bothered the voters. I asked an elderly poll worker about them, and he went and scolded them.
Later, I heard someone using a bullhorn, and about fifteen minutes after that a poll worker who was talking on a telephone asked me if I’d seen any irregularities or heard a bullhorn, and I told him about the campaigners. I hope those pricks got arrested.
After this, I went to the dollar store and the UPS Store.
I got home, had some dollar store snacks, and very soon there-afterwards had another attack of diarrhea. Then I took a shower, dried off, and before I was even able to dress had yet another attack of diarrhea, and broke out into a sweat. Eventually this passed and the rest of the evening went okay.
I got on the floor for awhile with Belle and massaged and rubbed her, and read in Genet. Then I listened half-heartedly to the DVD commentary for “Tension,” and started Alan Maass’s “The Case For Socialism” before retiring sometime in the wee hours.