Queer bedfellows bookend a Queerer day
I have a recurring dream, of my grandmother's Victorian era house in downtown Atlanta. I stood by her bed thirteen years ago when she died, and since my mother, sister, and I have always dreamed of her house. It fascinated me as a child, with all it's doors and cupboards and extra rooms and stairways. In my dreams, though, there is an attic that no one but I can enter because the entry is too small. In my dreams I find respite here, alone, and if anyone is there when I arrive I feel violated.
Once - in my dream - I invited Tylere and Mikaela (his sister) to my attic. And on Thursday night I dreamed that I confided to Tylere's father about my attic space; and I told him no one went there but me. Does anyone interpret dreams?
After waking up I spent yesterday morning easing myself into the day. A couple hours online, long shower, shave, cut my hair (trim...), makeup, new clothes, lunch, shopping list, check the mail. The mail.
That was 12:30.
I ran non-stop for eight hours before finally sitting down to think about the fact that Patrick had surfaced at only fifteen miles' difference, and that I was admitted to a grad program.
Dream/Nightmare.
I didn't cry because I couldn't, and by the time I felt alone there was no impetus. Alas, still no tears. I will point out, though, that despite my never-crying, I do shake somtimes, face contortions and all, but nary a water-mark. Anyway.
Maggie's suggestion was for me to down a shot of whiskey, have a coupla smokes, and then write a letter to Patrick containing all the shit I wanna get off my chest. Then sleep on it. If I awake during the night, then I must contact him. If I sleep soundly I am not as bothered as I think I am.
Well, let's not concentrate on Patrick entirely.
I GOT ACCEPTED TO INDIANA UNIVERSITY!
The chair of the department called me personally to suggest I apply for a fellowship. My letter will be sent in a month. This is significant, I suppose, because I don't think EVERY chair phones EVERY applicant they accept. Anyway.
I spent three hours filling out my tax return, FAFSA, and writing an essay on why I'm po' and need a fellowship. At eleven o'clock I sat down on my bed. Upright. Headache. Noise in the kitchen... I put on My Bloody Valentine (it's just right for so many situations). Turn out the light. When the noise in the kitchen ends I'll sip Old No. 7 and write that letter.
I woke up at 6:30 this morning. Sitting upright. Fully clothed. No whiskey and no letter written. No interuptions either.
I didn't even wake up with the realization that I was wearing jeans and a bra. Come on... somtimes I wake up hung-over becuase of wearing jeans and a bra. Nope. Sound as a muthafuckinPound. On top of that. I dreamed about Tylere. I think the resteless night before compacted with the most dreadful/exciting news I could hear just wracked my body with overwhelmament (neologism, ya).
I FedExed my paperwork out today, and now I'm chilling and thrilling my system with edge-softening alcohol. Tingle my hands. The City is such a solace to me. I've spent this evening introducing my friend to all the funness of this d-land shit. asitwere is the journal of my weekend-savior. All hail him.
In summation: I don't suck becuase one of my top-choice universities wants my ass, and, this (what's it called when bile is gurgled up into the mouth?) regurgitation (?) of Patrick is not over yet.
If I had an apartment on a busy street in New York City I'd leave the curtains drawn so people could see inside and imagine who lives there.
AND THEN I'D SHOOT THEM!!! (too much Docmuthafuckin Dre)
