I went out into the world this week. Several times. A trivial task to some, executed without a whole lot of forethought each day as they drag sleepy eyes and asses onto the highway for the two hour commute. I used to do that. Every single day, twice a day even, at least on those days when I actually got to leave work. But that was then and and this is now. I've been working from home these last five years, and excursions to Midtown Atlanta, let alone the Publix down the road, have become more infrequent, which makes it all the more exciting when I do go out. Did I say exciting? I meant exhausting.
This week I started off by actually going into the office. Don't faint. Take a deep breath. Yes, you heard right. I went to work. (They gasp).
There's something to be said for going to work on a semi-annual basis. Mostly, you feel like a celebrity when you hit the elevator, until you realize you haven't worn pumps in four months and your feet already hurt, so you shift the backpack with the laptop inside to the other shoulder, and walk like a drunk has-been movie starlett to your cube, which you have because you work from home, and even though your position would warrant a less-than-cushy office with doors and windows, there would be mayhem if you had one since you only show up on the third new moon of each millenium.
Ah! A phone message... lemme check. Oh, just a telemarketer. How did they find me here? Oh, right, they didn't find me here.
I run into my old friends. They seem happy to see me.
"Jeneane! How are you? Haven't seen you around here in forever--how long has it been?"
"Forever," I smile.
And the inevitable question: "What brings you in today?"
I tell them the truth. "I saw the email that we were having a party at 3."
They laugh and nod. Tell me it's always loud when I come in. I love them and they love me. Humans are so interesting!
I make the rounds, full well knowing I won't get much done there and I'll have to make up the time later, at home, where I can think. But that's okay. Shooting the breeze with other adults who do what I do for a living is refreshing. I'm wanted. I get to tell lots of stories. Talk about "remember whens." I'm glad I made the trip. Except that the party got postponed until a day when the attendees of honor, hard at work at the client's site, can actually be there.
Even with the extra work waiting for me once I got home to make up for my socializing, I know I did the right thing. I remember missing my work friends as soon as I see them. We've been through a heck of a war the last five years and have lived to tell about it.
Heart doesn't die easy in tech.
My next two adventures were school field trips with Jenna's class. Talk about contact! 20 little 3-6 year olds running mostly amuck from a pumpkin patch at a local YMCA to a Native American demonstration in a huge tepee at a nearby campground. I helped supervise the kids, which mostly meant making sure they didn't escape into a parking lot or down some slick ravine, or at least if they did, that they didn't get killed. I think I did a good job. Everyone lived.
I got that good feeling--just like the one at work--being around the kids. You could tell they thought I was the cool mom. I talk to them like real people--I yell at them just like their own moms when they fight, push, or run off into the nearest nest of copperheads. I took Jenna and her best friend to and from the events in my Escape, turned Earth Wind and Fire up loud, and laughed with them as they danced in their seats...
go over there and bathe in some great story telling. Man, can she write.
What I want to add to my site is an anti-blogroll. On my very own anti-blogroll I would list all the blogs I recommend avoiding because they spew hate and meaningless muck. There must be a way to develop an anti-blog button that, when clicked, actually removes linkage to these sites rather encouraging links. hmmm... The sum total of assholes on our combined anti-blogrolls could compete daily for a spot on anti-daypop, or--for more sizzle--"daypoop."
I'd stick Gene Expressions on mine. I tripped on this blog today, but don't feel like linking to it. Instead, see the comment from someone called godless capitalist on Anil Dash's post about depression today. I'd rather give Anil the link. His post on mental illness is a good read--I heartily agree with blogging as therapy.
Even for women and people of color. ;-)
The parts of my dream I remembered from last night were intertwined thinking vingettes. I often have those. I remember what I thought more than I remember what happened or who else was there. This particular dream montage combined thoughts of armegadeon with thoughts about thong underwear. The sense was that the end of the world was pretty near, preparations were taking place, and somehow I ended up at a woman's store looking at thong underwear, a silky red and silver pair in particular, wondering what the appeal was for women--why not just forgo underwear altogether and save on the money and comfort factors? There were some drill-down thoughts here, but they probably belong over at BlogSisters.
Interpretation for Extra credit:
World ending = Approaching end of the world.
Thong underwear = Need to buy new underwear for the whole family.
I guess the Jung fairy skipped me last night.
Tag, you're it.
If you were Tom Matrullo's pillow, what would you think?
Letters Never Sent. I don't know who's doing the writing, and don't want to if it would silence her, but this is pretty fricking fantastic. ahhh. new voices. makes it all worthwhile.
Okay, some of my blogger friends bit the dream challenge. FASCINATING. Let's recap, shall we?
My post below started the ball rolling, or the dog shit car rolling, or something. And then blogdom chimed in with dreams from last night...
Turner Takes a Hike
Then Gary relates his dream from September. A snippet here: "We approached a right hand bend in the lane where someone had conveniently left a rubbish skip on the inside lane of the the bend which was causing, what was for a leafy country lane, a massively large volume of small hatchback cars all travelling at very high speed, to swerve around the skip only narrowly missing the equivalently fast oncoming traffic coming the other way round the bend. As we were on foot this presented more than a small challenge in terms of negotiating around the bend without being run over."
Frank Paynter Runs But Can't Hide
Next Frank chimes in with his fitness test dream. A snippet here: "There were some steps to ascend and some to descend. I learned all this as I ran. Other runners preceded me, some were on the course behind me. Since it was a single lane, there was a staggered start. This wasn't a competition and people were generally cordial as we met each other on the course."
Elaine Loses Car, Gains Freedom
In a comment, Elaine relates her recurring dream about losing her car: "I have recurring dreams that I park my car and can't find it. I have concluded that that my car symbolizes my freedom, my ability to be out in the world."
No Pizza for Partington, Just a Crappy Car
George P. relates his dream about being taken for a ride. A snippet: "I was heading uphill, and I needed to get over to the left. I moved left, in front of a truck, which was coming up fast. Typical. So, being a conscientious driver, I applied more gas, trying to speed up, but my car wouldn’t go any faster."
--------------------------------
Okay, is it me, or do we bloggers have a LOT of travel, car, and movement imagery in our dreams at the moment? What's this about? Amazing (to me anyway) that a car appears in everyone's dreams here, except Frank's. Both Gary and Frank are on foot, but in Gary's dream annoying hatchbacks still appear. Though Frank doesn't encounter a car, the lanes are there, the movement is there nonetheless. Only difference is that Frank IS his own vehicle. Hmmmm.
Freud? Jung? Don? Anyone?
Are we really on a journey? What happens when we all get to the red light at once? Who has the right of way?
Dr. Weinberger, we be joining...
I have a motion to put before the fellows of the University of Blogaria. I move that we pick a week--like this one--and we blog our dreams. I am interested in seeing any correlations, permutations, variations or gyrations that our loosely joined unconsciouses are unleashing. Who's in?
I'll start. Last night I dreamed that George and I were driving through Boston, towing our pre-enjoyed-new-to-us dog shit car behind us. Which is wierd because we've never been to Boston together, I've never been there at all, we've never have towed the dog shit car anywhere, never towed any car for that matter, etc. But that's dreams for you. So I turned around and looked out the back window only to see that, while a car that looks like the dog shit car is behind us, that car slows down and turns right, and sure enough there's a driver in that car, and our once-in-tow dog shit car is nowhere to be seen. It's fallen off the hitch or something.
"OH MY GOSH--Honey, the car got lost--it's gone!" I panic. At which point George, who I'm not sure I actually see in my dream--I think he's my left shoulder--turns the car we are driving (that doesn't resemble any of our cars) around and we go through all these crowded narrow one way streets to some sort of city hall, where we alert the authorities that the car we were towing has disappeared, to which they answer, "Don't worry--I'm sure it will show up."
We never find the car in the dream.
The phone rings and I wake up.
My dream symbols represent the following (this is for extra credit):
Dog shit car = panic, unresolved issues, conflict, financial stress, dog shit smell.
Boston = land of therapy, Halley, Terrence Real, David W. I think Boston to me is representative of blogging--or of family perhaps. Connection. Connectivity. George's brother lives there as well.
Authorities = are significant in that they don't really care, i.e., Authority Figures that don't lessen my angst, don't help when I have been violated and am in need.
George = as my left shoulder without a face, I haven't seen him enough in the last six months.
Driver of the car that is not the dog shit car = The person I hope actually buys the dog shit car when we put it up for sale this week.
Stay tuned...
Anyone else dare to share?
Atlanta blogger Anthurian has some good recent interviews with techy types on his blog. My favorite line, which I'm sure I'm the last to hear, but maybe not, is from Debba Doo, a free spirit and ballsy cat lover who both Mr. A. and I worked with at Ketchum. Miss Debba says, "Once you go mac, you never go back." To that, I say, you go, girl.
Mr. A., I'm sorry I never completed my interview. Tell me if there's still time, so I can procrastinate a little longer. ;-)
Which Triscele am I?
I haven't talked to my mother in two months now. Our "normal" relationship ceased about four months ago. We used to talk every day. Or there abouts. Now we don't. Talk. At all. I sent her a letter explaining the reasons why I needed time, space, distance, needed her to back off. She didn't accept that, couldn't accept it really. So I sent a stronger letter. She "got" that one. Among the reasons for time away, I named alcohol, and its effects on me growing up, repercussions I'm just now beginning to understand.
I'm seeing them now because the noise of our relationship has been quieted. Noise, according to Marek J., is defined as anything that isn't "gold," the distracting hum of inner chatter that keeps us from getting to gold. There's noise, and there's gold. Gold you want. Noise is just noise. It interrupts. It is useless and counterproductive in getting to gold.
It is amazing what I've come to see, to realize, as I begin to distinguish noise from gold. Thank you Dr. Marek. Still working on it, you know.
Having spent the majority of the last six months on my own with George away, I've had the quiet that I didn't want--but definitely have needed all my life. Marek was and is right. The more we allow noise to interrupt our search for gold--maybe gold is the "True Self"--the further off the path we wander, the more we end up in prickerbushes, hurt, in pain.
In relationships, Dr Marek's theory of noise vs. gold is a pretty heavy concept. Let noise in, let it disrupt your focus, let it impact how you relate to one another, and any gold you had turns to noise, then potentially, to dust. I think we have a tendency to welcome noise sometimes, to sabbotage ourselves and our loved ones, to feed noise. Why? Why do we feed noise? Do we entertain noise in order to drown out the louder noise we've lived with all our lives? Is noise the negative introject, or at least the negative introject's handiwork? I think so. But Marek doesn't use those fancy terms. He calls it "noise."
I mention this today because the theory of noise vs. gold that Marek shared with me months ago is something I think of almost daily now. I'm sure he doesn't even know that. But when something comes at me and it feels like me undermining myself, I say, "That's just more noise. What's the gold you're looking for here?" And I try to answer. Not always sucessful, but I try. To begin to identify the negative introject as noise, to be able to identify and NAME it when it starts feeding you poison, is a powerful tool for trauma survivors on the road back.
So thanks, Dr Marek, from the Sessums. I'm sure Marek's willing to set up sessions with other Bloggers in crisis--I paid him $13.52, but that was an early bird special. I think the guy's worth at least $100.00 an hour.
Marek, hang out your shingle -- we can't afford to have you not blogging.
Where Jeneane Sessum writes about Loss, Love, Life, Labor, Leisure, and other things, but not necessarily in that order.
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