98: The Lonely Panic Attack

It's all about the movement of the chest: the tightening, the wonky breathing. It's about waking up in an empty bed, the sheets tangled around your legs, the hands desperately searching for some comfort. It's about the terrible dreams that trail after you in the morning (Kelly sat across from me in a restaurant, told me about how she thought Ryan wasn't good for me, that we weren't good for each other, and I searched for this quote about language and walking barefoot in the grass, and I woke Ryan, who was being driven to the airport by my mother at four in the morning, though I don't know where he was going, and I needed to ask him how he thought we were doing and if "good" were a content relationship and "bad" were a relationship that should divorce, where were we? and I woke just as he was about to answer).

It's not just bad dreams that have made me a bit distracted, a bit trembly this morning. It's the realization that summer is now over. Today is my official last day of "vacation," which, of course, my husband chided me about as it's been several months now. I am a creature of habit, and it has been ingrained in me to dread autumn a bit, to brace myself for the sheer work of lesson planning and grading. Please don't get me wrong, though I do grump about teaching high school a great deal, part of it is some nasty experiences I had that are very specific, and this kind of sour experience has bled into other, very good experiences.

And tomorrow begins this new journey. Orientation and graduate instructor training. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

61: Dreaming of Roland Barthes

OK, OK, I went, what, a month and a half? 365 is back. I missed it. This time, though, isn't give-or-take a few; one a day, my favorite, not always representative.

I have a recurring dream, one with variations: a visit to the university bookstore. It never looks as the U's does, but I'm always either searching for it or in it, browsing, looking for the next treasure. (I have had regular bookstore dreams too.) Last night's dream had me running my fingers along tilted books, the crook of my arm filling with Barthes and Borges. I took a peek at the shelves in creative writing, curious to see if the intro class had books at all. No, but Intro to Nonfiction had a clear plastic box with two coils of golden rope, much like thin tasseled rope for decorating curtains, and a twenty and eight ones folded into it. I was curious as to what writing exercise would come of it and why it cost sixty dollars to purchase.

It's afternoon, the new washing machine and dryer are turning my clothes over and over quietly, that new plastic smell filling the bathroom. I am packing for a week in Wisconsin, four dogs and me. My revised thesis being edited down to completion. The distance learning British Literature class that I have an incomplete in ready for conquering. I'm getting my ducks in a row, to use a cliche. It's almost a retreat, this dog sitting adventure.

9: Dreaming of Iago

I had a dream Iago came: and I was never called.

Iago: the nickname I've given Kelly's baby, the name of my favorite villain. I teasingly call him this because the name she and her husband have chosen for "Baby FermaNels," as she calls him, is a secret. So I've dreamed names for him: Vaughn, Jacob. Reflections of too much television viewing. I may refuse to admit it here, but I'm secretly addicted to going through full television series on Netflix.

I've had two dreams now, both recently, that Kelly has had her baby and I am called after the fact. There are dreams that permeate reality, that move you emotionally. I wake up in the fog of the dream, still feeling it was real, feeling deeply disappointed. Then: relief. A dream.

I am to be witness in the waiting room as little Iago, or FermaNels, or whatever he is to be called, arrives. I am chief documentarian, so to speak, the one who will peer over her shoulder armed with words and images to preserve those moments.

She recently emailed me to say her bag is packed and ready to go; she advised me to pack one too. I feel silly putting together a hospital bag, but she could go for twenty four hours as my own mother did when she had me.

Now, I am knitting. Kitchen cotton and bamboo: little washcloths with baby feet on them. Maybe I'll find some jungle patterns too.