JiM's Dreams

Yesterday was insanely domestic, with rainy cat-napping followed by an impressive amount of housekeeping, including many -ing activities such as vaccuuming, dusting, cooking, baking, recycling and laundry folding.

We also went out stalking my current musical obsessions and returned with a stack of used CD's and a feeling of glossy triumph. The CD's bought seem sort of eclectic when I consider them: Moulin Rouge 2 (have you heard the end title music, "Bolero"?! Stunning!), Matisyahu's Youth (hasidic rap/hip-hop), Celtic Moods, Leadbelly and Rufus Wainright (His version of Leonard Cohen's "Halleluyah" can knock me out). Husband bought Bob Marley and we retired to our respective corners - he knows I think reggae sounds like polka on acid.

I have also started writing again. It worries me that this happens in relation to my coming off the generic Prozac. Are these really my choices? Either I get to be even-keeled and as creative as a turnip or I can write beautifully, have vivid dreams and occasionally think the world is out to get me and everyone hates me. At least the dreams are entertaining. The one about the luxury hotel with the insanely sophisticated bath tub system that included buttons for erotic enemas and rain-forest assignations was intriguing, anyway.


As for reading, I finally snagged the library's copy (OK, the wonderful husband did) of "Wicked" and am absolutely entranced. This is the book of the backstory to the "Wizard of Oz", as written from the perspective of the Wicked With. The characters are all vivid and richly drawn in a few words. It's got that edge that tells you it won't end well, but you can't leave the trip before it's over. Great writing.

I had another one of those conversations with my mother last night. She is still on her "Farewell Tour" routine. At least she is thinking seriously about end-of-life issues now, as opposed to moaning and not doing squat about her concerns, as she was two years ago. The depressing thing is, I think she IS dying. But she keeps detailing her funeral plans to me and that gets a little wearing. It's almost bad enough to make me ask her to tell me about her latest test results.

At least we had the conversation about what would happen to her if my father pre-deceases her. She has finally realized that she can't live on her own and that he does a lot of care-taking for her. We discussed hospice and home health aides and laughed about the impossibility of her living with either of her children. At least we all know that would make us all crazy and likely to star on the evening news one fine day very soon.


I also heard from my oldest and dearest college room mate last night. Her husband-figure was actually wonderful during a recent family crisis and I let a comment slip out loud. I mentioned that he could live another 2 months for that 2 days of serious effort he had put in. Fortunately, she knows me very well. When I backpedaled and said that it wasn't really how it sounded, she said that it certainly was and she knew it and I knew it. It's true - he lives on borrowed time. Every time he makes her upset, I itch to find a back of quicklime and an entrenching tool. I think he'd make the foundation for a wonderful gladiola bed. He really is awful and the only good thing he's done is father the most wonderful niece I have. I try not to refer to him as "the sperm donor" in her hearing - it's the best I can do, sometimes. The veneer of civilization is VERY thin.


On that blood-thirsty note, I am going to go off and collect notes for my Bible class tonight.