It's nice that no matter how late I go to bed (not that late, now that I have a legit life), I wake up naturally around 8:26ish. It feels good to have my time, that soft muted morning light, to have things to do.
In my dream last night, I was hanging out with Genevieve and another man, and we were all good friends. It was fairly obvious that the man was interested in me--but he wasn't pushy, creepy, just a nice fellow. In my dream, like in real life, I ignore advances, and play them off by not acknowledging them; I'm slightly combative with people who seem to like me. Resistant.
You know the reasons why.
But it was nice, to be friends, all of us--in my dream it felt good.
And somehow, this man, this person--whom I have never met in real life, whom I cannot identify, he somehow understood, all of it, all of me. I forget what token it was, the words that were said which finally undid me. I fell madly, and that rush of feeling--which I have not felt in a very long time (two years ago), it was so beautiful. I woke up and almost cried.
It is a sad dream to have, but waking up to my life is not sad. My dreams are cruel to acutely remind me of what I do not have. Thank you, dreams.
Today I go to my internship at Persea Books in Union Square before class--I'm pretty excited about classes today (vs. how I felt yesterday), and I realized this morning, while sipping my tea so that it didn't touch my hideous cold sore, while critiquing my classmates' poems for today, how much I love editing. How I feel confident in my comments, how the only thing I truly understand (like how others might understand math, or physics--or how the body works)--I understand how words work.
Straw to gold.
I'd love to be an editor--not just for creative writing, but just with words. I hope this can happen one day. I want this pretty bad. More than teaching, even.
Today I have my two favorite classes--avant-garde poetry, and poetry workshop. Everything current, relevant, things which course through my blood. Even my ugly face won't keep me from reveling in this.
My days are nice; it's really amusing to me how much I fill my time--full-time course load, job, internship--and still I have free hours. Hopefully, like a mantra, that second job.
I don't even pine--my body does it involuntarily now, like breathing, and it doesn't hurt. What if when I am conscious again of it, hold it in my hands--I will no longer want it?
The maiden-hair fern which wilted because we stopped watching.
