Saturday, January 9, 2016


Dream: Extreme Frustration

-it takes me a really long while to get ready for school. I could have made it on time if I took the bus, but I decide to wait for Lawrence
-he never shows up
-there’s snow everywhere and there’s an adolescent polar bear outside the house. Someone’s reciting the general development of a species during puberty, like a voiceover in a documentary
-at 7:53, mum says she’ll drive me to school and we take the 401, but it’s taking a really long time and mum doesn’t know where she is or where we’re going
-I’ll definitely be late for school, and I casually say, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” Then I casually apologise with the excuse of being extremely frustrated
-mum stops the car and starts talking to people
-I wake up with my arms thrashing, hitting the headboard

Wanna hear about my phone call? From Lawrence, I mean. Yes, of course you do!

The little voice in my head told me to expect a call around 2:00 in the afternoon; intellect agreed. Two o’clock makes sense, you see, because he would prefer to call early in the day, but he would be afraid of waking me in the morning. At noon, it’s lunch time, but people are usually finished lunch by two.

Also, I knew there couldn’t be anyone else in the house at the time of his call, but I didn’t expect him to send everyone away.

I don’t remember him asking for me, although I’m sure he did. He introduced himself by saying, “This is Lawrence West,” as if I wouldn’t know. I recognized his voice on the phone, although there was something unidentifiably different in the quality. Higher chakra, perhaps.

The one thing I had been afraid of was that the conversation would be somehow stressed. Was I wrong! It was just like talking to Christie. How relieved am I! The absence wasn’t felt. There is no place for absence in eternity.

My faux-pas was in blurting out, “You have body image issues” after he went on about feeling guilty for eating so much popcorn the night before. I stand by the statement, though. He’s worse than most females I know. What a dear.

I can’t tell you how I shivered when he said, “Your room is being dusted.”

Oh God! How do I live in fear! He offered an open invitation to stay with him if my mother’s barbs grew too cumbersome, and I had to pretend I was fine living with my family.

How badly do I want to stay there, with him, in his house! Oh, my heart longs for the day I can accept this offer. Now would be the perfect time, too, with his whole family visiting Victoria’s parents one more time before the school year begins.

I am frustrated with myself. Perhaps I truly didn’t want to impose, but I can’t explain why I wouldn’t simply pick up and go. He asked me to come. It’s exactly what I want. Why wouldn’t I go?

And then his comment: “I just hate cooking for myself.”

Anticipated answers? “I’ll cook for you” or “You can cook for me!” But no. I had to say, “Then don’t eat.” I recognized the invitation, but did not to take it.

Good conversation, in all. Lawrence’s voice cracked a bit while he was talking about his father’s dementia, as did mine when I was talking about Christie’s remission. He offered to help her with moving/settling in at university if he happened to be in London.

It would have seemed very natural to end the conversation by saying, “I Love you,” but I didn’t. A telephone “I Love you” isn’t good enough for me and my ego. My ego and I need a fanfare, need a 100-piece orchestra.

No, that’s not true.

A good, heartfelt “I Love you” will do.

That may take time, but there’s comfort in knowing it’s always been true.

I Love you.


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