dianaschnuth

Weird-Ass Dream

I was living at Mom and Gary’s place in Parma, but my step-brother Philip and my cousin Michael were there. In the dream, I was 18 and a Senior in High School, Philip was an underclassman (age 16?), and so was my cousin Michael (age 14?). This is totally skewed from real life, where I’m currently 27, Philip’s 17 and Michael’s 19.

In my dream, it started out as late evening. My glasses were broken, and I knew I had to go get them fixed; The left lens had a clean horizontal break halfway across. But Gary informed me that I had to drive Philip to school, and bring Michael along (who, in the dream as in real life, had some mental/behavioral issues). I argued that I would be late for school if I did that; and besides, it was my car and I was an adult and shouldn’t have to ferry everyone around, etc, etc. My arguments didn’t fly, though, and I was stuck with the job.

Michael was taking a bath, and I checked in on him to make sure he was OK and getting clean. (No, I don’t think I’d have to do that in real life, FYI.) I explained to him that he’d be coming with me to the eye doctor’s and to take Philip to school.

Suddenly, the scene shifted to morning. My glasses were worse: both lenses were cracked and the glass was bent and curled, like melted plastic, with white opaque stripe-like sections along the breaks. But I had to drive with them, because I could see better with them on than not. I considered my strategy: my first priority was getting my glasses fixed, which I figured would take no time. I’d bring Michael along to that, leaving Philip at home. Then I’d swing back and get Philip and take him to school.

Unfortunately, we got a late start. It was about 10:00am before Michael and I got to the Optometrist’s office—partially from wrangling Michael, and partially because I could barely see to drive. I had expected the fix to take five minutes, after which I could swing by and get Philip to school late. But, after turning in my glasses to be fixed, we sat in the waiting room for a good half-hour (by the dream-time internal time-lapse clock, of course). I finally went up to the desk to check on when my glasses would be done… and saw two pieces of corrugated cardboard on which were written each patient’s last name, time in, and estimated time out. I found my last name, Schnuth, and saw that my glasses had been received at 10:15am. My replacements weren’t expected to be complete until 5:00-5:30pm. I was pissed that I’d just wasted half an hour, and just as pissed that I’d have to drive home with no glasses. Around this point, I think I woke up.

During the course of the dream, Michael was actually good company, and we had some "normal" conversation. This is something I didn’t really get to have with him much in real life, as I didn’t spend much quality time with him once he reached a good high school age where we could talk on the same level. Even at that, he has (or at least, I assume he still has) a bit of a communication issue where he speaks very loudly and broadly, although he has a big vocabulary and tends to use long words. He always sounds like he’s amazed (or thinks you should be), has his eyes wide, and uses broad gestures to explain himself. He’s also a bit nervous-seeming, due to his hyperactivity—he tends to fiddle and fidget and be physical, which is sometimes unwieldy at his current height of 6’6″, but was even so back when he was shorter than me. 🙂

He and my aunt moved south several years ago—I don’t think I’ve seen him since he was 16. Michael is now 19 and lives in a group home with other… well, other people like him, I guess. He’s high-functioning autistic. According to my aunt, he’s currently enjoying a part time job at a computer repair shop, where he’s well-liked. He’s also lost weight and is down to 250 (from 300+).

Last I heard, he still worshipped the ground I walk on, too. 😉 I’m not sure if that still holds, since I lost touch with him for so long, but it was intense enough before to be disconcerting, if flattering. I need to write him a letter and let him know I miss him.

I Miss My Friends

What’s the opposite of a fair-weather friend?

Some people complain about friends and acquaintances who disappear at the first sign of trouble. I seem to have nearly the opposite problem: some of my friends only come to me when they have problems. I don’t hear from them for months and months, especially if they’re in a fulfilling relationship; then, as soon as they have a major issue with their Significant Other, or they’re at an impasse about their next career move, a message from them shows up in my Inbox.

Don’t worry, it’s probably not you. Those few people I’m referring to don’t read my blog very often, I don’t think.

Anyway, I miss my friends. I wish I had more contact with everybody, and I’ll take what I can get. Hell, some people don’t even communicate with me at all anymore, not even to bitch. Some people I thought I’d become friends with—or at least close acquaintances—barely even give me a synopsis of the last few months of their lives when I catch them on IM. Which isn’t often, since I get such a lukewarm welcome anymore that I rarely log on.

I sent out Happy New Year e-mails to a bunch of people (those of you to whom I didn’t send Christmas Cards), and only got a few replies in return. I actually still need to respond to some of those replies… Oops. And here I am bitching.

But anyway, I’m going to continue plugging away at my little blog, hoping that my four hits a day are meaningful ones. Maybe some of my anti-fair-weather friends will read this and tell me how great their lives are right now. Don’t make me name names.

And here’s the quotable of the day, regarding Dick Gephardt dropping out of the Democratic presidential race following his fourth-place finish at the Iowa Caucus:

There wasn’t the enthusiasm for Dick.

—anonymous
labor source

Democratic Caucus? Sounds more like a lesbian convention to me.

Do me a favor

Hey. If enough people click through my site to Bob’s site, I might show up on his SiteMeter stats, and not have to beg him for a link. After all, I already begged him for a new album and a trip to Detroit.

later…
I was going to go to bed early, for once. Instead, I got it in my head to try to write what I’ve been thinking for the past week or so.

I’m not usually one to go on "life’s not fair" rants, but I’ve really been feeling cheated. Not by what you might think. I’m not upset that I’m not using my degree in my job, or any of the other myriad of things I’ve bitched about in the past. No, this is deeper than that.

I feel cheated out of time I should have had with people who are now dead. Not so much Memaw, because she was older — 70 isn’t exactly ripe old age, but not so young that I feel cheated out of quality years. Although I do wish she could have lived to see her great-grandbabies (though heaven knows when that will ever happen, anyway. I’m in no hurry).

No, I feel cheated that my stepdad, Tom, never got to meet Aaron. I feel cheated that I never got to meet Aaron’s Mom, especially since it really sounds like we would have gotten along. Plus, we share a birthday. How cool is that?

But, on top of all of this, I feel cheated by my lack of faith. After watching Memaw deteriorate like she did, I’ve come to realize how connected the mind and body are. I used to think that once the body died, the soul/consciousness would ooze out into whatever Tao or Force or Heaven or Collective Consciousness that exists, and perhaps retain some of the personality that person had developed during their life, depending upon how strong that personality was. But now… I don’t know. Memaw just wasn’t there. It was some fragmented, decrepit bastardization of who she used to be. The person she was, wasn’t really there anymore — only in brief sparks and flashes of wit and that occasional look in her eyes.

My step-Gary believes that, when you die, your soul simply sleeps until the Resurrection. You don’t know anything until you rise again, and it will be like no time has passed. While I don’t believe in the Second Coming or the Resurrection or any of that anymore, I do wonder if death is like sleep. Except… if you never wake, what do you have to compare your sleep against? If your consciousness never manifests again after your body dies… then how do you know you’re dead?

Weird stuff. At any rate, I’ve been having what Mom would call "Memaw moments," where I just sit at work and faze out for a few seconds, just thinking about her—except I think about Memaw, and Granny, and Tom, and Aaron’s Mom, who I never met. And I reflect on how unfair it is that all they were, and all they knew, is gone.