"I could be
bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space,
were it not that I have bad dreams…." (Hamlet)
So I thought about watching one of the latest versions of Hamlet again tonight, while doing my laundry. I wonder how much of my neurosis could be quelled if I might somehow manage a bit of lucidity while dreaming. Instead of the world going up in flames, instead of spitting all of my teeth out into my cupped hand, I could just sit by the damned ocean with a margarita in hand. Or have my boyfriend kiss my cheek and whisper all of the beautiful words he writes to me every morning by way of e-mail.
6 a.m.: Up for coffee and a jog; 8 a.m.: off to work; 11:30: lunch with Caren, my close friend and fellow writer.
Caren and I discussed the latest indictment of three kids in town who brutally murdered a girl in the woods. They tortured her for days before she died. In the pictures the paper took of the two men (both sentenced to life), one boy was grinning. A sad, twisted mass of flesh is how he came across. Caren was greatly disturbed. He’ll be tucked in among the roaring dead, I said. She got that and wanted to laugh, but it’s difficult when you have images of bleeding youth stuffing feces and garbage into a dying girl’s mouth. Those were some of the details we at the paper learned, unfortunately.
So that probably will not help my dreams tonight.
Mother called and said my aunt has a brain tumor. They will operate soon.
My fish, Soma, is watching me as I write this. Oh the irony.
Maybe I just need something to make me freaking laugh right now. Phil will be calling later, and The Daily Show will be on soon.
Little things you hold onto when the world is trying to kick in the door for 500.