I was working on world peace with an Israeli commando named Sid. We drove through the streets of town in a Hummer. He said a lot of things that seemed wise. I wish I could remember a single one.
My headache is back with a vengeance. Again I have neglected to drink enough water. Again the angry gorrillas in my neck. I think going to the gym inadvisable under these circumstances.
Before the commando I was living in a defective treehouse; the nails that held it together were coming out on the side that faced a fence but the house was totally intact on the other side, that faced the parking lot; I knew I had to fix it or give up, but I couldn't bring myself to take it down. My guy friends were dropping in with the kind of advice you'd give for car trouble.
I ended up in an auto store, looking at the parts they'd recommended: carburetor; spark plugs. I described the situation to the white-haired clerk and he shook his head. "There's no hope," he said. "That thing is toast." According to him, once a treehouse was on the decline, repairs just made it worse; you just had to accept it and move on.
A long-ago ex-boyfriend happened to be my next visitor and I mentioned this to him. He nodded, gave a half-smile, breathed in; I waited expectantly. It was a completely familiar experience. He had always seemed calm and comforting when confronted with intractable problems.
He'd breathe, nod, smile, and then take a long time to say something that either was an utterly generic platitude or sometimes a complete non sequitur. At the time I found it infuriating, but in the dream it was kind of endearing.
After a very long pause, he said, "I'm sorry."
He turned into a guy friend I used to work with; he started pulling ropes and banging on the sides of the treehouse. As the structure slowly toppled I yelled, "What the hell are you doing? I didn't ask you to bring it down!"
He shrugged, made a guy apology - that mysterious combination of genuine yet totally un-guilty that as a girl I will never, ever understand. "Sorry," SHRUG, "I thought that was what you needed."
I walked around and around the fallen treehouse, pressed my palms together and rubbed them anxiously, while an army of frantic gerbils raced on stationary wheels in my brain.
Maybe I could get some burly friends to push it back up. Maybe I could buy extra wood and nail it back together stronger. Maybe I could live on it sideways.
I woke up to drymouth and the familiar pulsing in my head. I think I should be taking recreational drugs and drinking a lot more at this rate. My dad has a saying about wishing he'd been at the party the night before to refer to this hungover-for-no-reason feeling.
It's grey outside. It's 8am. If I drink a shit ton of water in the next fifteen minutes with more drugs maybe I'll feel good enough to drag myself to the gym.
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