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Dear Subconscious,
When yesterday I spent the entire day after work hanging out with Athaira and rekindling my friendship with her friend Elzbietka, whom I hadn't seen since grade eight but I am glad to note is as brash, tough and good-hearted as ever --- when we all decorated shortbread cookies and those slightly postmodern gingerbread men --- and Athaira made Dali and Michel Foucault and Socrates and Plato and the Dark Lord and portraits of Elzbietka and me --- and I remedied a lacuna in the world that customer once drew my attention to and went on a run of Spider-Man gingerbread men --- so much so that the girls started teasing me about a quiz-playing Spider-Man fan of my acquaintance, who is a wonderful friend but nothing else --- okay, I understand all that, it was fun. But why did you compel me to then go on a run of decorating the heart-shaped cookies with roses in icing? Red and blue flowers? Eighteen of them, nine of each? Arranged on a plate, they would have made a love token to build a sappy Hollywood movie on, but...why? "Tourmaline, are you okay?" Athaira asked me at one point. I sighed in misery and waved at the heart cookie plate: "Obviously not."
Dear Subconscious, I love and trust you and think that you are among the awesomest people I know, if not the awesomest. But could you please stop playing this game of "I know something you don't know" and either tell or shut up? Getting me in touch with my romantic side is one thing; making me automatically, unthinkingly, decorate sweet sappy roses on hearts --- eighteen times over --- is completely not the Tourmaline you know and love. Then you send me dreams of New Brunswick's Magnetic Hill and Reversing Falls. Neither Spider-Man, nor roses, nor explanation as to why you are taking over this body of mine in such a strange manner.
The optical illusion of rolling uphill; I was trying to remember the equivalent antigravity attraction in the U.S, described in the Harper's I brought back from England. Trying to remember it in my sleep (Mystery Spot, California). No roses.
I've remarked two days ago that perhaps I need a crush, yes, but I am not aware I have one, no matter how I dig around in the clutter of my mind. Subconscious, just stop this foolishness, okay? Come eat cookies with me; we have the same body, anyway. Eat them roses. Unless someone walks into my life (and moves events WAY faster than I'd prefer to move them) before they go dry (today) I am giving them all as a love token to myself. Still wondering why.
When yesterday I spent the entire day after work hanging out with Athaira and rekindling my friendship with her friend Elzbietka, whom I hadn't seen since grade eight but I am glad to note is as brash, tough and good-hearted as ever --- when we all decorated shortbread cookies and those slightly postmodern gingerbread men --- and Athaira made Dali and Michel Foucault and Socrates and Plato and the Dark Lord and portraits of Elzbietka and me --- and I remedied a lacuna in the world that customer once drew my attention to and went on a run of Spider-Man gingerbread men --- so much so that the girls started teasing me about a quiz-playing Spider-Man fan of my acquaintance, who is a wonderful friend but nothing else --- okay, I understand all that, it was fun. But why did you compel me to then go on a run of decorating the heart-shaped cookies with roses in icing? Red and blue flowers? Eighteen of them, nine of each? Arranged on a plate, they would have made a love token to build a sappy Hollywood movie on, but...why? "Tourmaline, are you okay?" Athaira asked me at one point. I sighed in misery and waved at the heart cookie plate: "Obviously not."
Dear Subconscious, I love and trust you and think that you are among the awesomest people I know, if not the awesomest. But could you please stop playing this game of "I know something you don't know" and either tell or shut up? Getting me in touch with my romantic side is one thing; making me automatically, unthinkingly, decorate sweet sappy roses on hearts --- eighteen times over --- is completely not the Tourmaline you know and love. Then you send me dreams of New Brunswick's Magnetic Hill and Reversing Falls. Neither Spider-Man, nor roses, nor explanation as to why you are taking over this body of mine in such a strange manner.
The optical illusion of rolling uphill; I was trying to remember the equivalent antigravity attraction in the U.S, described in the Harper's I brought back from England. Trying to remember it in my sleep (Mystery Spot, California). No roses.
I've remarked two days ago that perhaps I need a crush, yes, but I am not aware I have one, no matter how I dig around in the clutter of my mind. Subconscious, just stop this foolishness, okay? Come eat cookies with me; we have the same body, anyway. Eat them roses. Unless someone walks into my life (and moves events WAY faster than I'd prefer to move them) before they go dry (today) I am giving them all as a love token to myself. Still wondering why.