Getting the Log Rolling

8 Jan

I have found recently that I can recall the dreams I had the night before, more often than usual. They are startlingly clear and colorful.In them, I always feel like I’m looking for something that I’ve lost.

This could be in part due to a fever that fogged up my head for the past two nights. Yesterday, I finally gave up and sequestered myself in my room to sleep it off. So, I apologize for my lack of entry.I figured posting about my dream that night–of being some sort of pirate in a demigod pirate summer camp looking for my missing three-corner hat–wouldn’t be the most sensible entry. When I woke from it, I was soaked through with sweat and running a much more normal temperature. The remainder of my day was spent washing  and drying my bedding and airing the sick out of my room.

Perhaps, I’m still recovering from that sickness, because last night my dreams were again filled with a sense of searching. A big white mansion on a hall towered over me. I was with someone, I think it may have been my boyfriend but it’s had to remember exactly now. Together, we searched this abandonded mansion, while outside in a blue car my parents and younger sister waited for us to report back about our findings. From what I recall, the mansion had belong to some celebrity woman who had since vanished. None of the rooms made any sense, and a horror-film suspense filled me as we searched the rooms. I can only remember a few of the rooms. One was the kitchen, all white and mostly dark. The only light was above the fridge that was pushed into the cabinets. Upon opening the fridge, we found blue alien-looking mold and promptly closed it again. The second room I can remember had the most bizzare indoor golf course. It stretched impossibly upward, and while we climbed to the top, the hill felt like it was inflatable. It bounced and turned as we climbed. It was green and brown like earth–but reminded me of the bounce houses I had played in as a kid. The third room was in the basement–and was the only occupied room. A girl I didn’t know with dark hair sat in a chair in this room. It felt like a dorm room–only I knew for some reason that this had once been a radio studio of some sort. The girl was wearing a school uniform and playing a large acoustic guitar in her lap. She didn’t feel threatening–and spoke to us casually as if she had every right in the world to be there. So, we left her alone. She told us something about the mansion’s previous owner–but I can’t remember what anymore. I don’t remember much after that other than I was again in the backseat of the blue car with my family. It’s get’s flustering from there–so I won’t bore you further.

I can’t help but think my subconscious is reminding me that I’m looking for something.

Other than odd dreams, today felt productive. I cleaned my room and made it more livable again. As the week ends it will need picking up again. Hair from our shepherd dog piles up astoundingly quick in this house. I can’t figure out how–as she’s barely in my room at all. Still, I manage to find an entire dog  by weeks end.

I spent time writing some letters to friends that have moved to other states and I haven’t been in touch with. I could call them–I’m aware that it’s the 21st century–but for whatever reason I feel like letters are so much more personal. So much more honest. And all and all, a much more pleasant way to remind someone you don’t hear from all that often that you’re taking time out to think of them. I suppose that way of thinking is a bit old fashioned–but then again I’m 23 and crochet. Maybe, I was just born old. Born in the wrong century even.

Speaking of born in the wrong century–I was made to help pile wood today. Or–really i should say–logs. My parents cut down a rather large pine in our yard today and being the oldest and most capable, I was drafted to help my father (who apparently threw out his back) and mother (who guilted me shamelessly into helping by informing me of that) into piling the logs up behind our shed. Three of them were to large that the only way to move them was to roll them like a wheel. As I covered myself in sawdust and mud and pine sap–I suddenly appreciated people who had once done that sort of thing for a living. And as I had plans, I am now on duty to finish the log rolling process tomorrow. My back already aches with anticipation…

Once I changed and scrubbed my hands, I spent time catching up with a good friend of mine. Whenever we’re together, we tend to talk about the deeper issues in life. Our constants tend to be reflections on our lives, and feelings of restlessness we both seem to share. As he spoke to me of his desire for a change in his life today–I couldn’t help but agree. Yes, times are tough. I’m not making the money I had hoped that I would be by this age–and I am not sure if I would even have the means of considering moving out on my own around here. But, it doesn’t mean that I don’t feel the ache of being stationary. There was a time in my life, when I felt that I really lived. My time in Florence, Italy. My time on my own. I miss it sorely and fondly all at once.

My friend and I spoke of looking for our ideal jobs, our place in the world and possible travel. Now, I can’t seem to settle my mind back down. It’s nearly midnight here and I’m wide awake, and restless. Wondering about what step I should take next to get the log rolling, so to speak.

I suppose revisiting my resume should take first priority. It will need remolding, filling in my new experiences including my work with editing fiction novels. Then to decide my Where. I have never been to San Fransisco–but I have always wanted to visit. I hear out there, that there’s opportunity for publishing jobs, writing positions and the like. I may start there, or anywhere surrounding there, I suppose would do. As long as I can reach my goal and live my passion. Paying my bills with work that I am passionate about–now that would truly be to live.


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