Good damn morning, San Rafael – thank you for the incredibly loud noise, the jackhammering, the slamming doors. Now, yes, I get it: wake up early, Jen, and you will be able to focus before all this starts.
My sister and her sweetie are here and we were up talking until 1:30, about relationships and friends, about addiction and getting help of all kinds and more. I set my alarm for 6:30, hopefully, but of course completely ignored it. And had dreams that were sort of about crime again, about being a part of a crew who were escaping, or helping a group of folks escape. Or maybe I was pat of the group that was gathering to bring those folks back in, but they were friends of mine, the folks who had escaped, maybe I was sort of a traitor but they didn’t know. At the end of the dream, I’m trying to dance up the stairs like/with a teenage boy who’s just sort of learning to pose and preen, and he and I are posewalking. We’re strutting up the stairs to The Miami Sound Machine’s “Do the Conga.” I can’t really dance, can’t make my body do what it feels, it’s like I’m constricted. Which frustrates me because I really start feeling the music, or maybe what I start feeling is the dancing. There was stuff in the dream about getting taken in, caught – somehow I knew that the authorities were coming, and I was a part of the group getting caught. We some of us went and folded down when the authorities came. Is that right? The one authority person who came in first was a tall lanky dyke, and our friend gave herself up, she went and bent down for her, and when she bent over her dress fell over her body, and she was skinner than toothpicks, she had no fat anywhere and hardly any muscle, she was barely sticks, emaciated, starved, gone.
Last night I was looking at my sister while she talked and she sounded like she always has, like my little sister. As though her voice hasn’t changed since we were small. It’s her forever voice, the one that lives in my body, and I get to have that pleasure because I was already here when she was born, and so I have known her voice since it came to be in the breathing world. So there’s this sense that we’re still small, we’re still young, we still have time – and then I look at her face, and see these small crinkles around her eyes. This isn’t about calling out age: this is about realizing that small girls don’t have those particular crinkles. Those are a woman’s crinkles. We are aging. I thought, we’re running out of time. What if we don’t make it before….?
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