Dumpster Diving

This may be my paranoia: I think there is a dirty message that people are trying to relay to me lately because my path has been inexplicably disturbed by dumpster divers. They seem to be proliferating faster than rats lately. They are literally keeping me up at night and blocking my way during the day.

Sunday, November 25, 2007
Picture this -- I am typing study notes in my bedroom from morning until evening. I hear the dumpster cover slam open. I look out the window. There he is. That guy who rifles through garbage... my garbage! I gaze at his dirty hands as he scrutinizes my waste. I feel violated. He is there getting intimate with how many times I blow my nose, my menstral cycles and what I chop from what I eat. My eyebrows knit together and I want to shout, "I see you!" I don't say a word. I just stand there and stare. Then boredom sets in and I walk away from the window.

Monday, November 26, 2007
I am trying to fall asleep at my boyfriend's green Victorian home. It is a chilly night and my stomach is trying to digest suspect ceviche. My mind is racing. I close my eyes in the darkness listening to his breathing. My thoughts start to slow down and the undulating current of sleep tugs at me. Suddenly, I hear the clanking of glass and know without looking that Anthony's neighbor is sorting Anthony's trash again. I fixate on the sounds she creates and obsess over why she chooses to exhibit this behavior almost every night. Sadly, her home burned down months ago and yet she was doing this well before that. She takes an old half-eaten torta and feeds it to the neglected dog next door. She moves the recycling to the blue bin. She covets broken trinkets and stacks them in her nieces front yard next to the dog that howls in agony. This makes me feel sick inside.

Tuesday, November 27, 2007
I park my vehicle a couple blocks away from work as I do every work day and briskly walk to my destination. Almost every morning I ritualistically travel down Max's alley, which is inevitably teaming with rats hiding in vines and crows perched on building tops. Sticky dumpsters line the alley, so I've learned to breathe through my mouth and I see him almost every morning extracting bottles bare-handed from the bins and tossing them into his trusty shopping cart. He never looks me in the eye, but he knows I am there. I silently wonder if this is his main source of income. If it is I postulate how simple his life must be and for a split second I envy him.

Burgers, Trains and Forgetting Names

Drenched in cold sweat and furiously hungry I found myself in a train station with someone I was supposed to know. I couldn't remember his name. He was short and his hair was died jet black and greased like my wok.

We were waiting and pacing and tracing out our next move. We heard the "Toot! Toot! Chugga. Chugga. Toot! Toot!". We sensed the rumble beneath our feet. We smelled the smoke of the engine and then another familiar scent followed: burgers and french fries!

A swarm of people started propelling themselves at the moving train. Some caught the ride, others broke their teeth. We were all so heart-breakingly famished. I frantically searched for the guy I was supposed to know and threw a name out hoping it was the right one.

My impatience came to a crescendo and I decided to leave him for the burger. I ran alongside the tracks until the timing was precise. I jumped on like I had done it before numerous times and without even catching my breath I grabbed a cheeseburger and bit down whilst cramming hot fries in there, too. Impatience and gluttony - I was doing it all.

As I tried to swallow my mind slowed down as the train picked up more and more speed. It whipped around bends, tugged itself up hills and rushed down them. It was a rollercoaster brimming with fast food. My gut felt like it was floating above my eyebrows and I tried to remember that guy's name and couldn't. I couldn't remember my name! What I could remember was how frightened, hungry and nauseous I was. I couldn't get off. I couldn't leave all that food!

Sometimes Frail

Sometimes frail
Needing
Something sweet to cover up the bitter
Another kind word pasted over apprehension
Taking trips through sculpture gardens
Driving with wet face on

I wish I could be strong and confident all the time, but I am not. I get scared when the past haunts me and the future beckons me. I forget to be present because sometimes I am frail and needy. My comfort is that I am more confident than cowardly than I used to be. I would be lying if I couldn't admit my weaknesses. I would lying if I didn't admit how terrified I am of becoming a teacher. All my nightmares of returning to school are becoming reality. Making an effort to experience discomfort just seems like a paradox to me and yet that happens to be the road I am travellig on. How does someone return and move forward at the same time? Doesn't this somehow defy the laws of physics?

Closure

He crept into view and exposed his under belly with slightly enigmatic wording, but I knew what he meant without hand-holding. He created a Hell for himself and the good and bad angels roosting on his shoulders could not find peace. They held their heads in their hands curling over like lamp posts.

I wrestled with myself for a reaction. Nothing sounded right. Is being kind keeping your mouth shut or offering words of wisdom laced with comparison? Is peace something we grant to ourselves or something we toast to with one another?

I couldn't sleep because this demon-man kept presenting himself with "I'm sorries" and "I didn't mean to's" every time I closed my eyes. Manipulations. Human frailties rear their tortured heads. I no longer am tortured. Does this mean that I am the strong one? Does this mean I have to carry the weak and misguided to their starting gates? Does this mean that once I do that I can watch the gates clang shut and gracefully walk down my glorious green path with a smile in my heart and on my lips?

Back Off

It has been quite some time since I was hit by an Escalade walking into work. It has been a while since I've felt that hot grill against my back.

Last night I got hit by a car three times in my dream. Each time I could hear my ribs cracking and my faint cries trying desperately to ring above the roar of the engine. Each time I felt worse and quieter. The driver could not hear me. The world forgot I existed. Sometimes I feel like this. Sometimes I care. Sometimes I don't. Sometimes I just need some space, but the car keeps backing up.

I woke up this morning feeling achy and not entirely ready to begin my day. Even as I threaded my arms through my black blazer and slipped on my black loafers I recognized that my maturity was present, but hiding behind dream bruises.

I need a vacation.