I dream in color. Really tacky color.

January 25, 2011 § Leave a comment


I had this dream last night that I could skateboard. I was hanging out in this small room that was set up for street skating. There were steps and ledges and rocky faces and stuff. So they call my name cuz we’re doing runs or whatever and I’m all like : “I’VE GOT THIS.” (Except in the dream I’m outside of myself looking at myself going: “I hope you can pull this off Rebecca!”) I’m with a bunch of older teenage boys who aren’t ripping hard- but they are shredding decent. Bailed tricks. So I’m at the top of the run and I look over at them and I start skating. Except I FEEL it. The gravelly pocks under my wheels. WOAH. I’m bumping along kind of rough but handling the balance of the room okay.
So I just make it from the top to the bottom. I go over the stairs and stick it fine and wind up out of breath in a neon pink shirt next to these sweaty bros. They are just impressed that I made it down. The announcer calls the next guy and I say loudly: “I don’t even know one trick. That’s right I just stick to the board, man.”
How lame is that! I tell them I suck! Then I elaborate by saying that I get bored and skate around sometimes. So weird.
I told E about this dream and she was like: “pshhh I can skateboard, I do it all the time!”

I didn’t want to tell her that this dream was probably the castoff of sitting for hours by TSX and various other skateparks watching ledge tricks and mini ramp shit. When I think back on those days I’m always wearing sunglasses with pink arms. I know this can’t be true. Also, I am always wearing jean shorts. That is pretty true.

Okay: {PART TWO}

I am in a room that is like a Christmas dinner and I hate everyone. There are many jokes that aren’t funny and I can’t laugh. I am incapable of faking it. I crawl under the table and somehow through some tan leather cushions. I find a gold necklace that is dripping my name. I see two other girls my age (I guess I am maybe like 19 in this?) and they don’t make conversation with me and I am wiggling my eyebrows kind of like: I can’t wait to get out of these stockings. A small dog escapes and everyone goes nuts. It is assumed that it is dead. I feel nothing and stand by the refrigerator as people cry.
So I’m a skate fake who likes gold jewelry, has menial social skills, is incapable of laughing, and feels no emotion over a cute dead dog.

Once I saw Billy Rohan on the subway and recognized him and wanted to tweet it but realized no one I knew would know who he was.
I guess I should start submitting to places? I don’t ever have a finished piece. I looked back at old published stuff and wanted to cheese grate my index fingers. UGH.

I have a few ideas for some serialized poems. I have this umbrella concept and its all specific to my life because I am a poet and you are feeling everything through me goddamnit so you must know me. Just kidding. So with those kind of themed series I get really into it and then three poems later I lose interest. I have all of these half finished projects.

I just ordered a desk! Which means that I will automatically be productive. People don’t usually believe me when I say there is one chair in my apartment. Well guess what!? I bought ANOTHER. A desk chair. And I assembled it. That’s right. And I even carried it and dropped it many times from the elevator to the door.

So my goals… to do list?: Start finishing poems. Start finishing series. I journal on average 4 out of 7 days a week which is pretty good. I have all sorts of soggy fish food clumping to the bottom just waiting to get pecked at and eventually flushed.

My life has no drama. Things happened last year! Breakup(s)! Drunken confessions! Binge eating with besties. My last semester of undergrad.

This year?
Pleasant dinner and beers with friends. People telling me I am pretty in a sincere way. A new duvet cover. A switched gym membership. Cleaning snow off of my car. Watching Twin Peaks with talented young poets.

Oh. Great. I’m not asking to be mugged or to get into another car accident or to have my job end and for me to miss City Island daily and bloom my CI portfolio out. NO.
Maybe if someone new could come on the scene? Or I could decide if I want to teach or go for an MFA (My bones are so weary from CUNY though. OH G-D).

I used to get great satisfaction while painting to public access television or taking ambien and realizing I had so much to write before I went to sleep. I always had more to write.

What am I doing now? Looking at a beautiful vase of roses and drinking a seltzer on my clean new duvet. How trite.


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