Ode to Pat: 

producer of the greatest honey pots in all of BYU's generations

Last night, as we drove home from our friend's house, where we'd had Christmas dinner, my sister and I sat nestled in the back seat of the car staring up at the night sky.  The great thing about Powell River is it's blackness - there's no light to dull the brilliance of the starry sky.  It's sprinkled in iridescent dust - every star is clear. Last night, for the first time (now, maybe I've never really looked before, but just the same - ) I saw Orion in his magnificent entirety.

Is it bad to eat in the bathtub?

Because that's what I did. My apartment was freezing, so I just filled that puppy up with hot water, loaded myself into it, and proceeded with my evening's activities. I wasn't about to go hungry, so I ate dinner while soaking as well.

time slowed

when you left

and the season

does not change

for me

though despair

has altered

and a seed is fixed

that will grow

when time again

rolls

Another dream.  It’s cathartic writing; don’t feel obligated to read.

I’m at work, and we admit a new lady into a room that there’s still a dead gal in.  I guess we’re wheeling the bed with the dead patient out, as we’re wheeling the bed with the new woman in.  She gives me a startled look, and I say – don’t worry, the room was cleaned, and she died of natural causes (whatever that means – my dream self is apparently not as smart as my real self), not infectious disease.  “Hmm,” she says, and she seems to relax a little.  But this is not okay, we can’t admit patients into rooms that we’re rolling dead bodies out of.  I try to talk to the charge nurse, but she doesn’t care.  She seems to think this is perfectly normal.  And I start to feel ashamed, like I shouldn’t have annoyed anyone about the situation.

For the rest of the night I take care of this old Russian guy, who can’t pee. We speak in short sentences to each other, and he is very kind to me.  But I can’t ever seem to leave his room, it’s like I’m stuck in there, and I don’t know if there’s something else I’m supposed to be doing. There’s a man dressed in black, standing in the shadow of the room, he must have appeared suddenly, but it’s like he’s always been there. He keeps talking in a low muted voice. At first I think that he’s talking to the patient, but then I realize he’s talking to me – he’s telling me that this is going to be really hard, and he’s pointing out little details about where I’m falling short– but my actual experience with the patient so far has been pleasant, and not at all like he’s describing, so I don’t know what this mystery man is going on about, but his presence is making me feel dull inside.

I leave work, and it’s dark, there are two ladies crouched side by side in the middle of the street, someone points them out, and I think, “Huh. Weird.” We keep walking, and pay them no mind.

Then I’m watching this movie, and it’s not a good one.  I feel like I should get up and leave. It’s this scandalous movie about a brothel.  There’s one girl who doesn’t want to sell her body anymore, so she packs her bags and puts on some 1940’s garb, and runs off to be married – and the whole party starts to break up, I follow a group of scantily clad women out of the brothel (apparently I’m not watching a movie anymore), and we head out to get some breakfast.  It’s light now, and we walk into a little diner, Keoka – from work – is there, and she takes everyone’s cell phones and hooks them to these weird charging devices.  The inside is dark, and made of wood.  My brothel pals sit down at the bar and order a drink from the guy behind the counter.  They seem to be familiar with the place, but I feel lost.  I walk out a side door, and into what looks like a backyard, with a bunch of little round white lattice tables.  I sit down and order some tea.  And then I overhear my friend Sarah (who I grew up with) talking about her grandmother.  I can’t see her face – she’s sitting under this awning that has ivy growing all over it, and she’s sipping on some kind of specialty drink, and talking to a man, that I assume she’s been seeing for quite sometime.  They seem very happy, and I’m sad that we’re not friends anymore.  And then she’s peeks around the corner, and says, “You remember my Grandmother…” and we say “Elsie” at the same time, and then we both laugh – the gay laughter of old friends and shared secrets.

I get home.  But it’s a new home.  I have roommates.  Ann Marie is my roommate again, and she’s left a note that says I can borrow her computer if I like.  Oh good.  I’m so happy to be living with someone I know and like.  It will be nice to have Ann Marie around again.  I help myself to her computer, which is actually a giant flat -screen TV, hooked up to a keyboard.  The LDS website is up on the screen.  As I sit down and start typing some girl in a grey sweater comes into the room and stares at me.  She must live here too.  Another roommate, I’m so happy.  But she seems disappointed in me.  What did I do?  If it’s because I’m using Ann Marie’s computer – it’s okay, because she said I could… I want to tell her, but she leaves, and I follow so I can explain who I am, and what I’m doing here.  We walk into another room.  This one is lighter, and now the girl is wearing a chocolate brown sweater.  I like this room – it’s mine.  And, apparently, it’s this girl’s too, because all her stuff is in it.

I’m standing against the back wall of the room and Mike comes in.  My heart sinks. He doesn’t notice me – he just starts flirting with my new, chocolate brown sweater-wearing roommate.  They’re talking about return sister missionaries and laughing.  And he just keeps getting closer and closer to her.  I feel uncomfortable.  And sad.

And then he’s gone.  And so is she.  And it’s a new day entirely.  There’s a little box on her bed, on the top is scrawled, “You choose…” I open the box, and there’re 2 movie tickets inside.  There are also measuring cups, and the ingredients to make chocolate chip cookies.  I snort, and think, “Nice Mike – way to get a girl to make some cookies for you.  Not exactly the most romantic gesture.”  But my heart is hollow, because somehow it is a romantic.  Like he’s just provided some very sensitive additions to an earlier conversation they’d been having.  And she’ll be touched, and happy, and they’ll go out and have a great time, and afterwards they’ll eat chocolate chip cookies.

It's two-thirty in the morning, and I can't sleep. The bane of being a nightshift worker.

Also:
I had a really bad dream
I'm waiting for something to come in the mail - and I'm freaking out about it
I still feel loss over something gone
I had an overwhelmingly emotionally and tiring day of work last night
- that could possibly end in litigation - thanks to a crazy-head wife