Listening to the Sloth

I mentioned recently that I had a dream where I was at a party and saw a sloth walking around in a diaper, smoking a cig. That image stuck with me for a few days. Sloths are weird creatures; they’re oddly out of proportion, and sssssslow and deliberate in their movements. They’re a combination of profoundly evil and sweet. At the same time. This kind of strange might not have the same effect on others but it freaked me out. In my dream, other people at the party were like Hey, there’s Sloth, what’s he doing here? That question was never answered because right after he turned his head ssssssslowly to look at me, I woke up.

Thank God.

But still, as the days passed, I couldn’t shake the image. Even though I know and believe that things can come to us in dreams that we may not be able to articulate in waking life, I’ve never really studied my own, except as sort of symbolic movies about things that have already happened. I’ve never thought of using them as a sort of map to figure things out and move forward.

I asked my Mom, who has been to a few workshops about dreaming and the meaning of dreams, what she thought it meant. She suggested that I sit in a quiet place, where I wouldn’t be distracted, and talk to this freak and ask him what the hell is going on (but in a loving and kind and non-judgmental way).

So I did.

And yeah, the freak was me, (I knew that, come on) but what he said made enough sense that it made me cry (in a good way), and though I’m not going to tell you what he said (have your own goddam Sloth tell you), I was surprised at the way the response just dropped out, really, without my being aware of what was coming. I felt the way the Evil Queen must have felt when she asked the mirror who was the fairest of all. I took myself by surprise. How often does that happen?

And I realized that this can work with other quandaries or roadblocks: sit quietly and ask the sloth in a diaper, or the old man in a dress, or the baby/acrobat, or yourself, the answer will come.

What You Say About You

Sometimes I think I would like to try a plunge into the icy ocean with the Polar Bear Club.

I had a friend whose father was blind, and he was able to give a description of a person's face and hair color based on hearing their voice and shaking their hand. I don't know if I could do that, but there are definitely things I could know about a person based on sounds they make. Here's a list of sounds a person makes that can give you a little window into his deepest inner self:


Sneezing
Reacting to a stubbed toe in the dark, in the middle of the night, on the way to the bathroom
Drinking water from a water bottle
Eating soup
Driving
Singing along with a group of people
Describing a person you love
Describing a person you hate
Looking at a puppy

Um....

Oddly, I had a high school experience last night while visiting a high school. Dar and I had just walked in and were standing in the entry hall, turning this way and that, as crowds bumped by us. I had the thought, "Well this is strange, no one is here to greet us; where should we go? What are we supposed to do? Is there any sort of order to this?" and then standing there, holding my purse, I suddenly felt like my mother and then her mother and then her mother, ad infinitum, to thousands of years ago when the very first mother took her teen-daughter to visit a new high school: I was not only confused but I was annoying. Good thing for me, I am used to this position. We had a whole silent exchange and acknowledgement and then I gave Dar the "Relax, I know what to do" look. She rolled her eyes and then bowed her head and tensed up, bracing for the mortification to come: I was going to ask for help. I waved to the first adult I saw, a man in a suit, holding a folder.
Excuse me, we don't know what to do here. (and for the record, never use the word "we" to describe your own confusion if there is a teenager standing next to you). We don't know where to go. Are we just supposed to walk around? (and then don't keep saying you don't know what you're doing over and over in a variety of ways).
What program are you applying to?
Drama. (don't answer at the same time as the teen so that you sound like the spooky twins from The Shining)
Oh, well, how about that, my name is Roberto Blagitty Blah III and I am the head of the Drama department. (don't pretend to be impressed) I will be holding a gathering of lovely people (do start to look at the teen from the corner of your eye) in my chambre (do start to stare straight ahead so you don't start laughing). I am also the producer of a film called Shakesperean Balderdash and I'll be sharing about my experience (do look genuinely confused together), and yes I do Know Mr. Ephron personally.
Who?
Zac. (do keep looking confused)
Zac Ephron.
Oooooooh. (do look at teen and nod your heads together. And then Back. Away. Slowly)

Thank god for adults who are bigger idiots than you.

Reposting An Oldie: DILLY DALLY

Before I started working for the private investigator I had an interview on the phone. At the time I thought I was just calling to schedule. I didn’t even know what the job was for exactly, other than “Assistant: must have writing ability and office skills”. He asked me why I thought I’d be good for the job. I said, because I was desperate. He was quiet for long enough to make me feel I had said the wrong thing. 

"How so?" he asked.

“How am I desperate, or how does being desperate make me good for the job?”

“The second one.”

“Well,” I had to make something up, “ it would make me work hard to make sure you felt like you made the right decision hiring someone with no office experience.” I tried to laugh but he was quiet so I had to keep going, ” and also it would make me less afraid of making a wrong choice if I didn’t know what to do.”

“Ok.”

I worried I sounded too much like an ass-kisser waiting for a head-pat, so I said, “But after a while I would probably get more comfortable and slack off.”

It was the end of September, 2001. Rescuers were still searching for bodies in the rubble, I had had a baby 2 months earlier, my children’s father had told me that he was “kind of” seeing someone else, I had no money, my oldest child would soon be driving, and I was living at my mother’s house. I’m not saying these are the reasons I didn’t do a better job of editing myself, but they gave me a different perspective in talking with a stranger.

We set an appointment to meet the next day at his home near the Devon train station. I worried a little about meeting at his “home”, but I didn’t obsess. It was much easier to focus on worrying about childcare and transportation if I actually got the job.

When I checked the computer later though, I found an email from him telling me to just come in to work tomorrow, "Why dilly dally?" he wrote. I would have been more excited except that the last word stopped me in my tracks. Who uses the word dilly dally?

An insane murderer that’s who. I imagined the full scenario of him abusing me, and then cutting off my limbs with a chainsaw and throwing them into a plastic bag.

Dilly dally, dilly dally, DILLY DALLY.

I called my friend Amy to discuss. We agreed that it was possible he was gay though hard to tell because he had been so vague about the job description.

Gay people are not usually vague.

No.

Maybe he’s old fashioned.

We practiced saying the word in an old fashioned way. Tossing it off with a shake of the head.

Maybe he wears spats.

And does the Charleston.

We laughed, and then when it got quiet Amy said, you’re doomed.

…

Che fai? Niente!

It never occurred to me that it was odd that my grandparents slept in separate beds for the entire 26 years I knew them. I did think it was strange that my grandfather slept in a twin size bed smaller than my own: though he was not tall, he was round and heavy, and could not have possibly been able to turn to his right or left side with much ease. But that was the extent of my thought on the matter. To me their marriage was permanent and safe and tidy, unlike that of my parents, which was the exact opposite of each of those things. I also never thought it was strange that my grandfather who was born in Italy and was proud of being Italian, never spoke the language, except for a few phrases here and there, mostly when he was cooking. If I had any thoughts about either of my grandparents, it was just the obvious facts: they both were generous and kind, were meticulous about schedules and routines, wore glasses, had bad breath, and slept flat on their backs, each in their own twin bed, snoring with their mouths open.

My grandfather, who was a law professor as well as the head of his own firm, was also a giggler who could make himself laugh until he had tears talking about silly things like hineys, poops and babies with the hiccups. He loved to sing and even bought a microphone that he'd bust out at parties so people could hear him over the accordian player. He also had a quick temper and could be utterly exasperated at the smallest things, like messes and running. At these times my grandmother would swoop in and usher us into another room before "something horrible" really happened, telling us that Grandpa was tired.

Gampi did teach us one word in Italian, that we would say when he asked us, “Che fai?” (What are you doing?)

“Niente”, (Nothing!) we would yell, and he would laugh until he had to sit down.

This song feels like the kind of song you hear years later when you're driving by yourself and it makes you cry and you don't know why.

Good Boy

I saw this poster yesterday and I love that they refer to him as a handsome dog. It makes him seem sophisticated and intelligent. Look too how he's gazing sadly into the distance, deep in thought about a lost love or fear of getting old. Maybe he's regretting running away from home: it was a bad decision, why am I so foolish? Why is it so hard to stay focused? I'm so easily distracted! Ugh, I hate myself. I really loved that girl and now I've lost her. I should have been more appreciative. Now I'm alone. Alone. Alone. What he's really thinking is: I hope this new guy serves sausage for dinner.