Scimitar and Thread

I just had a dream. It seemed completely meaningless. Then I started picking up patterns. What seemed like a random regurgitation of workplace anxiety was actually… Let me narrate the bits of dream first to help me think.

It was an office. So much organizing, cleaning, voices calling out for deadlines, decisions, office chatter… someone’s personal life things, secretaries complaining, a mess on the lowly executives’ lounge or meeting room… raucous. And I was running around fixing things, getting things done. But there was someone else. Someone actually calling the shots. Telling me what to fix and what to do. And I did it all. Diligently. That’s why when I woke up it felt like a random dream about fragments of the past with no meaning. That is how I function in office jobs. And office jobs can pop up anywhere. Even not in offices. I’ll unpack this in a minute. Let me go to the part of the dream that when I remembered, made me realize it was way more than that.

At one point she was carrying a whole rack of brooms to go clean something up and I was helping her balance the brooms. They started falling anyway, so I went to pick them up. I asked her, awkwardly: balance them yourself a minute because I have to puck up the ones that fell. I crawled under a table. The fallen brooms had become coloring pencils. That’s when, in the dream, I realized I was not calling the shots. Until that point in the dream, I was thinking that because everything around me was a mess and I was cleaning up that I was the hard worker and the one trying to keep things in control. But at that moment, I realized all of the fixing was something I believed in deeply and engaged in with a passion, but the idea never came from me. It always came from that other woman holding the brooms. It always came from someone else.

Very quickly… Another dream, mini dreams from tonight that I’m remembering while writing this. Going around in a tai cab with maybe my parents, maybe friends, maybe a mix. Looking for the event. THe event, as my brain gradually told me, was that at 8pm aliens were gonna make contact. We rode past the building where the contact was gonna take place. We drove on looking for a projection screen. We were now in a bus. STOP!! Someone else yelled when I said we should come down here. I saw the bus stop first. Just a block behind the screen. We got down. It was a bus again.

THen another dream. Just scenes of leaving. Packing for the airport. Weird little things going wrong. Talk of times and when to go. Cats. Logistics. I was going, but I wasn’t. It was this weird go and bounce back feel to it. It wasn’t a goodbye dream, even though I was definitely going.

Then back to the main dream because I remembered something else about it. Next scene, ice was spilled. By a kid maybe. How to pick it up? I wonder if the ice was also something the fallen brooms had turned into. I had an idea. Use the big lid of the blue pot. It was so big. the lid and the pot exit. They’re from somewhere in my life. Maybe they’re in my house right now. I don/t remember. But it was much larger than in real life. I turned the lid upside down to put the ice in it. Arm-fulls. The ice underneath was dirty. Some pop tune playing. Brazilian. The kid dancing. Her dad was there. Encouraging the dance.

That Ladino song is echoing in my head right now. Morenika…. Beautiful. Haunting. Safe.

Time to unpack. But it’s so fun just to tell!! But that’s why I’m here.

First I was afraid to write. I had promised a bit of quiet. Doesn’t this count as making noise? I checked who follows the blog. She doesn’t. At least… oh… maybe google emails don’t show… I don’t know. Fuck it. The decision was that I was gonna write anyway. I promised not to brandish my scimitar let’s hack some tangles. But I didn’t promis silence. I promised giving space, not giving myself up. I was gonna word it as not giving up, but then I self-censored.

Before unpacking. Another thing. The urge to read Byron. I… I like the fun Byron. ALways have. But the romantic crap? I always thought it was atrocious cliche. I mean, Don Juan rocks! Manfred is soo cool! But She Walks in Beauty? Huevon, go fuck yourself. But it’s there. So we’ll Go No More A Rovin started it. THe song version. SO beautiful. FOr the sword outwears the sheath. For the breath outwears the chest. He wrote it about feeling old. I’m craving it for feeling powerless. Here we go. Unpacking time.

Powerless. In the office dream. In the Byron craving. Patience. Follow. THat’s the thing. THe idea to blog this out is to understand how I’m so good at it when it’s work and so absolutely terrible at it when it’s people and feelings. I’m soo willing to serve in my professional persona. ANything you need. Need help? Here. Need me to suspend all of my best interest to help you meet a deadline? DOne. Need me my blood and sweat to execute your project? If I respect you, that’s a done deal. I use dto skip lunch to work on my first office job. Sign of weakness to stop working. A missiong given was a mission accomplished, to quote that.. I think it’s a popular aying, actually. That’s the sense. If I trusted the mission to be worthy, even if it was pragmatically office crap, I’d give every last drop. FOllow a vision. Make it happen.

From that behavior came my academic persona. DO it, do it, do it, do it later into the night than everyone. DO it harder.DO it longer. DO it better. Because the vision took over. I became the bitch of my vision.

ANd now I’m asked to wait. TO have no power to come in swinging and rescue the maiden. I’m supposed to know she and the dragon are sitting face to face and turn my back. SHe doesn’t want to kill the dragon, she wants to untangle it. THe dragon is huge. SHe’s overwhelmed. The Images we come up with. Untangling, weaving, rope making. Her hands must be exhausted. Not must. Are. That’s why I can’t bother her. SHe needs all her enery.

Why is this mission so hard to accept? I trust it. I trust her. WHy don’t I… Because it’s not about I. That’s why. THere’s nothng I can do. My thing with giving myself to the point of death is not selflessness, it’s self-centered. Not in the terrible meaning the word has come to have. But as in, it comes from having a self to give. I know I can, so I do. Here, I have to tke the I out of the equation and watch. Watch as this horrible dragon is slowly unwoven by her. And sh can barely move anymore. But I have to trust that that’s her process.

And she’s so good at telling people no, I won’t help you. Like that day when person texted asking for help and I wanted to jump in and she was like tell him to figure it out.

So we both want a solution that is self-centered. SHe has an easier time tellng me to keep out. I was like that too. Until I needed her help. I’m no longer the person to tell her to keep out. We did that to me.

Oh my. Here’d my dragon to unweave, untangle.

**THis was an utterly unsatisfying post. Left having no idea.**

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