I had a really vivid dream last night that I met Jimmy Page. For real. It was at a party, and he sat down at the table I was at and some people were talking to him. It was a casual party with people he knew, so nobody was fawning over him. I practiced looking cool and when it was just he and I at the table, I asked him if I could ask him a couple of questions. He looked guarded, as I’m sure he’s constantly being bothered, but said ok after looking me in the eye. And I said, “Did Nudie make the dragon suit, and do you still have it?” And his ears perked up. He held my gaze and said, “Which one,” which was an EXCELLENT response, and I said, “The white one, of course.” And then we were off. He laughed, and he said he still had the black one, but he doubted he could fit into it, and wanted to know if I knew Nudie. And then we were off, chatting about everything in the band’s history. His mastering of various albums, the development of his particular guitar technique, and all the accoutrements of the progression of girls, all the way back to Lori and Miss Pamela, clothing, venues and concerts. We talked for a long time in my dream. I didn’t clutch him and beg him to drag me away with him, which I was surprised about in the dream, and actually really enjoyed the conversation and the time we spent. I woke up pleased that I had gone to bed early, since the dream went on for what seemed like a long time. But damn, it was so vivid. Every detail alive. Insane.
That was the high point of clarity in my day today, sadly. Tonight, my son insisted I had already read him a book about Star Wars that we had in his stack of books from the library. I flipped through it, no recollection of having read it to him. All the books he is into now have myriad names that are almost impossible for me to pronounce on first glance. Japanese warrior names in Ninjago, weird stuff in knight books, futuristic books, Ninja turtle friends, and now the Star Wars stuff. He had to go get the sheet we keep for school that tracks what books we’ve read to him each night to prove we had read it before, and there it was, in my own handwriting.
This is a by-product of me being very, very tired and very, very stressed. Shit drops out and it’s just not there in the short-term memory bucket. I took movies back to the wrong library again recently, despite best efforts to keep things separate and remember which books and movies go where. Stress at work this week has been off the charts. And management at my apartment complex sent me a letter basically telling me they aren’t fixing anything else for me, and if I don’t like living here, maybe I should find somewhere else to live. And court in just a few more days. A confluence of events. An imperfect storm; nothing perfect about it. Beltane, and the earth vibrating with energy, pouring out sunshine today, and full moon on its heels and all I could do at lunch was sit on a chair on the back deck at work and stare, my mind a hurricane with the peace physically surrounding me, birds chirping and sun beating down.
There’s a lot to keep track of and do this month. Swim lessons start up for the kid again tomorrow. Maybe soon he will actually learn how to swim. It’s an excruciating process to be there watching your kid struggle with a stranger in the water. But I can’t not watch. And I need to go to the place I’m going to order his birthday cake and talk to them about the party, which I want them to cater, if I can swing it. I’ve spent an enormous amount of money the last couple of years buying food for his parties, and all the running around to different stores and buying trays and such. This year I’m going to have someone else do it, for pretty much the same cost. My Mom asked me today, “Are you going to do this, like, every year, until forever?” As if my kid having a birthday party every year with his extended family and a few close friends (and I mean very few; 2 or 3) is a complete over-indulgence, like I’m having Skrillex and Paris Hilton DJ it and all the attendees get a pony. It made me angry. I have one kid, it’s once a year, and all the other kids in his extended family get a party, and so does my kid. If I have to eat a few more beans for a couple of months to make it happen, I don’t give a shit. Good thing I didn’t tell her we have to bring in something for all the other kids in his class on his birthday too, lest we be “that family” that doesn’t send anything. I grew up being “that family” and I don’t want that for my kid. He’s different enough already, with his Cheetos-free lunch and such, you know?
But I’m ragged. Worn. And heading into what will likely be a hard month. I’ve gotten more invitations to parties, showers, people’s shows and group dinners than I could possibly ever have money or time enough to attend, and I’m just trying to keep my hysteria from bubbling over, keep from feeling like I suck at life and I’ve accomplished nothing.
My friends have already been put on notice they will be leaned on this month, hard, for their various specialties and capabilities. There is light on the horizon, blue and gold and pink. I just need to drag myself over the razor wire fence to get to it.