I had more crazy dreams last night. Our apartment had been moved two doors down. There was a hole in the bathtub, and a secret room. I was on the run from some people who were trying to shoot me, but I’d occasionally stop to make myself a sandwich.

I often dream of secret rooms, and I’ve been told that these are hidden parts of my conscience that I need to explore. The hidden room in this particular dream was filled with children’s toys, and then it led to a long hallway in some kind of warehouse.

There was another part of the dream that involved several different trips in different airports. First, I was going to Orlando, and there was this bus I had to take to some airport out in the boonies near Pensacola, which is nowhere near Orlando, btw. And in the bus, both ways, I was behind this fat kid in a weird, furry hat who struck me as somewhat effeminate.

Then I was supposed to go to Birmingham, and M was with me, but we missed the plane, along with several other people. Helicopters showed up to transport everyone else, but we were left behind, presumably because I didn’t ask the airport staff the right question. And that fat kid in the hat was there again also.

This is all similar, in ways, to the Fisher King myth, which I was reading up on yesterday and trying to incorporate a little more into ZMS 3.

Since I’ve been on the antidepressant, I sleep more, and I’m remembering my dreams more. Much like I used to when I was a teenager. I wonder what this is bringing up for me. It seems like something I’ve long neglected. I did find a shrink to see, but I won’t have my first appointment until Feb. 1. In the meantime, I suppose I’ll be able to explore these questions a little more deeply at that point.



I have no progress to report, either emotionally or literarily. The heat wave hasn’t helped.

I feel like I’m always making excuses for why I’m not writing. I have too much other work to do. It’s too cold. It’s too hot. I’ll be able to concentrate once the stress of moving is over. Every excuse feels real at the time.

Truth is, when I look at my work on paper, I’m so hypercritical of myself that I get discouraged. That seems to be the main problem. To get anything done, I have to get beyond that. Anything that’s weak can be fixed later. The important thing is to get it done! Damn it!

Really, it’s like I’m cursed.

Anyway. I’m in the middle of a musical project. I was asked to write a theme song for a children’s traffic safety program using the catch phrase, “STOP (See The Other People).” I asked George to write some lyrics, which he did, and I set it to music easily after tweaking the words only slightly. I need to record it this weekend.

Meanwhile, I can’t stop thinking about sex. I have all these stories about sex, and when I start editing them, I get all worked up.

A Little Disappointing

I’m very depressed today, but I’ve found that whenever I look under the depression or the anger, it’s really about fear. The fear I’m feeling is largely about my creative life, as it almost always is. I’m afraid that I’m really not good enough, that I’ll never produce anything really worthwhile. In a more general sense, it’s a fear that I’ll never DO anything really worthwhile, that everything is basically pointless. It’s a standard, run of the mill, existential crisis, and to be honest, that realization is a little disappointing.