I don't remember where we were heading, except that it was out. The sky was overcast with thick clouds of smoke, an apathetic grey intermingled with factory colored plumes. The sun long hid. Bomb residue.
It's funny, looking back, at how we were going the speed limit. We thought we had time. We thought they were bombing at a distance, and plowed along through the drab landscape.
And that's when the sky suddenly lit up—bright as day, a warning flash, an all encompassing spark that heralded the oncoming nuclear bomb. It hadn't hit yet, and we suddenly slammed on the gas.
But how do you outrun a nuclear bomb heading in your direction?
Every stage flashed before me—but very abbreviated and altered stages of grief, not stages of my life. A brief denial, hoping that we could still somehow evade the oncoming warp. Complete terror at what may happen as the bomb exploded somewhere in the distance in another blinding flash. And then acceptance. Well, shit, if I'm going to die, what can I do and why freak out about it? ...And if I survive, even mutated, well, that's what's going to happen.
Of course, that's when I woke up.
I can't tell if I've been getting restful sleep in all of this. But if I can process the fear out of something like this, even if in my sleep, then maybe it's not such a bad thing, after all.
It's just especially disturbing because I can't recall any dreams I've ever had that hinted at global demise, as opposed to my own. And for some reason, death is rarely the root of my worries in these instances even if I'm dying.
Being really busy distracts me from outside thoughts, but I think it's actually a good thing since I tend to organize my free time better if I'm working. At the same time, with this particular job I took on I have so much to think about that it gives me restless sleep, and I tend to forget to eat during the day because so much has to be done. I'm not liking the path that's going down, but on the other hand I've put myself to bed when tired.
The job I took on is at my many-times previous employer, a community and housing nonprofit, of various positions to help internally relocate and renovate the staff on site. It's really been 30+ years since the main office has been updated, and now much of the renovation is urgent. With some major deadlines included. In short, much juggling of information and needs that grow daily, and all the responsibility of organizing it and putting the plan I set in motion forward. This is my second week on the job, and it encompasses nearly all my thoughts. I'm a little tired, and don't remember what I spent my time doing by the end of the day, but have a list to organize for the following days by that point. I am literally kept so busy that I don't have time to think as I go, just think about what I am currently doing.
The graphic design work for this same place is at completion; I just need to confirm and see the printing through, and get my last check.
To take away from all the stress, and to get our laundry done, Jon and I went back to my parents' house this weekend and last week to take Pavlov out. It's not unusual, but we took him down to the cliff beach again to enjoy the weather, where we came across a dead sea lion someone tried to bury, and hung out drawing pictures in the sand.
shocking how the waves
break and spray
scatter pieces of direction every which way;
a road map torn of determined hands, confetti for confusion
and only freer when the route now taken
is the route made
This part of town is post-industrial: all the old warehouses that border the residential strip—a main road sets the boundaries parallel some blocks down—are now offices, and the majority of people bustling about are today's up-and-comers. Flowers line the sidewalks, not far away is a community garden, and real estate is turned around, one house into two flats the going rate, while original residents are turned out...yessir, gentrification and progress.
That is the setting, these are the people: a pair, man and woman, returning from or leaving for their lunch break. They walk a brisk, predetermined beat, the no-nonsense pacing of experienced team members in a firm, of young professionals, of executive hopefuls. So quickly they trot past in their "casual" rolled-up collared shirts that they barely leave enough for me to go on, but enough it is, enough for you to understand so much of them with so little:
"This is the boss." It's a question from him, but he states it.
She shakes her mane unnecessarily, for emphasis. "...Yeah, the bitch-boss didn't respond to the email I sent her..."
Trottrottrot.
Ringing ears are no longer appreciated. Whether related or not, I've been feeling strange sensations from between my shoulder blades up to the base of my neck, and this plus the squishing where my head meets my neck gives me unpleasant swells of nausea. Since waking.
Upon visiting a pulmonary specialist a week ago, I have, once again, been diagnosed with being asthmatic. Only. Which increasingly had become less reassuring with previous and consecutive visits to the health clinic, but has finally put me at ease of mind. The downside is that I am pretty much susceptible to (or at least, in the past five months, which seems indicative of years to come) having my asthma triggered by bullshit.
This may strictly pertain to having spent time living in the city, but it's not the first city I've lived in full of exhaust fumes. And apparently I am allergic to much more than I have ever possibly imagined. Unsurprisingly. Either way, a good dosage of budesonide corticosteroid has me gag/phlegm/gasp/wheeze free. Since the day I started taking it. Considering that it's been nigh impossible for me to breathe like a normal person the past five months, this means a lot to me. I definitely do not take the act of breathing for granted.
It also means I can run around as much as possible. Being on-and-off, heavily-winded sick for five months can really turn muscle into cushion. I exaggerate, but barely.
Last night was toiling at the stove for a shot at real red beans and rice (+++++). I feel like I should have taken the celery and bell pepper out after frying and returning them closer to the end of the cooking time; they pretty much mushed into the sauce. But the flavor was great, and the texture otherwise excellent.
This morning? "Blueberry Boy Bait"/blueberry coffee cake (+++++). It tastes great, but I am never going to use two sticks of butter again. I light and airy crumb; it was "light" but more like an oily, airy sponge. Blah.
A-and Beginner's Bread, which worked up in a cinch but came out a little dense (+++++). This was entirely my fault, though, because I wasn't checking in on it when it rose. It's a lot warmer in my sister's apartment (especially with the gas stove/oven) than I'm accustomed to for baking yeast-included recipes, so the dough rose at a phenomenal rate. The crumb's stretched to hell and back, but it managed to maintain a healthy crust and decent texture. It's pretty plain bread, though, and you can make at least two loaves out of one packet of yeast, so I don't think I'll be likely to make it again any time soon, not without finagling with the ingredients.
After spending so many hours in the kitchen, I'm about ready to eat leftovers and lie down.
Twenty hours later and I still hear the residual ringing in my ear.
The Japanther show was awesome. Except for the obnoxious violent/superdrunk-moshing assholes of both sexes.
Also, Snow Crash by Neal Stephenson is an excellent book with ripping, violent style. Refreshing, after all this other reading I've been slogging through.
