Back When I Was Funny...

—02.28.2000—

Lying in bed before falling asleep yesterday evening, I asked for some wisdom, some guidance. I’ve been feeling like I could use it. Then during the night, while traveling in a dream, I ran into a benevolent spirit. Though it’s evening again now, and the memories of last night’s otherworld are nothing but fog and distance, I do remember his suggestion. The one I met said this to me: “You used to be funny. Why don’t you do something with that?”

What do you mean used to be funny? What was he talking about anyway? Doing stand-up? That wasn’t what I was expecting to hear, not that the stuff of dreams ever is. Perhaps I was more funny at home. It must be the language barrier.

Either way, the thought touched in me a moment of fear. Doing stand-up comedy has been a dream. It’s strange the way fear always lies so close to desire. Why do we fear the things we want the most? I suppose we fear for their safety. Oh wickness! I’ve just realized that I’ve internalized the same fears that have been handed down to me! How I hated them when they were pressed down on me. And now I’ve grown numb and do the same. I cradle the things I hold dear, afraid they (or I?) will be crushed if I set them out to find their own way, afraid I won’t be able to bear their loss. In the end though, fear suffocates. Unmanifested, the things we hold dear wither and die from wanting, for our souls breath dreams like air.

Are my difficulties in manifesting still being effected by the hardships of wartime rippling down through the generations? Have the ways of coping with times when dreams were easily crushed under the weight of fascism, uncertainty, and fear been internalized and carried across the globe, tucked into the breast pockets of families like ours?

——

Yesterday I took a more considered approach to the mouse living in the closet and left him a saucer with some water and peanut butter on it. I haven’t heard from him lately though. Perhaps he was just passing through.

—02.29.2000—

Last night, in the otherworld, one of my high school teachers, Mrs. Cussins, spotted me sitting, conspicuously, in her 6C English class. “What are you doing here? I thought you graduated?” I can’t remember how I answered her. I think I offered something about wanting to catch up on the things that I’d missed. Clinging to the blackboard were lists and lists of codes for how to apply to the best colleges. As it turned out I was totally lost and couldn’t find any of my classes for the rest of the day anyway.