It's late. But once again, I'm still up. I don't know if I mentioned it or not, but about a week ago or so maintenance put bird guards up on the porch eaves to stop the finches from nesting. Well, It didn't stop them. They're building their nest IN the bird guard. Oy.

I woke up feeling kind of bad because of a dream about W. Here is what I wrote to him.

I had a dream about you. I was in your room, but the window we once made love in front of was on the other side of the room. You stood gorgeous before me. I wanted nothing but to hold you again; you wanted nothing more than to avoid holding me. I noticed that all of my papers were strewn about your floor. I started looking for something I wrote. Soon I was looking to find my truth in your room, but couldn't find it. And I got mad at the phone, the one you broke, because it kept ringing. And ringing. I asked you who it was. You said it was nobody. Suddenly, in French, her voice left you a message. I could not decipher her words and grew angry with you. "You have a girlfriend," I said, "don't you"? You denied having one repeatedly, and then I found her naked silhouette in a b&w photo on your floor in between my writings. When the phone rang again, I picked it up. She asked who I was with her thick accent. I said, "nobody, apparently" and handed the phone to you and told you, "here, it's Nobody, your girlfriend", and I left.

There are a few aspects that I do think are interesting: the fact that *my* writings were all over *his* room. I was looking for my truth in those writings, in his room, or maybe it was the truth of myself in him�I don't know, but those aspects were represented in the dream by my writings, which were literally scattered everywhere on loose-leaf pages. Both of us females were nobody's, which is really how he treats his girlfriends. The phone he broke not being broken in my dream. (He smashed it to pieces in real-life after getting rejected for the airplane loan he eventually got). It made me feel better that he didn't answer it for her either, because the dude knows how many times I've called him and the bastard never picks up.

W only responded that I have obvious have issues I have to get over. He totally missed the point though�I'm trying to find my truth in him.

I talked to Josh who was having a meltdown before, and partly because of, me. I know I have zero self-esteem. He knows it too. This causes friction when he wants me to believe that I'm a worthwhile person despite having no friends here, despite having no life, despite not being able to function outside longer than, oh, a few hours. Don't get me started on the way my mom treats me� But yeah, it was really sweet when Josh was at his wits end with me practically yelling in the web-cam that he loves me, and reasons why he does. It made me wish, for the 5,459th time, that he was here instead of in Canada.

I read a few articles online about Sylvia Plath and Carson McCuller's works. They were filled with gratitude in the newly gained perspectives. Part of why I fear writing is because, since starting school, I've grown terribly afraid that no one really understands the point of reading anymore. This would make it pointless to write the descriptive way that I do, and I'm already pointless enough in general. Ip, slight correction for Josh: My life is already pointless enough in general. I want to make use of my time and do things that mean something, as much as I'm able, which is not much. Because as much as many of my friends have told me that I need to just write for myself and screw what anyone else thinks, I can't. I don't write that way. I'm a drama queen, and I write the way Norma Desmond lived�to all those wonderful people out there in the dark. I'd write to my former classmates, but God knows that most of the people I've been in class with don't read, not even their textbooks. I could possibly write to an audience of B, my former and hopefully soon-to-re-be English teacher. She would be thrilled at that, as she is more a fan of my writing style than anyone I know. She literally beams at the mere mention of possibly receiving something I've written. She also knows what real literature is. And REAL literature is not a cheap $5.00 romance novel; it is Anais Nin, and H.G. Wells; it is Robert Heinlein, and Tolkien and God, next to none of my classmates knew what an orc is. They did, at least, know what a hobbit is, though I doubt they know the wonderous details of their domesticity and seed cake-loving character as well as I do�

So, I got about a large paragraph written tonight, single-spaced, and it's choppy, and it's a definite draft, but there are rather lovely parts to it. It's about the writer's (my) experience of writing. I guess I'll see where it goes. If it goes anywhere at all.

~e