I am in an orangey brown touring bus, the color of 70s orange décor. At the front, between the driver and the door, is my mother, sprung ready to strike. Whenever I look out from behind the orange partition, she spews forth with “why do you have to be better than us”, “why can’t you just accept things”, “you’re too sensitive for your own good”, “don’t get between me and my religion or you’ll lose every time.” They are spit as indictments. I finally make a mad rush for the front and she holds to the front with her arms and kicks me back.
I am going back and forth between my old apartment with the ceiling falling in, bed on the floor, rags for curtains, and a new three story apartment in white, with a piano in a music room on the second floor and a round room with lots of light for thinking on the third. A poor couple in dire circumstances are happy to have the old apartment. Mary and Joseph? The new apartment has a party with so many thin strangers in cocktail wear wandering around, telling me what a fantastic find the apartment is. It’s very scary, all these people, and I can’t escape as I wander through them for geological eras. They are even on the third floor.
Eat. Little Debbies.
I am between wake and sleep, that nowhere greyness you never quite wake up from. After a few hours, I am too exhausted, and must sleep again. I re-read Jung’s Memories Dreams Reflections. I care less and am polite. The old memories only bother me when I sleep. It is agreed I am better. I think of a chemical lobotomy or the old sterilizations. Were they to save the world from the children of intellectually challenged women, or to hide their rapes?