The Projectionist

I am bothered and fraught with bad bothersome fraughtful dreams from which I wake periodically and consider rolling myself out of bed. Nope. Too early. It's Sunday after a dance and I want to heal my body more than I want to avoid the bothersome fraughtness. Eventually my body is uncomfortable from laying in bed and I get up but not before I've had several discussions with the dream projectionist about the current selection.

Speaking of which, who or what is the dream projectionist anyway? Never thought of that before but the image that popped right up is a little old man behind a dusty old projector in a dusty old theater smelling of slightly rancid buttered popcorn (the real stuff, not today's grease) and spilled soda and gum stuck to the bottom of stuffy plush seats some of which have been turned into mouse condos; none of which is unpleasant, by the way. The little old man is not making the selections; he's feeding the reels into the projector as the reels are fed into the room. This sounds about right and now that I've written it I don't think I need to question the gender anymore. I'm OK with that. I do wish he'd turn around and pass back my request for A LITTLE LESS NOISE, PLEASE though. Maybe he did. I slept a long time.

Last night a funny thing happened. I was hungry at about 1:30 in the morning because I didn't eat before dancing and then wasn't hungry until I'd been still for awhile and wandered into the kitchen looking for leftovers. Found a bit of pasta and sauce in a jar and put them together and put the plate in the six year old microwave and before I pushed the buttons I had two thoughts:

1. This particular microwave has at least another two years of life left in it; maybe even three.
2. I wish it would break right this second so I could get one of the few remaining pieces of him out of my house. (he bought the damn thing the same way he bought the television on a whim when we'd agreed not to for the time being and therefore the 'himness' of the damn thing still hung around in my kitchen)

I put the plate in the microwave and closed the door. I touched the one minute button and heard an odd electronic pop and then the fan started up and the carousel went around and the microwave continued to do its thing until the minute was up and I felt up the rotini to test. Still cold. OK, one more minute. Same thing but no pop at the beginning this time. Sauce still cold. Try another 30 seconds. Damn. This thing is dead as a doornail. Pulled the plate out of the box, dumped the contents into a small saucepan and heated it up on the stove top in under a minute (because that induction stove means business).

I killed the microwave. Used to be just streetlamps. I'd be driving on the highway or a side street and suddenly an entire string of the damn things would go out one after another as I drove under them. It was absolutely unnerving for my passengers if they experienced it more than once; I'd gotten used to it. This only happened in times of bothered fraughtness. I have no idea why it stopped. Maybe it didn't. Maybe I just don't notice anymore and there aren't any passengers to be bothered.

I am fraught about the Contra Dance with its diminishing rate of return, internal strife and dependencies that threaten to sink it into oblivion (just my home dance). I am fraught about the finality of the last things I'll be taking back in terms of control of my life and my finances. I am fraught over the uncertainty of my new job; that small bit of administrative surety that ought to exist like company bedrock supporting the business so that it can do it's job or so the new employee can focus on something, anything other than wondering if she is actually an employee at all. How much of this have I caused out of my own panic and fear of absolute change? Possibly quite a bit if you consider the microwave.

I am disaster planning as my first husband used to accuse me on a regular basis. What if this happens? What will we do? We will do this and then this and then this is how we will be alright. Here are all the ways we can fall through the ice and here is how we will survive if we do fall at all these break points. I never understood why he was so upset about all that. He never understood why I insisted on pointing my car toward oncoming traffic when I kept yelling IF I DON'T KEEP AN EYE ON THINGS WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE!!!!!!!!!!!!

So much so much is not the same as too much too much but there it all is anyway. Who the hell do *I* think is feeding the projectionist? He's just taking what comes in the door I suppose. The Lizard is in the basement hyperventilating. For those of you with Lizards that are periodically out of hand it's really very helpful if you just get YOUR heart rate up higher than the Lizard for an extended period of time. You win, the Lizard looses and sits down for a sulk. Endorphins: Your best friend.

This occurs to me:

If I don't settle down and breathe pretty soon I'm going to be blowing up a lot more than small appliances. That would be bad.

Comments

[Jerry Critter]

You must have a touch of Voodoo in you. Remind me not to piss you off.

[Cielo]

Just think, with our combined power over electricity etc....we could rule the world. Or at least our own little corners. Unfortunately I have zero FOCUS, nor is there any way my heart rate will overtake my lizard's. Could someone please point me in the general direction of the locked glass doors?