I promised here the other day that I wouldn’t be telling people my dreams but after the doozy of a dream I had the other night I had the urge to tell it to everybody I saw the next day, practically. It had plots and subplots, early death, shower scenes. It was like a screenplay by Hitchcock , directed by Martin Scorsese.
I do talk to people more than most folks do – even to strangers – but not about my own stuff and in the end only my poor husband heard that account in full.
No, I don’t bore my family members with my inner thoughts. I save that for my descendants, meaning:
I write a diary.
Here are a couple of pages I’m not necessarily proud of. (The penmanship alone!)
I just riffled through the 2013 diary randomly to find them.
I know it seems like pretty dull stuff.
And yet what is life made up of but the blessed everyday? Who among us, in the moments after the car crash, the fire, the diagnosis, does not bargain hard with the Universe for the clock to be turned back just one hour, just a single hour, God, to return to us to the dear, dull quotidian?