Funch

Interestingly enough*, Dear C and I were lunching today (because nobody spends their afternoons playing cops and robbers anymore. We all job and work and school in our afternoons. Lunch. We all do lunch. Fun lunch, aka: Funch) and we talked about how even we feminists (we're both strong and devotedly feminist and maninist) who are wildly amazing and independent and accomplished find ourselves quickly falling into being the adoring significant other. Not that adoring isn't bad, but it is when you slip out of being you and having your life and there's something precious that you compromise and you lose.

What is it that I lose? What's that word for what it is? I'm not talking about virginity or something physical like that. There's no wall of Jericho that comes tumbling down, there's no boundary that is crossed, no rules that are broken, it's an essence that slips through my fingers and leaves that gross feeling afterwards.

It is somehow related to the times when I'm interested in someone and my mind gets fogged up so that when he calls me and asks me to spend the evening with him I say yes and forget that I have friends and deadlines and to do lists and personal wishes.

I feel silly even trying to write about it because...I've found no words. Is there scientific proof that says we don't always think in words? Because I find always find myself struggling as I delve at cliffs of thoughts or maybe it's not like digging granite out of a quarry but more like clay. Sly smooth cool clay.

Oh dear, I'm still talking. Typing, I mean. And does the meaning come out? Hmmm...

Also, it turns out that I'm not the only one struggling from terrible dreams. I was watching my cousin's five year old, Dear Monstruo Uno, and the neighbor boy we were playing with noticed my earrings one day.

"Are those spiderwebs on your ears?"

"No, they're dream catchers."

"What are those?"

The conversation stuck with Monstruo Uno who asked my cousin for one to keep his nightmares away. She tried to explain...well, anyway, if you've been to a family dinner you can imagine how something so simple ended up involving P Diddy and God and cultural insensitivity and distinguishing the differences between Spanish cuisine and Mexican cuisine. So no dream catcher. And I don't have one either, really (a dream catcher).

I started thinking about the discussions I've had with people about my dreams. What I really wish could happen is that what Friend R--I sound communist, let's just call him Comrade R. Comrade R suggested imagining a beautiful mythical bird. Actually it was more simple when he was describing it and more beautiful. I should have written it down. But it was that tactic that people always suggest, put something into your dream, something good, to save you from the nightmarish parts. It's never worked form me in fact they turn out worse because then something good is ruined. But all the same, I'd like to explain this magical little trick to my dear Monstruo Uno because maybe it will work for him. And maybe if I imagine it will work for him it will work for me.

*I decided in trying to write a reply to a seven page letter from someone in Denmark that it is sometimes better to start as if you're in the middle of the conversation.