Personal Pieces postsSunday September 06, 2015
Dreamin' World War III Blues
Some time ago a crazy dream came to me
I dreamt I was walkin' into World War Three
-- Bob Dylan, “Talkin' World War III Blues,” 1963
That was my dream last night. Not fun.
I dreamt I was in my apartment in San Diego (disclosure for those who don't know me: I live in Seattle, and have never been to San Diego). There were rumors about a possible nuclear attack, which I didn't believe. But in bed, I heard and then saw a giant mushroom cloud appearing over the Pacific shore; then another, then another. It was the end. My life was over; I would die. I closed my eyes and braced myself for the inferno and for whatever happened after that. Would I just cease? Would something else happen? I waited and wait and yet remained alive. But wouldn't that be worse? Wasn't that what John Hershey wrote in “Hiroshima”? Those who didn't die immediately, died from radiation a few days, or weeks, or months later, their skin peeling away? My skin felt warm but somehow I stayed alive.
I went outside and joined a group of people wandering. People were hooking up—trying to get in one last bit of pleasure before the end. A woman on a streetcar was separated from a man running alongside it, and I helped him on board to unite them.
I was with three younger people who were going to sit at a low table and eat Mexican food. It was in front of two big picture windows and didn't look safe if more bombs came, so I began to walk back to my apartment. I felt like I should let family know I was still alive. I felt like I should talk to them one last time, if this was the end.
At a cavernous train station, I ran into Pres. Obama, who was on the phone and seemed to be fending off accusations; he seemed to be politicking. The train station was almost empty and he didn't have any security detail. Donald Trump was there, too, quiet and serious, and seemed more helpmate than rival.
When I got home and to my cellphone again, it wouldn't work. Because it had been damaged or because the lines were jammed?
Anyway, I was happy to wake up from that dream.
Do Editors Dream of Fixing Quotes About Sheep?
A lot of odd dreams last night including one in which I came across a quote carved into the sidewalk in, I believe, London. A public art kind of thing. My dream self had heard the quote before, and I'd attributed it to Bill Bryson, the author of “A Walk in the Woods,” but on the sidewalk it was attributed to J.R.R. Tolkien? Really? I thought. Tolkien?
It was a quote about a medieval period in England in which the rulers were hoping to better educate the public (so right away you know it's a dream), but they couldn't figure out how. The peasants and farmers weren't interested. But it was a somewhat prosperous period, or maybe there were fewer wars or a greater sense of rule of law, because the sheep farms began to grow. The farmers began to get more and more sheep. And as they accrued more and more sheep to their respective farms, they needed to be able to count them all, to keep tracked of what they owned. And that's when they became interested in education—or at least math.
The quote went something like:
They tried to teach them about sheep but they learned arithmetic.
That quote doesn't quite go with the story above, and in my dream I may have been turning it over to try to make it better. Yes, editing even in my dreams. When I woke up I checked to see if there was such a quote about sheep and arithmetic but couldn't find anything.
Happy Anniversary to Me
I arrived in Seattle 24 years ago today. I'd been bouncing around from place to place since graduating from the University of Minnesota in 1987—Taipei, Minnesota, New Jersey, Minnesota, Taipei—and wanted something new. I wanted the states but not Minnesota (too familiar), nor the east coast (too rushed), nor the South or Southwest (too racist/hot, respectively). Plus my sister was here. Our stays overlapped by a day but she gave me connections; she set me up with her friends.
The nice thing about moving to a new place is how all your senses come alive. Everything is new and thus memorable. I remember my first few weeks well: the long walks in search of a place to live, and a job, and a thing to write on. I remember being surprised by how early Seattle shut down. Taipei was a 24/7 city while Seattle turned off at 9 PM. I was amazed by the lush gardens and landscaping and fresh air but was surprised by how long it took for the city to warm up. It was mid-June and still in the 50s and raining? The fuck? I would get used to Seattle's seasons soon enough. Other aspects of Seattle never warmed up.
A few months after I arrived, I published my first piece in Seattle Weekly, called “All I Want is a Room Somewhere,” about the travails of the Seattle housing search: run-down rooms and shared-housing interviews. But I quickly began to make, if not enemies, at least unfriends. I thought honesty and insight (or “insight”) was a good way to impress, which shows how young I was. I also didn't know how much of an insular town Seattle was; how incestuous.
But I found a place to live, then another, then another. Seattle allowed me time to heal, even as it opened new wounds. There were plenty of opportunities in Seattle in the '90s but I missed most of them. I wrote about that, too, after many of them went away.
It's been 24 years but my view of Seattle hasn't changed much. I still find it a naturally beautiful place that we haven't done much to improve. But it's home. For now. I guess I still feel that, too. “For now.”
My Gay Talese Story
A friend pointed me toward Gay Talese's article in the New York Times today about Selma and its aftermaths, and it led me to relay my Gay Talese story, which has nothing to do with Selma (I was 2 at the time), but which some might find interesting nonetheless.
I think it was 1991 or '92. I'd just moved to Seattle and was working part-time as a cashier at University Book Store when a dapper man walked in and asked to see the store manager. I said I didn't know who that was. I think I was thinking, “General books manager? Personnel manager? Overall store manager?” He started to tease me. “You work here and you don't know who your manager is?” As he was saying this, though, I realized who he was, and he realized I realized. “You're Gay Talese,” I said. “Yes, I'm here to sign some books.” As I led him back to where the managers' offices were, I told him, “I just read your piece in [some university review I've since forgotten]. I liked it.” Then I blushed. Not because he was famous but because I was lying. I hadn't really thought much of the piece. But I delivered him to the General Books manager and walked back to my post, admonishing myself about blushing. I told myself never to blush again. About 10 minutes later, he came back out, and, before leaving, made a point of stopping by my post to shake my hand. Which, of course, made me blush all over again. Lesson unlearned.
Actually there are lessons from this story:
- Always tell the truth, kids.
- If you work in a bookstore and don't know the managers, at least know visiting authors on sight.
I went to see the doctor today for chest pains. Basically, my heart felt constricted. Since Monday, it's kept me up at night, and felt painful whenever I coughed. So you worry a bit.
Turned out to be nothing. Probably a virus, inflammation of the lungs, maybe some acid reflux, exacerbated by asthma.
Since I made the appointment this morning, I went to see the GP on duty, and mentioned that I'd had a stress test a few years ago and did OK on it. She looked it up and said, “More than OK. You were super normal.”
“Above average for your age.”
I like that. Super normal. It almost sounds like I'm really, really normal. I'm so normal I'm super normal.
It wouldn't make a bad modern superhero. Jason Lamb, maybe we should work on that.
The original Super Normal.