Last night I dreamed I was in Paris.

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Last night I dreamed I was in Paris. Mark and I were walking down a street and we kept laughing. I don’t remember why. We’ve never been to Paris, but when I woke up, I started to think that maybe we should visit Paris. I haven’t been there since the 80s. It was there that I discovered Bukowski.

I dream almost every night. I have the usual dreams: Flying and riding horses. The funny thing about dreams is that it’s all very real when you are there. And there aren’t any big words. There’s no peace, love, harmony, victory. There is only action. One acts in dreams. One lives a life of the body not a life of the mind.

Christmas is coming in two weeks. We are finished shopping, but we haven’t wrapped anything. I am not terribly fond of the wrapping. I try to cheer myself up by drinking wine while I wrap, but it’s not easy. I’m not very good at wrapping; I’m kind of sloppy. Every year I try to be better. I don’t use brown wrapping paper or ghetto bows or anything, I just kind of whip it all together. I’m also not terribly fond of decorating the house with Christmas stuff. I really like it being done. By someone else. Hopefully my husband. I can’t seem to think about how it’s all supposed to look or where things are supposed to go. But when it’s all done, I like the look of it.

We have the Christmas party this Saturday and then some time at the beach before the family arrives for Christmas and then we go off to Nebraska.

I like having the lights on the house; it feels happy. The holidays are a good time if your children love you and are around to hang out with you. Hopefully we’ll skype with my son in Australia on Christmas Day although where he is it will be the day after Christmas.

The good thing about being a writer is that you always have a story going around in your head. The bad thing about being a writer is that you always have a story going around in your head.

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Published in: on December 11, 2013 at 8:21 pm  Leave a Comment  
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