sound and fury (signifying nothing)

I’m really not one of those people who attaches mystical meaning to dreams. However, I do appreciate the ones I have, because I love the power of imagination. Being asleep frees you of the conventions and restrictions that everyday life places on you. So while I don’t take fragments of mine and look them up in books or give a damn about the hidden meanings (“ooh, the moon is a symbol for fertility!”), I do tend to hang onto them and try to figure out why I had them.

Last night, I finished Nineteen Minutes. That’s a record for me, finishing a 450-something-page novel in two days. I’m really not even much of a novel person these days – I tend to veer more towards nonfiction and social commentary. I ordered it because I thought it would be compelling. It’s about a school shooting, the events leading up to it, and the aftermath.

I guess I’m sick to think that would be interesting reading, but if so, so is Jodi Picoult for writing it. I suppose part of it is that I don’t understand that kind of social tension. Perhaps I’m unusual, or went to a one-in-a-million high school, but I just don’t remember that kind of strife happening at TR. I wasn’t popular, by any means, but everybody knew me, and most people thought I was pretty smart. I didn’t suffer for being intelligent, though. I could feel at ease with just about anybody, and there was none of the worry I’d had in sixth grade, when a girl named Latasha made it her personal mission to torment me (calling me a Nazi because of my German ancestry was the least of it); or the anxiety I suffered every day of eighth grade, because I left lunch early every day to go to French I, and every day I convinced myself that I had gotten my period without knowing it, and everyone in the lunchroom could see it on my rear end. (At that point I still hadn’t gotten mine yet, and in fact had very little idea how any of that plumbing worked, so I didn’t realize that, when I got it, I’d be able to tell.) If I could sympathize with anyone (as much as mass killers can be sympathized with), it’d be a middle-school shooter. The only one I know about offhand is Jonesboro.

Here’s the thing about Nineteen Minutes: it was written in a style that’s rather similar to my own. Rough. Unrefined. It read a little like a first draft, which is really the only kind of draft I’ve ever written. I don’t know if that’s just how Picoult writes, or if it was done on purpose, because the end effect of that was that the only character I really gave a damn about was Peter, the shooter. When (oh yeah, spoiler alert) he kills himself after being convicted of eight counts of first-degree murder, I was sorry to see him go. So this was either a master stroke on the author’s part, or just happy accident. If it’s the latter, I’m just mad. I should get paid to fuck up so grandiosely.

Speaking of tormented youth, and the reason I ostensibly opened this document, I dreamed last night that I was talking to who I thought was one of the characters in the book: a blond, beautiful, popular girl named Courtney. In the book, Courtney (and her friends) are mercilessly cruel to Peter; in my dream, she had focused her sights on the sister that I had stopped worrying about a long time ago. She drew mean caricatures of Torrey, called her names, destroyed her things. I sat down with her and talked to her, trying to find out why she had it in for my sister, and I don’t remember what I said, but she changed her tune completely. It felt sincere, not suck-up-like.

I lay awake for a few minutes, thinking about it. How I had pretty much written off Torrey years ago, because her life is so far beyond repair that the only thing that’ll set it right is a stint in a correctional facility. How, when someone else is focusing on her, I came to her rescue, like a good sister is supposed to do. How I had been doing kind of a shitty job at being a good sister to anyone recently.

And then I realized that this Courtney wasn’t a girl who decided to make Torrey a target – she was the girl Torrey could have been. How things might have turned out if mine and Alicja’s relatively good fortune had been passed along to the younger two, or just skipped us entirely. I’m not sure if this means that there’s something I can do, that it’s not entirely out of my reach, or if everything’s irreparable.

Music: Muzak

I think I figured out what the problem is. It’s not karma, it’s the Revenge of the Right. A harrowing tale in which the dominant side of my body exacts revenge on the other side for stealing so much attention recently with sciatica and a badly sprained ankle.

It almost let me sleep the whole night through, though. But this morning, when I pulled off the bandage, it looked worse than ever, almost as though it’s starting to become necrotic. This, needless to say, is just perfect.

I suppose it could be worse. I dreamed last night that I was walking the yard of a neighbor known for being a drug addict (in TR, not here), and the driveway and yard were liberally sprinkled with used hypodermic needles. I pricked my foot without realizing it, and later when I sat down, I felt the blood trickling out. It’s weird that I’d be afraid of getting a needlestick, when I really deal very little with needles. All I’m allowed to do are finger pricks on ostensibly healthy people. Of course, it’s possible that one day my thoroughness (okay, spade = spade, it’s really overcompensation, and a desperate effort for people that I work with to like me despite the fact that I’m a total and complete moran) will one day lead me to try and close a sharps box that’s been stuffed to the brim and get a poke in the meantime.

(What I don’t understand is why I get pulled aside for so many things, ranging ones that I feel are legitimate to things that I feel are… well, not, like overdocumentation, yet I constantly notice that sharps boxes are way more than the 75% full that requires them to be closed and changed. A lot of times, it’s jammed with snarls of tubing, which makes me wonder, why don’t they seal off only the inch or two that’s attached to an actual sharp, and throw the rest in the bio-trash? But I’m just a stupid newbie, so I’m sure there’s a reason that this is not the standard practice.)

That wasn’t even the worst part of the dream. I also had one where I was pregnant, and by poking on my stomach, I could get the fetus to flip upside down. When it came out, its eyes were too small for its sockets. It freaked me out. And it wasn’t even my baby – for some reason, I was carrying it for Rebecca, who had her baby about three months ago.

This, I’m sure, was triggered by the fact that I’m going back up to the clinic today and will likely see her. And the fact that I dealt with a similar situation yesterday (recent pregnancy). Apparently, the woman has to have taken the baby for its six-week checkup before she is eligible to donate blood again, which a) nobody fucking bothered to tell me beforehand, and b) makes me wonder what the requirement is for women who are six weeks past a miscarriage, abortion, or had the baby but gave it up for adoption.

It is a good question to keep in mind and ask, but everyone’s so damned busy. I guess it’s for the best, though, because severe understaffing is the only reason an idiot like me still has a job there.

Music: Feist – 1234

Myself and this town are no exception.

For the past half-hour, I’ve had my hand stuck so far into the garbage disposal that I feel I ought to have bought it a few drinks first. And that’s not even the most disgusting thing I’ve done today.

My immune system, having been so faithful and obedient for most of my 25 years on this planet so far, is rebelling like a Catholic teenager at her first kegger. There’s some sort of infected cyst or insect bite on my person, and as if for reasons of punishment, it’s situated for maximum discomfort whether I’m sitting, standing, or walking. The only time it’s not making me extremely uncomfortable (that’s nurse-speak for “fucking ow”) is when I’m riding in one of the donor recliners on the four-bed bus. Of course, it’s not entirely certain whether that’s because the seat is positioned in a way so as to take most of the pressure off the offending area, or because when I’m riding in that bus, I’m so worried that the back half of it is going to break off and go scraping and rattling into a ravine that it totally takes my mind off the pain.

Speaking of that funwagon, I keep getting put on mobiles in that bus. I’ve been inside one of the bigger buses, but never worked in it. Here’s a thought – it works okay for smaller gigs, like the one in the teeming metropolis of Gore, Oklahoma (population 900, at least until the McClendons moved away), but I think on any drives where we’re aiming to collect over 20 units, we need to be using a bigger vehicle. But what do I know, I’m just a dumb newbie with a penchant for opening cans of worms.

Still, I’m wondering what karmic injustice I’ve performed to warrant the fact that I keep getting put on it, and that I’m in so much pain that I’m actually going to the doctor tomorrow.

And I’m wondering if the fact that I found the piece of paper that four of us had to go into the dumpster at Stilwell Elementary to hunt for, may wind up reversing some of those bad vibes.