4/13/2022

I was on my phone and calling Edna LaMontagne Voegele. She picked up but didn't say a thing but I could hear all the familiar sounds behind her. Just when she started to speak, when I heard her enunciate the first syllable of my first name the dream ended.

I laid in early morning darkness with a t-shirt over my eyes, trying to imagine the void populated by the lurking limbic system and ancient reptilian brain. Didn't get too far because I heard the first few words of the avian chorus greeting the sun a-la Liber Resh.
Hail unto thee who art Ra in thy rising, even unto thee who art Ra in thy strength. Who travellest over the heavens in thy bark at the uprising of the sun. Tahuti standeth in his splendor at the prow and Ra-Hoor abideth at the helm. Hail unto thee from the abodes of night.
Except each trill, call, and note enunciated by those birds was more profound. Each ornithological syllable was an auditory flower bursting in air as if to encourage the sun up and over the horizon to explode with light over the waves at the Asbury Park beach, spilling golden light down Asbury Avenue and lending a certain transient magic to the 'hood.

The concept of Edna from the dream merged with the Edna in my memories and she joined me for a furtive fifteen minutes which was far hotter and considerably more profound than all the porn performers in the San Fernando Valley. Yet that was just a memory of something which didn't happen in this universe. Perhaps a few universes to the left an alternate me is regretting where life took him, entangling him with Edna, being completely sick of her and wishing for a different kind of release.

I got up, peed, and discovered my workload wasn't as onerous as Monday's obligations. It was good to wash my hair and get it really clean, rather than halfway clean because I was low on shampoo and I tried to stretch it on Monday morning by mixing in a little water to the bottle. I knew this was going to be a much better day.

While driving to work I had a revelation which I'm going to cut-and-paste from my Twitter:

I figured out something a few minutes ago. I allowed my soon-to-be ex-wife to weaponize my real name. She only used my first name in anger. But outside of that, I was 'dear', 'honey', etc. Worse, the beast with the shape of a human known as my biological mother also used my name to assert control in frequent abusive situations. Bringing me to a piece of animal psychology. Never use your dog's name when correcting the dog. Only use the name lovingly. I think the confluence made me afraid to be myself. So I wore 'masks' and did voices to avoid that person with that name. I am becoming better and leaning how to use it to my advantage.

I phoned my therapist driving down the Garden State Parkway South, shared this revelation and she affirmed this was a positive development.

At the courthouse I found one of the independent searchers wasn't at her usual desk. "Does this desk have cooties today?"
"Nah. Another Searcher was sitting there but he's up and around now."
"You wanna switch?" I know she likes to sit at this particular station.
"Nah, it's okay."
Beat.
"You know, if it's not too personal..."
"I'm an open book. What?"
"So how are things going with your situation? Are you divorced yet? Did you reconicle?"
"Well she works for a university and she reached the point where family can attend free of charge. She offered to let me attend and finish my bachelors degree. I have 136 credits, but only needed 124 to graduate but I didn't thanks to stuff out of my control."
"Oh okay, that's good."
And we didn't talk again.

While writing that out, I had déjà vu from a dream a while back. Probably during the intermission between October of 2011 and today. Maybe it was from the series of "Rainy Mountain" dreams while I lived in Colorado. Yet while I was in the county I wondered if she was testing my waters. She's an adherent of the previous regime and its criminal figurehead but beyond that she seems to be alright, but I know nothing else except she's a single mom living at home out of necessity going through an adversarial divorce from a husband with a drug problem. Her conservative bent makes me wonder if she's against seeing separated guys, or if she's just being cautious so she doesn't get used or if she's merely making conversation?

I didn't wrap up my work in the county as early as I wished, but I had time to do a chore for Leah. She wanted the water turned back on and the hoses reconnected.
Fine.
I saw the cats, Kira was outside and she said hello but didn't want to be petted. I took out her garbage, relined the can, put dishes in the dishwasher, then ate two tangerines and drank a glass of water.

Went food shopping and that was uneventful 'til I went to the checkout. I refreshed Twitter and saw someone tweeted about having visited Gilbert Gottfried at his home, mentioning how he's a different guy offstage followed with #rip.

What the hell?

A moment later I saw on Gilbert's Wikipedia page that he died. He had muscular dystrophy and a heart condition did him in. Gilbert was sixty seven years young.
"Oh my goodness, Gilbert Gottfried died."
Cashier, "Who?"
Bad Gilbert impression, "YOU KNOW HE WAS IAGO IN ALADDIN!"
Woman in front of me, "Oh my god. How old was he?"
"Sixty seven, half your age." Obviously she wasn't 33 or 34 years old.
Cashier, "I still don't know who he was."
"Did you see Aladdin?" I guess my impression of Gilbert's unique voice was incomprehensible.
"Yeah."
"He was Iago."
"Oh! I wouldn't know his face though."
"And he was the AFLAC duck."
Mature woman in front of me, "Wasn't he fired?"
"Yeah, he made a joke." I couldn't remember the name Fukushima but I think that was enough to be shorthand for the circumstances.

I left. Outside I passed the woman in front of me. She was standing against the wall with her cart parked nearby, thumbing through her phone to read more about Gilbert.

I texted Leah and shared the bad news.

Later I texted my friend in Egg Harbor City and passed along the bad news, asked how their doctor's visit went and kinda stopped right there. Worried somehow I might've crossed them inadvertantly.

Back home, I scanned my work, put away perishable groceries, and played more Disco Elysium. This article isn't about the genius of Disco Elysium though. Maybe tomorrow. Scheduled links for the fortean website's Twitter feed. While collecting those nine links, I found an obituary for a beloved cat by a friend then a mini documentary about a man on an island in a river somewhere in Serbia dealing with grief over his daughter's suicide. Coupled with news of the loss of a great comedian, a comedian's comedian, I fell into melancholy. Watching the scene where Adem is with friends who are playing a harmonica and a guitar amidst three oil lamps illustrated how life goes on, but grief is just beneath the surface. I wanted to go out on the tiny back deck, sit on the wicker throne, watch the sunset with a friend while smoking a bowl.

Except I don't have a friend nearby. So I stayed inside, cooked pasta for dinner, and wrote this.