I’d much rather have dirt under my nails than soap. Soap is sour.

My love life is blossoming with the coming of spring. It’s strange living and working outside every day in the mountains. The chores change with the seasons, like we sugar now instead of ski and in the summer we play, in the fall we make cider. Our hormones change with the moon but we can see that it’s the moon changing us because we go face to face with the moon each night. I feel the winds of change even inside my drafty little cabin. The sunshine means work will get done faster and more easily. On the equinox we moved telescopes to the boathouse and put snow tubes in Margetts, snow shoes in Hyde Watson. We learned about acid rain in March to prepare for the April showers. A spider checked into my yoga class. A boy disembodied my isolation. Spring is here.

I’ve been lost in a vivid dream world lately. A few nights ago I dreamed “Ben and the Theater” and wrote it down immediately after waking. I then drew it and thought about it and tried to remember more details, talked to Ben about it on the phone, it seemed so real that I couldn’t get away from it and suddenly it was 3pm and I hadn’t moved from Cuba (my couch).

Last night I dreamed I was in my old house on Grama. No one was there and I was scared because I was imagining a murderous film I had seen too vividly. I was afraid the imagery would find me in my house, which was very dark with carpet that prevented any sound. My memaw was in my dad’s bathroom in bed except it was a larger room, not one with a toilet. She would comfort me but she also haunted and scared me. I would have both sensations without seconds in between. I don’t know if she was real or dead. Then.

I was in a van with LP (the boy), my friend Jay, LP’s twin who doesn’t actually exist and three or so tall, sexy older looking women. At first I was in the back seat with one of the LP’s but he kept very physically flirting with one of the women so I moved toward the front of the van where Jay was sitting shotgun and the real LP was driving. They didn’t acknowledge me so I just sat trying not to exist in either space. Once we arrived at our destination, some sort of gymnasium, I was supposed to put on a baton performance but I was really terrible at twirling so I made plans to do a sexy dance while holding a baton instead. I never actually performed even though I practiced my routine for most of the dream.

Maybe it’s the weather or the love in its various forms, or the champagne, or my cycle but I just can’t help but stare and reminisce and wonder if I’ll see that theater or that van or my two LPs in my dreams tonight. I want to know them intimately and to own them and to experience them whenever I want. There is something very beautiful in experiencing these things in real time though. Sleep being the real time, unlike the internet’s lack of time which is its inherent disservice to mankind. My dreams are the only things I’m only admitted to see through a truly organic lens. I appreciate them. I feel bonded to their pulse which is more than I can say for my dealings with the rest of the world.

About my love life- keep quiet. Anything you read here is between you and me. Remember. The first rule of AdeleStreet is you do not talk about AdeleStreet. The second rule of AdeleStreet is you DO NOT talk about AdeleStreet or I will eat your family.

Goldmine

My dad gets even cooler the older I get. He’s not had the most conventional life which keeps him from being the classic amazing father but he’s brilliant and you can tell he loves his family though he’s often not physically present. He does what he can… and if you’re a sister of mine, you’ll cut him some slack.

He quit his job at a grocery store recently to clean condos for a living. The way he describes it, you’d think he was the richest man alive. “Me and Kathy can work together. I make 2 dollars more an hour and the best part is that we’ll never have to grocery shop again! These people leave everything!”

He says there’s always stuff in the freezer. Last condo he cleaned had a pizza, a loaf of bread, 1/2 a gallon of milk and a bottle of wine. A week ago he found a beautiful kite that looks like an airplane. “Everyday is like Christmas!’

Now that it’s basketball season, he likes to have the sports channel on in every room. Beginning in May there’s a cookout every Saturday for the staff where they swap their findings- beer mostly. I think Dad might try to swap some beer for an inflatable mattress for my stay this summer since he doesn’t really drink.

Angry Sleep

I said I wouldn’t use my blog to be passive aggressive but I guess that all depends on who I assume reads my blog in the first place. Griffin has managed to piss me off in a dream and real life synonymously. It’s not really fair for me to be mad at him over a dream. But I am.

In my dream I was with him again for some reason. This time it was me wondering why we were together instead of him. The house we lived in was too big for two people. Again I had no say in anything about our household. Apparently I was pregnant a second time but there was no first child anywhere. I smoked cigarettes and tried to forget the baby was in there. I hadn’t told Griffin yet. I barely saw him to begin with. I smoked inside because when I went out on the fire escape friends just bothered me for fish from my dad’s restaurant.

I remember the cigarettes tasted so bad, like when I chain-smoked after our real life breakup to try and forget myself. I looked at the package and saw that they were some sort of really expensive ultra-lights that Griffin had bought… as if this made smoking more unique or even healthy.

Most of the dream I just wandered around in a dark living room. Griffin was there somewhere, being busy, doing something. But I never really saw him except for when I asked if we could move the bookshelf out of his study and into the main room where I spent most of my time. I needed something besides the hardwood floor, something to look at, to do. He said it made sense to keep the bookshelf in the study. I argued but he was right.

In real life the only thing he did was not email me back.

I’ll try not to live so much in my head.

10:59 pm and still at work

I’m very tired but since I’ve been glazed on the computer for 2 hours of on-call, I figure I should write and round things off into a meaningful experience. It’s hard to “be present” while I’m facebooking. Tonight I cut a lot of hair. I cut Heather into short and sassy and trimmed up Brendan and Christie who both look great. Brendan and David were being shady today. You know this Brendan. Yes, I’m still thinking it. So shady. Not exactly a triangle.

I have new plants, Roberta and Paisley. I forgot I also cut Heidi’s hair, and K.T.’s on Wednesday and soon I will be cutting Ethan’s locks and LJ’s. It seems this may be uninteresting for you but it’s nice for me because I’m building a reputation as someone who can bring out some of the pretty in people, and I think that’s great.

Name Everything

I’d like to use my blog as a letter to the world even though you and a handful of others are the only ones who read it. You matter to me. I don’t want to use my blog to speak passive-aggressively to my readers. I’d like to use it to tell you how I relate to the world and find joy more often.

I enjoy naming things, lately mostly plants. I feel like we can really communicate with each other when I can call them by name. They become personified and lively with very definite personalities. I have an ordinary kitchen bowl in my bathroom that’s teal and new. I’ve named him Filbert and we get along quite nicely together. I’m never alone in my bathroom. He’s always hangin’ out, maintaining order with the laundry. He doesn’t like that I haven’t done the laundry for a while.

I have plants: Adelbert, Adelernie, and Ethan. Adelbert and Adelernie are German. Adelbert is a dominant male. He keeps growing so tall but not out and I still don’t know what he is. He watches out the front window and dances when the furnace is on. Adelernie is female. She’s fuzzy and grows in all directions. She watches me paint and also enjoys watching families walk down from Quirk and Hyde Watson for Sunday breakfast. Ethan is a baby Wandering Jew. He lives in a coffee cup for now but will probably live in the top of a blank cd case tomorrow.

I’d like to name my couch. She’s green and velvety with red dye splattered on one of her cushions. Maybe I’ll call her Cuba.

Some other sweet names for things:

Josie
Dick
Sylvester
Meryl
Woody
Adelaide
Adelyn
Kentucky
Catori
Omari
Taj
Ryker
Willem

Meeting My Mirror Self

OK- I’m gonna talk to myself in the mirror.

Hello, this is me.
Why can I not look at myself?
Why can I not talk to to you?
Pause
Why do I feel like I’m being really mean?
Why am I just now noticing how crooked I talk?
OK, I’m gonna talk to you (in my teacher voice)
OK
OK adele, I’m really gonna talk to you. This is weird. Because it’s dark? (stalling to type a while- from here out, I will only paraphrase. My typing is sucking life out of the moment- like photography often does “let’s facebook this one!”)
But no, I must document these strange sensations. Like the feeling that I’m existing in this void between me and the mirror. And that I can’t say I love you to myself. I can say it in my head and no one is in or near my cabin but me and my mirror self- but it is really hard to say it and I feel like when I finally do, something in me will change. And slowly I’m realizing that I’m not talking crooked at all, and that I seem like an OK person to talk to.

And where I thought talking to myself in the mirror would feel vain, it doesn’t at all. It transcends that It’s like meeting a new friend- but it’s me.

Maybe we should just do this all day
…(but does she want to do this all day, and what would we do? Insecurities setting in)
(I’m noticing how much I look away when I talk. When I look back, she is already looking at me, probably noticing how much I can’t look at her)

We talked for a while- or I talked anyway. I told her I love her, but all the while I was looking for the tiny flaws. I told her I wasn’t normally this critical of other people, and that I wished she could talk so she could tell me what she thought of my paintings. I told her that I worry my painting is like masterbation. That all she’s left with is the gooey cumstuff and the triviality of after. Is there any real way to contain and share a moment?