As is common in my dreams, the hues were more technicolor than in reality: greens had a cerulean quality, blues were a bit indigo or a bit turquoise, reds smacked of vermillion or magenta. It was New Hampshire with a tropical feel.

We were with some friends that don't really exist outside of dreamworld, probably people I'd seen on the subway that day or getting coffee on Monday; one of them was a little boy, I think. One of them was a young man, a bit older than I, a loving brother figure.

We were running off the pier (which, in reality, isn't big enough to accomodate more than two people walking abreast) and diving into the lake, which had miraculously deepened by about 20 feet. After breaking the water's surface, one's initial descent towards the bottom was slow, impeded not by a current, but by a sort of stagnant, airy pressure. After about 10 feet, however, one's speed increased exponentially, and one would swoop swiftly downward and along the floor of the lake until gliding to a floating stop.

Ascent was glorious: you could just raise your head slightly, hands by your sides, and practically shoot back up to the surface. The view of the world from underwater, and on the way back up, was indescribably beautiful. Shimmering. Silvery. Blue. Come to think of it, the only time I could see stars was when I looked at the sky from underwater.

We dove both one at a time, and in groups, holding on to each other in a big cuddle-clump. At first, I mostly dove alone, looking at the clumps diving alongside me. The non-existent brother figure asked me to jump with them, in the group. I was reluctant at first, thinking it would take away from my experience, that the ride wouldn't be as fun and the view not as magical. They finally convinced me to join them.

Man, was I wrong. With my friends and my sister, the water became deeper, the dive and plummet smoother, the moon ... moonier, I guess.

My alarm went off, and I was back in my apartment. I still vividly recall the brother figure's face.

Is there a Freudian dream analyst in the room?

I finished "My Antonia" recently. Towards the end Antonia describes a feeling of loneliness, of sadness that would overcome her in the city, that she could never explain and never adequately describe. When she moved back to the farm, her loneliness disappeared despite her solitude. She was happy with her family and her orchard.

I know I romanticize the country, the mountains, and the ocean a bit when I'm away from them, but whenever I go out to the boonies, I look at the trees and stars and wonder why anyone lives in the city.

I remember summers building callouses on my heels and strength in my toes, climbing the rocks by my grandma's cottage on the beach. I remember winters walking down the street with my best friend, passing under a sapling bowed under the weight of snow, and the two of us being secretly disappointed that it wasn't a gateway into another world, then laughing at ourselves for making up fairytales when we were about to graduate high school. I remember toiling blissfully at a Vermont summer theatre, using my rare days off to bike for hours over the hilly landscape, past both luxury hotels and cow pastures, over highways and dirt paths, sometimes reciting Shakespeare, sometimes singing the entire score to "Jesus Christ Superstar" at the top of my lungs, mischievously hoping that I was disturbing golfers as I passed the golf course at the Equinox Hotel.

Sometimes I put myself to sleep with the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks, the sound I kept as a souvenir from a vacation to Nova Scotia that I took when I was 15. That's almost 10 years ago.

I also remember:

- complaining of there being nothing to do in my little town

- complaining about the slush on the sleet under the snow and the salt

- hating yard work. hating. yard. work.

- being so anxious to move to the city, where there was so much to do and so much opportunity.

So, there's that. Also, though Vermont remains one of my favorite places in the world, there's not a helluva lot of theatre going on there. I could start one, but who'd see it? If I were a writer, a professor, or a painter, I'd set up my little self in the country somewhere. But, I'm not. Also, I'm young, and you can only hang out with the snowboarders at the Foggy Goggle for so many weekends in a row before you long for a more cosmopolitan evening. A night at the theatre, maybe. Or at least a different bar. I should also say that though Vermont is one of my favorite places, so is London, which is the citiest city where I've spent a prolonged period of time.

WHY CAN'T LIFE BE EASY? Dammit. I'm feeling rather trapped. And homesick. Why is it that in my family, I'm the one always doing new things, and yet I feel like I'm the only one being left behind?

There seems to be more truth in the country. Well, cities hold a gritty truth all their own, it's true. There are more people, and different stories than in the country, of course. But country truth seems ... truer. Or something. The stakes seem higher. Due to low population density, people have to make up for lack of variety in the company they keep by being real, yet eccentric enough to keep things exciting.

Stoopid wanderlust. Time to get my hanky, fill it with victuals, tie it to a broom-handle, and ride the rails. What do I do? What is this? Maybe I'm not cut out for the midwest. Chicago's a great city but ...

How about ... SEATTLE? Or ... PORTLAND, OREGON? Or ... PORTLAND, MAINE? Maybe ... SAN FRANSISCO?

How about I just keep moving around so that I have a ton of stories to tell? Trouble is, if you don't put down roots, you have no one to share them with. You might as well be making everything up if you don't have witnesses.

~ Last Five Entries ~

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

One-Armed Paper Hanger Earns her Wings - 07.29.05

Sugar & Lemon - 07.28.05

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BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

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BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.

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