Kristen knows my flirting style: communicating infrequently and keeping wide personal space.
I do feel slightly stilted about deepening interpersonal relationships – maybe because of a sensitivity to projected personal space. Just practice to be psychic.
Still, I am over saturated with the sweetness of friendship. It’s good to be around people who are better at communicating than I am.
I often deprive myself of sleep. More so, I deprive myself of intimacy.
An obvious point: I am always dreaming about water.
This morning I was dreaming that a woman asked me about an installation. She asked why there were clocks there and I asked her why she thought there were clocks there. She said that in dreams people can’t read time, and that can be a clue for the dream to become lucid. I looked at the clocks, read the time, and determined that we weren’t dreaming. Then I answered emails.
Everyone jokingly held hands in a circle at 4Square tonight and I felt elated by the physical contact. If it isn’t a joke it isn’t real.
I woke up not real.
I was in a line to enter the space we were going to be held. The guard showed my coworker photos of how they had tortured and killed her two daughters. One girl was upside down, legs over her head, burn marks on the backs of her thighs, the other an infant with blood spilling from her head.
At that point I was the coworker and the grief/shock were too big to contain in words.
That morning the coworker said she had dreamed that I was helping her. I didn’t tell her about my dream. I helped her hack an app so she could communicate with her loved ones in Gaza. She doesn’t have two daughters, she has one small daughter and is pregnant with a son.
Another morning, golden lit, Bea and I were holding hands at SITE. We said that we had to be scheduled in the same gallery so we could continue to hold hands. I woke up to a text from her saying she had missed the train and asking me to cover part of her shift. Later we decided to move to Italy together and hold hands the whole way.
What I mean to express is… fuck it, let’s go to the beach.