You could go home again

I’m feeling discouraged. I’ve been here for six months now and nothing, absolutely nothing is happening on the job front–not even with the job I have, as they have zero positions to hand out.

There are other reasons I feel this way, reasons I won’t discuss here.

Because I’m feeling discouraged, I called my mother to talk to her. I told her how I was feeling, told her why I felt that way. She said I could go back home if I wanted to.

I told her that going back home means I failed at getting my life off the ground–again. She said that I haven’t failed; I just haven’t been able to find my place as yet. She said that I was trying to start my life, and that’s good, since lots of people won’t even attempt it.

She told me again that I could come home if I wanted to, that she wasn’t forcing me to make a decision.

I feel bad for calling my mom to complain about my feelings. I feel bad that I needed to complain in the first place. I’m grateful for what my friends are doing for me. But if nothing’s happening here, then going home might be the best option.

All I can do right now is think about it.

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Held for ransom: a dream

Last night I dreamed that the kids were being held for ransom.

I dreamed that the Bestower of Righteous Silliness called me to let me know that my uncle’s girlfriend needed to speak to me urgently. I got her number and called her, and she told me that some strange man had taken all the kids in the dead of night and was holding them hostage.

“How do we know he’s got the kids?” I asked. “He could be lying to get something from us.”

He wasn’t lying, said the Bestower of Righteous Silliness (who was on speaker on another phone). She’d gotten a video of her kids screaming in some hole. My uncle’s girlfriend had gotten a similar video, as had all the other family with kids.

“So what does he want?” I asked, grabbing pen and pencil and paper.

He wanted 4700 dollars right now, and 500 dollars a month for the next year, says my uncle’s girlfriend. When I asked if that would get us the kids back, whole and unharmed, it was like no one could hear me. All the phones went dead, and I was yelling “Hello, hello!”

Next scene, I was in a car at the Western Union. Apparently, I was a logical go-between for the kidnapper and my terrified family. I didn’t have the money (I think I was waiting for it), and I was on the phone with the kidnapper, saying that he would get not one penny until and unless I got to talk to all the kids one at a time. He offered to send me a video, but I said no, I wanted verbal confirmation–them on the phone, one at a time.

I asked the man what this money was buying us; would it give my people back their kids, whole and unharmed? He asked me why I cared; I didn’t have any kids of my own to worry about, so why did it matter to me?

I told him that my people trusted me to deal with this. I told him that all I wanted was the kids back safely.

He laughed long and loud, and I woke up.

Reaction to a story: Cry to Heaven

I finally opened my book box a couple days ago. I missed my books, what can I say? My friends don’t have lots of adult books here, and the one book they have out–Getting to Happy by Terry McMillian–I read two weeks ago in about four hours. So I needed something to put my mind on.

I should be careful what I wish for.

I took out three books (actually seven, because one of the books is an omnibus with four books in it). I motored through the four-in-one in a day, and settled in with Cry to Heaven by Anne Rice.

Yeah, the one about the castrati singers. I first bought the book when I was about 14 (my mom had stopped buying books for me in the hope I would turn my eye to things that “normal teenage girls” wanted, so I’d use my allowance to buy them. I felt like I was hiding a drug habit). At that time, I loved Anne Rice; I had just read Interview with the Vampire and had seen the movie, and so wanted everything she had ever written. The other reason I picked it up was because I liked the title; it sounded full of desperation. The summary inside the flyleaf said Italy, and I was sold, I having had (and still possess) a mad desire to go to Italy before I died.

But the book sat in my to-be-read pile for years, and I bought and read other things. I didn’t think about it again until I was 16 and it fell off my bookshelf one day. I read it, and I liked it. I loved the descriptions of Italy and the descriptions of the palazzos and Carnivale in Venice. I rated it an A+, and put it back until the next time I wanted to read it again.

Only I lost it. I could not find it, though over the next 14 years I searched and re-searched all the books I have. It was nowhere, and I was angry as I don’t like losing books.

Last summer I was in the bookstore looking for books to buy and Cry to Heaven leaped out at me, basically demanded that I buy it. I don’t question when books do that, so I bought it again, knowing that I liked the story the first time I read it, so would like it still.

And…it was different.

Yes, I still loved the descriptions. Yes, I was still as in love with Italy as I had been the first time around. But the love story between the main characters touched me more deeply than it did the first time. Seriously, this story leaves me in tears every time I read it. Every single time.

And here I am, reading it again–and yes, crying over it again. Damn story affects me this way for some reason. I’ve read plenty of love stories; I cut my reading teeth on bodice-rippers, so it’s not the fact that it’s a “love story” that I find so affective. Other love stories don’t draw this level of emotion from me. I leave them feeling happy and content that the people I’ve come to care about in the course of the story are/will be happy. I don’t leave those stories feeling raw and sobbing. The story ends on a hopeful note, and it still makes me cry!

I don’t get it.