listening to: the hum of my computer
mood: thoughtful
I wonder if I'm being too hard on Victor Hugo. After all, he was a great help to French literature and a savior of Gothic architecture. But even so. The man goes off on so many tangents while in the middle of an undoubtedly great story. I refuse to read about the street layout in old Paris when I want to know more about Esmeralda. Exciting moments, climax, and then---lecture time! Learn about the gothic styling that no longer exists, that you cannot see, and has been destroyed! Lament with Hugo! *sigh* I am being harsh. I don't know why. Currently he irritates me while his stories intrigue me.

I bring this up because I had a dream reminiscent of The Hunchback of Notre Dame. In the dream I had a constant limp, an infirmity. I was on university grounds, and there were so many healthy, smug students. They wouldn't look at me, or if they did they hated me for my handicap. I was something to laugh at, scorn, or fear. Sometimes all of the above. I did have a friend who seemed kind, but I felt separated from her. In my inferiority I created a superiority. Everyone had left me out, thus I believed myself completely different, almost a different breed of person. I hated it. I wanted to be like the cool and confident kids. There was a boy in the dream. He had seemed to be attracted to me, which made me curious. As he came to sit with my friend and me I saw him experimenting with a different kind of crutch. That's when I noticed he had to use a cane to get around. There was a moment of comradeship. Here was another person who was impaired, another person who was left out! Then I thought, 'Wait, I can walk without a cane. I can carry myself and he cannot. I'm actually better than he is.' The comradeship ended in that moment, although I made it clear I was interested in him as well. ((Omits the sexual innuendo.)) There was a commotion. My friend and I turned to see that the cool kids had found a ledge on the university building to sit and study. They were all thrilled with themselves and energized. I knew that if I were found up there I'd be scolded, but that they'd be able to charm their way out of any trouble. More than likely it would become an accepted study spot. I wanted to join them, high above the ground in the night air. I knew it was silly, for they'd never let me. I talked instead to my friend. "Let's climb the stairs all the way to the belfry!" I told her, imagining the empty space, the complete isolation. Perhaps we would feel the cool air just as well as the healthy ones. "We can climb all the way to the top, all the way to the bells." The rickety wooden beams were in my mind and I knew we could make it. What if they struck, though? Surely that would hurt our ears, perhaps destroy them. "We'd better not," I smiled at her.

I suppose that was the end of the dream. At one point in it I wondered if I were the Hunchback with all his deformities, but then I realized I only had a limp. I wasn't him. The feeling of the dream was what was so strange. I felt so inferior, so completely different and despised. Even when no one was making fun of me or staring at me I felt--something. If I can figure out what I felt I'll be happy. At the moment I cannot. I wrote a poem to try to capture it, but I'm not getting the right words. I wrote the poem anyway.

I had another dream a couple nights ago that had Mike Nesmith of the Monkees, a real monkey, church, and a Samurai movie all intertwined. I liked it, but I'm not sure why.

I've written another poem. It's not a very good poem, no great literary merit foreseen or anything of the sort. It was based off two dreams I had, the one I just described and another that was greatly unsettling in my race to be at the theater on time. I doubt the poem even makes much sense as far as narrative goes, for since when are dreams clear story-tellers?

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