For once in days, I am the first one up, the only one up. I made the coffee. I filled up the big urn that we use on the weekends and I'm waiting for the little red light to kick on so that I might fill up a large mug. I ate generic Oreos with blue icing (Spring!) for breakfast. I restarted the dryer. I turned off some lights that had been left on all night. I didn't want to do it, but I smoked. It made me dizzy.

This morning, before I got out of bed, I tried talking to God. I tried to rename it. I tried to see it as a woman. Draped like Lady Buddha, I guess. I tried to recognize all of the buzzing cells in my arms and legs, toes and fingers. It didn't work so well. I needed a true breeze on my face. I needed to hear the birds over the fan. I needed to convince myself that I was comfortable.

Now, I've read a little. I felt inspired for a minute. I had an idea . . . What if I took my memoirs - my creative nonfiction - and twisted them? added to them? changed them here and there as I see fit? as I wish? I have had this sinking feeling that I'm neglecting my imagination, attempting to capture all of these half-truths in what might've really happened, in what I half-remember. I should perhaps just shake the term "nonfiction." I want to paint.

In the Summer Institute, this invitational course filled with smiling teachers around one long stretching table, we've been asked repeatedly to write about our childhood. I'm burnt out on it. It doesn't interest me much anymore. I feel like I've already scraped the bottoms of all memories worth scratching around about. This weekend - for the 4th - we'll be traveling south to camp and hopefully catch another crash-up derby - at best, a trip to a local bar.

This morning, I am attempting to talk myself into talking a walk. I'll have lots to do when and if I return.

A four year-old in the middle of your king-sized bed does little for re-discovering the lost love that's been hanging in limbo since that second night after your husband returned after being in Vietnam for three weeks (yes, it took us two glorious nights to catch up - then it was over). The upstairs is too hot for the little one to sleep in her little room without a fan. By morning, she's usually sideways, twisted in a sheet, with her feet between my shoulder blades and her head on his sweaty, half-hairy chest. Today as he and I were driving in (both attempting to start a class for second summer semester without losing the house), he tells me "We've got to find another place for that girl to sleep. Because you and I are drifting. I can feel it."

I think he added "And I'm really REALLY hot for you" or something like that . . . I wasn't listening.

I was smoking, staring out my window at the passing, budding cornfields, wondering if I'd get enough time at lunch to run papers over to the Payroll office, wondering if my last attempt at getting a student loan would fall through and - if it did fall through - can the whole family work at Blockbuster's? Because we would.

The AC is out. And we don't have the money to replace it or even attempt to fix it. And it has been so fucking hot. The AC had been whining and clunking since we'd first turned it on. Ball bearings were grinding or the fan needed greased or . . . something. It was vintage. A solid invention of the late 60's. It ran hard and faithful for decades. The back sticker claims a Quaker corporation. It's a block of metal with a fan that blows outwards instead of upwards. It was painted forest green to match the shutters (by the savvy old, too-tan couple who lived here before we did - who, unlike us, were able to keep the pool from becoming a frog sanctuary).

For the last three winters, it never occurred to me to cover the good ole' AC; obviously, it never occurred to Matt either. Ah, we first-time home-owners. Outright stupid. So the AC sleeps now in the rocks that frame the small back deck, surrounded by the mushy maple and poplar leaves of too many Octobers without a leaf blower. It's a damp, quiet condo tower for earwigs and June bugs.

With the heat hanging in the house, time seems to move more slowly. The humidity makes the floor and tables feel wet and sticky - we're swimming between rooms in a brick ranch oven. The toilets are sweating. The house is positioned so that the breezes barely seep through the window screens. The dog is sad.

We borrowed a tiny window AC unit from Grandma. The only window that it would fit in (without having to seek out an extension ladder) was the kitchen window. The only windows that open in the living room are too small and align to a large picture window (for some ill-creative reason). So we positioned window fans between the kitchen and the l-room and hung sheets up to block off the hallways and the upstairs. The temp rises five degrees between the kitchen and the living room. It rises ten more when you move through the sheets and upstairs - up there it's 100+. Has to be. And we didn't notice the gaps left up top of the window once the unit was in place - Bugs filtered in and we had a buzzing circus on the kitchen ceiling the first night. We stuffed old towels into the gap. Now, there is only the loud hum of the unit and the fans. You'd think we lived next door to a droning oil rig.

I feel like I'm living in a wanky trailer with all of these patterned sheets hanging and fans blowing. It brings up bad memories. I am totally restless and broke. If you saw my stack of bills and the lack of summer prospects for cash, you'd see the ironic symbolism here immediately.

I had strange dreams this morning between moments when I was punching the snooze button - in and out, knowing it was another daylight, knowing my four year old had crawled into the king-size with me again and instead of taking advantage of all the room, she'd snuggled up against my back. Being up early to take my 16 year old to summer P.E. (geez, can't they at least give her a week?), I made myself remember the dreams. I pulled them up as best I could and reviewed them, driving back from the high school, no coffee in my system, with the dog in the car - hanging his head out the window and whimpering (wanting so damn badly to jump and run). Last evening, I was reading Storming the Gates of Heaven - an anthology of spiritual writings by women - and dreams were mentioned over and over again. The dreams of Native Americans, Jews, Baptists, Catholics, and Wiccans. Okay, I'm searching - Jill encouraged me again, Tuesday at Vera Mae's over our basted shrimp sandwiches at that fancy table by the window. "You should write a book," she said more than once. So, as I consider talking myself into it and talking myself out of huge insecurities (which piss me off most days, the way they show themselves - sweet apologies, denials, flush face - can be so fucking lame), I want to examine examples as to how I might reveal the search and discovery in words. I hid upstairs in the bedroom most of the evening reading. Downstairs was messy any way - here only a week and a half after my monster cleaning. I remember now why I became depressed last year. The four year old had a hard time letting me be alone in my space. And then her two teen sisters disappeared into their own rooms (one with the telephone) and up and left her alone in the living room with Garfield, The Movie. So I put her to bed early without receiving much fuss. I read her Moonhorse.

I remember three distinct parts of this morning's dream - all three parts occur within a larger city (lots of commercial buildings, weaved streets, tall skinny houses with small yards) and all seemed somewhat devoid of color - either it was dark or the setting was barren (dirty white houses, pale sky, gray streets).

Part I: I was holding the hand of my four-year-old daughter walking down a busy street, seemingly window shopping, but we were caught up watching old trains move in and out of a large station across the way. At times they appeared to be stage coaches, connected car after car and pulled by large groups of filed horses. In fact, it seems as though it was the horses that drew the attention of my little girl. At other times the trains appeared to be noisy trams, more like freight cars. Regardless, they were unique. I promised her we would ride one for fun. We walked quickly down sidewalks and waited anxiously to cross traffic to reach the station, but we missed the train. The train wouldn't run again until the next morning. I tried not to make a big deal of it. Although disappointed, my daughter did not cry. It seemed as though the trains had scared her any way. My spontaneous decision had made her nervous, moved her out of her comfort zone. In this way, she reminded me of her father.

According to Dream Moods Dictionary: "To dream that you miss a train, denotes missed opportunities or nearly escaping your death."

In Part II, I simply realized that I had forgotten my purse on some bench where we'd sat, watching the trains go by. I pray within the dream "Please let it be there Please let it be there Please let it be there" as I drag my four year old along behind me by the arm. We pass menacing strangers on the street. Some comment, whistle, approach us, whatever. I don't listen and so they dissolve. I am focused on the prayer, certain that if the prayer runs unstopped, the purse will be there. I stop to tell my daughter that it was, obviously, a good thing that we didn't get on that train because I never would've found my purse then. She might smile at me, but I only remember a sense of her approval and then returning to repeating the prayer. Please let it be there. The prayer becomes a struggle with what lies underneath it - awful thoughts creeping up of all that I will have lost if the purse is gone, of how violated I will feel if I find it on the concrete ripped clean of its innards, of all of the tasks that I'll have to go through to replace everything. But I was praying. And it would be a miracle if the purse still lays there on a bench in the middle of the dark city, untouched. The odds were against me. (I pray like this at other times as well. My mother taught me how to do it. I've taken out the names "Lord" and "Jesus" but I still chant with just as much conviction . . . to something . . . ). The prayer worked! At first, this is my thinking when I see the vision of a fat, brown leather purse sitting on the bench just as I must've left it. Then I tell myself (as always) that the prayer was useless; I was just lucky. I can't will anything to happen with my words, with my mind. Relieved. Semi-thankful. Why only semi-thankful? I believe I did will something to happen. It was a dream. Within the dream, I saved myself even if a small part of me - a secret on the underside of the chant - wished for the worst to happen.

According to the Dream Moods Dictionary: "On a symbolic note, losing things in your dream may signify lost opportunities, past relationships or forgotten aspects of yourself. Your personal associations to the thing you lose will clue you into the emotional meaning and interpretation of your dream."

"A purse in your dream represents secrets, desires and thoughts which are being closely held and guarded. It symbolizes your identity and sense of self. Consider also the condition of the purse for indications of your state of mind or feelings. Alternatively, a purse symbolizes the female genitalia and the womb . . . To dream that you lost your purse, denotes loss of power and control of possessions. It also suggests that you may have lost touch with your real identity."

Strange . . .

A loss of opportunities and/or control . . . the train, the purse. But I prayed a chant (either I willed it to be or luck was on my side) and I found it - and it was a fatter, more expensive purse unlike one I have ever carried.

Part III: I'm not sure if the dream dictionary (which I believe doesn't hold any truths - just suggestions. Symbols = to each her own) can have interpretations for this one. I was on the street, still walking - maybe it was hours or days later or maybe it was another dream altogether because what was once night had turned to day. And my sister was beside me. We came upon a young woman, surrounded by her children, living in a large white broken house in the middle of the city, and crying about her trees. All of her trees were losing their leaves, but it was just Spring - they had just bloomed from flowers (some blooms were still there - oddly full with petals like the discrete blooms on a Poplar tree). Now, the leaves had turned dry, dark red and orange, and were falling, spinning from the trees in the breeze. The trees were almost bare. She told us that her husband had sent her these trees from another country, and she did not want them to die. My sister and I became detectives; we sat on the street corner and began searching through our books to identify the leaves and the bloom. I found what I thought was the name of the tree (something unpronounceable - Hawaiian maybe?), and I concluded that it was simply a new climate for them. The trees were not used to such a harsh winter - or changing seasons at all for that matter - and they would not necessarily die; perhaps their life cycle would simply change and they would eventually adapt. My sister didn't agree with me at all. She insisted that she'd seen trees like these with this exact same condition, and it was deadly. They were simply dying and the woman would have to deal with her loss. I cannot remember if we approached the woman with our conclusions - It seemingly became more of our own quest and then perhaps the snooze went off again, crying in my ear.

According to the Dream Moods Dictionary: "To see brown or withered leaves in your dream, signifies fallen hopes, despair, sadness and loss."

Now that I write these images/visions out, they seem to make more sense - or I have given them more sense for a reason. The interpretations of the purse make me a little nervous. The disagreement with my sister is also interesting. Two nights ago she and I spoke on the phone and she told me that once a woman - a traveling visionary - in her old church (she was once Pentecostal) told her that she had a vision of her as a writer. My sister thinks that to write would be romantic (like being a sex therapist). On the phone, she tells me she wants to write, and I give her suggestions and encouragement (namely: "write your ass off first" and "instead of just thinking about it or expecting an epiphany to come to you, just write"). But a part of me figures she's never listening. I entertained the idea of writing a novel in partner with my sister - told myself for a moment that this could be how I save her. But then I always kick myself after I think such things. Who says she needs saving? Who am I to assume I am someone worthy of saving any one? Would she even want me to? And then I tell myself I'd probably screw it up or couldn't carry it through. In my dream, the lady's trees lost their leaves regardless of either of our conclusions, and neither one of us would know what was truth until Spring came around again.