I had a family thing yesterday, then slept late. When I woke up, I canceled a thing with a friend because I knew I'd be grumpy and uncooperative. Then I went back to bed and dreamed I was enrolled in some kind of class where I was supposed to be reading thick books about women's experience and going to seminars, but was instead watching a David Tennant movie about a woman in the hospital. I eventually realized that I was physically sick, too, getting out of bed (in the dream) and crawling dizzily across the wooden floors of my childhood home, looking for help, trying to find a clock (all the clocks were gold) that hadn't stopped.
I awoke dripping with sweat. The dream had been brightly sunlit, but outside in the real world it was grey.
I made pasta and sat down to write, but was completely blocked. I know what needs to be written, what has to happen next, but nothing was flowing -- not a word was coming out. I wound up watching the progress bar on a download for forty-five minutes.
Rats. I am gloomy right now, and I don't want to be. There are things I want to do.