Happy belated Beltane to you all. Hope you all got a chance to get some lovin' this weekend, since that's mostly what Beltane's about.
I got movie rentals this weekend, again. The Control Room is a must-see. It's about Al Jazeera's coverage of the beginning of the Iraq war. Of course, the amount of rhetoric (from the US Army) just becomes somewhat ridiculous sometimes. Then I went for something a little lighter in Harold and Kumar go to White Castle. It was funny-funny. It's too bad I don't get stoned, or it would have been even funnier. Worth a rent, stoned or not.
I generally had a good weekend. I went out yesterday and did something that I've been meaning to do for awhile. I bought paints and a canvas, and I created something to hang on my wall. It's actually pretty cool looking and I had a great time doing it. In a hundred years or so, someone will be bringing it on Antiques' Roadshow as "folk art."
So my Monday started on a less than stellar note. I woke up from a dream that was just awful. My mother has had heart disease since I was just a wee child. She's had open heart surgery, angiograms & plastis, stints put in and numerous hospitalizations. Lately, she's been having some recurrent chest pain, not severe, but as she says, "No chest pain is good." She really needs to be more active, but I didn't come by my own reluctance to exercise by myself...so she doesn't.
Anyway, the dream...I was at a concert. My mother was there, with another friend of mine (who morphed several times in the dream), and we were looking for our seats. My mom pops into a bathroom, and I, annoyed, follow to see why she's making this detour. Mom is getting sick and I become instantly concerned. But concern turns to panic when she falls to the floor and she has no pulse and isn't breathing. I'm just about to start CPR on my own mother when I wake (of course, then I obsessively think about how to do CPR for the next 10 minutes, because suddenly it's much more critical that I know).
I know I'm worried about my mom. I know that I'm afraid that if she dies that the responsibilities of caring for my father may fall disproportionately to me, but, really, I don't need a graphic, heart-stopping dream to remind me of these things.
There was a time - a very dark time - when I liked sleeping more than being awake because dreaming was so wonderful. Then I started to feel better about my life, and I stopped remembering my dreams. Now, it seems that the dreaming is starting again. But it's not necessarily fun to be a part of.