A Bit Freaked

I had a very disturbing dream, maybe a nightmare. It was about socks. Even the subject matter of my dreams is mundane.

I was out in the yard and it was pouring rain. I was trying (for some reason) to set a metal tube in the ground and came inside to put on my work boots. For my boots I needed socks and it was imperative I get dressed quickly. My bed was the top one of bunk beds (sometimes) and it was as if I was seeing it for the first time in years. It was piled high with clothes and stuff, a complete mess.

For some reason (and I love the logic of dreams), I didn't want to wear any of my "normal" socks. I kept thinking about, and discarding, the idea of wearing any of those clean ones that just come up to the ankle bone and was fixated on wearing, for one last time, one of my older pairs that were on the bed. I kept digging through the piles, looking for matches, and most of these socks were years old, ones I'd completely forgotten about.

Also, they were all filthy. like they'd been worn for weeks on end and left there, stiff and rotting. Still, they were the only socks I could wear and I was wincing as I put them on. One pair after the other, trying to find the "right ones." They all had holes in the toes or heels, had soles that were stiff with funk.

One pair was an old pair of baseball socks, only the white sanitary socks were attached to the colorful stirrups and the whole thing was like a pair of panty hose. I got them half on, as I had many of the others, and then resumed digging through the piles. I dug between the mattress and headboard, found more disgusting socks, and tried them all on, and none of them were right.

I ended up finding an old pair of thick hiking socks, stiff with dirt and riddled with large, gaping holes. I slipped it on my left foot and was immediately freaked out. It itched, it tingled with disgust, it burned. I tore off the sock and saw my foot was blistered and covered with pusy carbuncles. Still, I needed to put on socks and none of my clean ones were acceptable.

I scratched at the hideous sores covering my foot and was in a panic. I needed to get dressed and working quickly. The mass on my foot peeled off like a shell, as if it were wax. Underneath there was fresh, pink skin and I dropped the fetid skin on the floor where it turned liquid, melting into the wood floor. It left a clean spot, and I needed to hide that, afraid of having to explain.

Then, I was so panicked I woke up.

(writing in "more")





My rewrite of TRE is chewing up time, but not generating any more pages. I spent a few hours, then through it all away and started the section over. I'm realizing I write much different now, and I'm not sure it's better.

I'm torn (again).

Every book I read is full of wonderful, expressive language, insights and meaning, craft. What I'm doing now is eliminating much of my efforts to write that way, finding it all pretensious. I'm sick about it.

I feel none of my asides, my "flavor," is necessary to the story. I may be right about that, or it may be I'm too close to the subject and it's all too familar to me. I take this as a sign that I'm done with the novel, one way or another, and my concern now is that I'm being too brutal.

I'm very much aware that I'm being inconsistent in tone and style. I'm hacking, I refuse to get into a flow, and am unhappy with everything I write. Nothing I write resembles anything I read, and I'm more convinced than ever that that's my goal. I want a book that looks like those I read, and I just don't have the ability.

A book, I'm starting to think, is a combination of story and telling. Right now I'm concentrating on story, which wouldn't be bad but my story idea is lame and stupid. I'm not sure what I need to do. No matter what I do I'll never get what I want.