But it's still kinda lonely. And I have to eat my own cooking. Blllargggh. I feel lame for how much I miss him--priding myself on my general independance as I do, I feel like a weenie. To counter this, I started a stupidly complicated watercolor, 15 x 20, with a horse portrayed as a Byzantine saint. We'll see how that goes.
Talked to a fire investigator, who was checking into the laundromat fire next door. Told her about my laundry getting rifled. She was very pleasant, took my number, and I wish I'd been able to tell her anything useful.
Had a weird dream this morning, when I fell asleep again after taking James to the airport--one of those where you think you're awake. Except I actually dreamed that I was having weird dreams, that seemed real, that were freaking me out when "awake." I remember very vividly that in the dream-in-a-dream, I was in some cliche fantasy setting, and I wound up with a horse. (Nice horse.) Big, tan, gargantuan number. I thought "Okay, if this is a dream, I'll touch him. If I can't feel him, it's a dream, and not real." So I start petting this horse, and it feels REAL. I mean, I can pick out every damn muscle under the hide, his nose is soft, I'm thinking "Shit, if this isn't real, I don't know what is." Which possibly just goes to show what a cynic I am, since I'm dreaming that I'm dreaming and I'm still skeptical and trying to poke things. Then I tried to wake up, "woke" into the other dream, where I was freaking out because of my dreams, and wandering around having some kind of vision fugue--whenever I saw someone through any kind of veil or shadow or glass or whatever intervening object, they looked like someone else entirely, mostly the sorts of things you'd find in Brom illustrations. This was not comforting. I eventually fell asleep again in the dream, wound up in some kind of assassin's obstacle course, holding a knife, surrounded by puzzled young assassins, and displaying the kind of wit and poise that make me a leader of men, screamed, dropped my knife, and ran away.
Eventually, I did wake up for real, and I'm not one of those types who does the "Ooooooh...but did you really wake up...?" idiocy. Yes. I really woke up. If there are any doubts, a little recreational ass-kicking should take care of it, and anyway James called from San Jose to say that airport security made him take his shoes off to check for bombs. Knowing the condition of the inside of those shoes, I pity them.