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And we thought we knew what a bad day was. Hah!



April 28, 1987

The past two weeks have been entirely crazy. Lucky and gang wars and these murders and Chinatown—no wonder the press sees our presence as catalyst, rather than aid. In spite of it all, most of the time I've been feeling much better lately. Like coming out of a cloud bank to see the entire world stretched out in front of you and the air is pure gold. I had the feeling—maybe illusion, maybe not—that any day now I would turn around and look at myself and think, "I can handle this" and be right. That I would see myself—who and what I am, where I come from and what I'll have to do—without feeling so confused, so trapped and helpless and angry, just accept and get on with things.
    Instead I look at myself in the mirror and see a woman without a map, I'm back in the haze watching the ground get closer, wondering what it'll feel like. This business of Travis has pretty much erased any progress I was making on coming to terms with my own mind. I still feel better than I used to, but I don't know what that means any more, and in some ways it's very hard to think about the whole situation. Right now there's a noisy chorus telling me to get dressed and go out, do something useful with myself. But it's four in the morning and no one's awake but me and the cat (and I can hear the low sound of the TV, so I guess Scott's active). Dawn will be soon enough for avoiding the issues.
    I had a dream about him, that's what woke me up. I have lots of dreams, and most of them bother me at least a little—the ones that aren't out-and-out nightmares, that is. The other night I dreamt Mom and Dad died, and Grandma was back to scold me in broken English for being off East when I should have been with them. I woke up on the verge of tears, and then I remembered and just felt stupid. This one was worse, because he's here. My subconscious has latched onto that familiar face with a vengeance. The fact that none of it ever happened apparently doesn't mean a damn thing. Over the past couple of days, while I take care of the paperwork the Wuxia created and we recover a little from those encounters and try to track down information on the new problems, I've caught myself thinking things which are, when considered rationally, entirely ridiculous.
    Right now I want to call him up (he wouldn't mind the fact that it's only 4) and go have coffee and catch up on what he's been doing these past ten years. Instead I will sit here in the kitchen and meditate on that fundamental discontinuity which seems to be the metaphor for my peculiar life: that what is a decade past for me was a few years ago for him, that what is real in my memory was a role he played, that the person I remember being had real feelings for him, and she wasn't me.
    On second thought, to hell with this. I'm going out. At least while I'm flying I don't have to think.

[Perspective switch: Lucky and Chandler]

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© 1999 Rebecca J. Stevenson