Random thoughts instead of napping

A few weeks ago, I had this dream that I had thirty-seven followers. Not dream as in a "goal," or something I am striving for. I had an actual dream where I was on the computer and I had thirty-seven followers to this blog. I think this is one of the twelve danger signs that I need to go log off and join a monastery or something. Still, it was a weird dream, creepy and ominous, though I can tell you that nothing overtly creepy happened. No one appeared to me dressed in robes and said "Beware the Ides of Followers." It was all ambient freakiness. Shadows and strange animals with yellow eyes. Clicking on-line.

"Huh," I said in my dream, "Thirty-seven followers. That's weird."

The funny part is, at the time, I didn't even know how many followers I had. I didn't and don't even really care about the number. It is just that one day, I had this dream that it was 37. When I woke up, and went to the computer, it was 28 or something. Whew, that was strange, I think. Suddenly, it began creeping closer and closer to 37. And I kept hearkening back to that stupid ass dream.

This week, a strange feeling of foreboding has been enveloping me. Today, that number is 36. What happens when I reach 37? Was it a prophetic dream? It is obsessing me a little. What happens at 37? Will my thirty-seventh follower be G.Reaper, or something? Since the dream was creepy, I just keep thinking that it is something dark. Mogwai-turn-to-gremlin disturbing. But maybe it is something good. Thirty-seven, after all, is a prime number. Prime means unique, natural, good...I just hope that it is something like free coffee. Thirty-seven cups of it. Or mail. I love mail.

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Sam has the day off today. I have been painting miniature paintings all day today. Painting pictures of jizos. Pictures of babies. Pictures of Beatrice catching butterflies or lightning bugs. Pictures of me holding Lucy and crying. It has been wonderful if I focus on the painting and not the subject, you know. Is that what makes it therapeutic--that I don't actually think about what I'm painting?

:::

If my whole entire little universe were in school together right now, I would pass this note to my mother.

Mama,
Are you reading my blog?
Circle yes or no.
Love, Angie

Not that that would be a bad thing, but somehow, it seems like I should know that.

:::

We bought our tickets to Panama yesterday. Since Lucy died, I've wanted to be in the equatorial sun, in the rain forest, somewhere hot and sweaty. Somewhere, anywhere different. And yet, we haven't done much of anything, or gone anywhere different really, since December. This winter and spring we have stayed home, taken naps, planted things, been fairly domesticated and in general, sat around crying and reeling. I'm ready for some place warm and tropical. We will be surrounded by family. Little Bea will meet hundreds of her cousins, and my aunts and uncles, and eat Panamanian food. We'll dance and drink Seco. We'll taunt monkeys to throw poop at our heads. I just keep thinking...please don't let anything happen to us. No strange jungle rash. No fender benders. No food poisoning. No hijacked airliners. No lost luggage. No, absolutely no, ebola. Just let it be normal, pleasant even. Will even beautiful happy vacation news always have this tinge of apocalyptic, hysterical thinking?

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Hey, Thirty-seven, (and only you know who you will be), I'll be keeping my eye on you.