Jesus Loves Me As I Sleep

Meters swum today: 1600
Playing on the iPod: Ray Lynch, from The Sky of Mind

I had a nice dream the other night. Usually I have dreams and they flit right through my head and disappear. There are exceptions (remind me to tell you about the "Tree of Life" dream sometime) and They Must Mean Something, Roger but I have no idea what.

Anyway, I used to live in Salt Lake City, and in this dream I was back there visiting the church I grew up in (Zion Lutheran near downtown, in case you were wondering). The inside had been redone but it was otherwise the same. The service was already going - in fact they were serving communion - so I just sat down quietly in the back. A guy nudged me and said, "Go on up for Communion." I said, "Oh, I shouldn't. I'm a stranger here." He said, "There are no strangers here. Go on." So I did. Instead of those cute little machine-stamped wafers, they were serving this sweet honey bread and a kind of wine that, unlike every wine ever invented, didn't immediately make me want to throw the heck up (wine and I, we never got along that well).

When I sat back down the guy said, "Hang around after the service. We're going to sing songs." The service broke up and I started seeing all these people in the congregation that I knew, or used to know, or something. Some of 'em I could actually give you names and faces (Christina Obermann! Third grade Sunday school with Mrs. Utzinger!) and the rest were just those people you know in dreams even if you don't know them in real life. I kept walking up to people and saying, "I bet you don't remember me." The response was always, "Of course we remember you!" and usually a hug. "Welcome back! Will you be in town long?" I kept trying to say that I was just passing through. Was I? No idea.

So after all that we all sat around the piano and this pastor came out. I remember him pretty clearly because he was so goofy-lookin'. I mean not ugly, but he had a "shock" of red hair, kind of a beaky nose, wide eyes and, well, acne. Obviously very young and very into this being a pastor thing. He sat down at the piano and said something along the lines of, "Well, it doesn't matter how we got here, or what happened to us before we got here. We're all here now, and that's what's important," and then he started playing a hymn (I think it was Crown Him With Many Crowns). I woke up during the singing.

This Must Mean Something, Roger. You don't spose God's trying to tell me I'm part of the great human family, albeit in a rather Christian sort of way? I've had dreams about that church before and they're always very pleasant (which contrasts with the time I spent there in real life; I sort of hated it, actually). You grow up in a religion and it sticks with you, whether you stay that religion or not. I've more or less accepted that I'll always have Lutheranism as kind of a background color in my life. That's okay, really. I mean, it's part of my history. Buddhists wouldn't have any problem with my also being a Christian. It's the Christians who would get all upset.

Well, anyway, was a nice dream. If I ever figure the rest of it out, I'll let you know.

Mayor Anita Massengil Resigns After Call-Boy Sex Scandal

Playing on the iPod: Ray Lynch

Just kidding, of course. I'm sure the mayor of Malibu, Adjacent is still lording it over 'Notch' Johnson and his elite team of lifeguards. (Son of the Beach, people. Find it. Watch it. Love it.) However, this makes for my question of the day: What is it about men, when they get into a position of power, that they can't keep their pants on? And do women have the same problem? Okay, that's two questions. Oh, look! A cloud!

In case you've been hiding under a rock lately, New York Gov. Eliot Spitzer resigned this morning after admitting to spending $80 grand on prostitutes at a swank Washington hotel. The latest in a long line of sordid tales. Probably the most famous example is Bill "I did not have sexual relations with that woman" Clinton, but examples abound. Gary Hart (presidential candidate, 1984 race). Jim Bakker (infamous televangelist). Franklin Roosevelt (his wife Eleanor moved out of their bedroom after she caught him having an affair with his secretary, Lucy, whom he apparently carried on with for the rest of his life).

Stay with me a second here. You're the President of the free world, or of some major Christian outfit that has more money than God (oops), or the Governor of New York. You have money. Power. People who scurry around every time you raise an eyebrow. You probably have a loving family, a wife, kids. You're probably held in high regard by your followers, whoever they are. So what is it about being in this position that makes you say, "I feel like throwing it all away and banging the next teenaged hooker who walks in the door and lying about it under oath"?

Honestly. I don't get it. Is it because I'm not male? Does that half of the planet really have something other than a brain making most of its decisions? It can't just be the power thing because women in similar positions don't do this stuff. They do other stupid things, like embezzling large quantities of money and then forging letters from the IRS to cover it up. But not the sex thing. The pantyhose stay on. Even Anita Massengil didn't fool around. Well, she tried to, but Chip Rommel kept shutting her down. Which, let's face it, is probably for the best.

I'd Write This, But...Oh, Look! A Cloud!

Playing on the iPod: Ray Lynch, something from "Deep Breakfast"

I was gonna translate the Ten Commandments from the original ancient Hebraic today, but after yesterday I think I'm burned out on religion for the moment. Instead let's consider something near and dear to my own heart: Procrastination.

Oh, look! A cloud!

What? Oh yeah.

If you read the Absolute Write bulletin boards (and I do, man, I do), you'd be quick to come to the conclusion that most writers have Issues with this thing. Generally, though, they seem to have trouble actually writing. This has never been an issue with me; most of the time I can't hardly stop. (As I once told an ex-boss, "Hell, no, I'm not working on the book at the office! I go to the office to get away from the damn book!") Where I get stuck is in actually doing something with the stuff I've written. You know, like trying to get it published and all that.

Okay, I had a tragic experience with this as a youngster; my agent dumped me to run for Congress. For a while there I thought I had a new agent but that Didn't Work Out (getting an agent is like getting someone into bed; you make promises, send presents, go to dinner, develop wild crazy expectations of the other person that neither of you can ever fulfill...) Still, that was quite a while ago and I've done batshit nothing about finding a new agent, or publisher, or--or anything, except write more. I've somehow come up with the idea that somebody else should do this for me. Like, I dunno, an agent or something. Now there's a concept. Get an agent to get an agent.

It's better than it was, I guess. I used to get this terrible crippling fear even when I sat down to write letters to agents. Back when I drank, I was in the habit of knocking off a few cold ones before I even sat down at the computer. Which worked, after a fashion, but it played hell with my digestive system. Now I just sit there, shake like a leaf, tell myself "this too shall pass," and it does, and I write the letter. Or I would if I were writing letters instead of procrastinating. Which, uh, I'm not. Oh, look! A cloud!

Seriously, this has the potential of going on for years, maybe even the rest of my life, if I don't Do. Something. About. It. Immediately. I'm just not sure what. I mean, there's no point in randomly writing to agents and publishers. You gotta do market research and figure out who represents/publishes the stuff you're writing. You gotta know people who know people who can introduce you to other people who can tell you to whom you're best off sending letters. So of course I have to do all that before I can start writing letters. Except I haven't done that, either. Well, I have, but I don't feel like I've done enough of it. I don't feel like I have my finger on the pulse of the great throbbing vein that is Media. If I don't write to Exactly The Right People I'll be wasting my time and, worse, theirs. I need a nice tidy list of exactly to whom I should write so that when the rejection slips start rolling in (as they always do) I'll have a Next Option.

It ever occur to you that perfectionism might be another way of procrastinating?

Oh look! A perfect cloud!

Okay, okay. I've done some research. I can do more research until the cows come home but in the meantime I gotta crank out a letter to somebody, somewhere, asking if they wanna read my stuff. So here's my solemn pledge: I, Jen Ster, do hereby promise to write to at least one agent and at least one publisher on or before Sunday of this week, that is, the 25th. If I fail to do so, I will immediately post a list of everyone I've ever slept with, including dates, incriminating details, sex toys used (if any), angry significant others involved (if any), and whether or not any mind altering substances were used and if so, which ones.

Now that'll make dull reading. I'll do it, though.