I’m sneaking writing time. I’m in the bathroom and I place my laptop on the sink while I pee. A man next to me shakes and zips. He washes his hand and I mind him through the mirror near the door. I daydream that he takes my laptop and runs for the door. I see myself chase and catch him. Why do heroic scenes and planned outcomes occupy my mind? I believe cowards dream of rescue from cowardice, and heroes dream of an end to heroics. My laptop is wetter for wear.

My house is a mess. Dishes caked with fish parts and breadcrumbs line the counters, and scattered laundry creates obstacles to bed. The impulsion to clean escapes me. I’m anxious about my trip to Paris on Wednesday. My mind winds tight with all I have to do. They squish me in a plane for ten hours, but I do not care because my anxiety withers in Doolies’s grip.

I’m writing words and I don’t know why. I fail even in refusing. I gave up only to succeed on each subsequent day.

I finished watching “Dances with Wolves” tonight. I’m not sure what to make of this movie. It was too long, and I didn’t think much of Kevin Costner’s acting, particularly his voice-over diary reading. I appreciated the abrupt ending more intellectually than emotionally. It didn’t provide the closure that I hoped to find after a three plus hours movie, but no ending would have satisfied me given the nature and honesty of the story. I went in expecting the worst, thought I found it as I drudged through most of the movie, and ended strangely satisfied with the experience. With a better director (Kevin Costner directed and starred), it might have felt more polished, but it also might have lost its rawness. What it did provide was an appreciation of the Native American culture, and a desire to understand and experience their simple life, filled with hard work, family and friends, and satisfaction. It’s not a wonder that the white women abducted by Native Americans refused rescue.

Sleep waits for an early day.