Totally Unauthorized

A side of the film industry most people never see.

Travel anxiety

The last few times I’ve been out of town for longer than one night, I’ve had the same recurring nightmare. I dream that I come home, pull up to the house, and discover that it’s a smoldering ruin – a rubble heap from which I can salvage nothing. In the dream, I stand there, wondering why I didn’t pack more clothes, since now all I own is what’s in the car.

It happened again this trip – as I lay in the cold bedroom on the lumpy twin bed, I tossed and turned, repeatedly waking up my sister who snapped on night two and suggested that I might be more comfortable on the floor in the living room (the couch was taken up by the other sister).

I know that it’s just a dream, but it’s an exceptionally vivid one, and always carries over into my waking life – I just can’t shake the imagery, and to drive it out of my brain, I do things like write stupid haikus (see yesterday’s post), and make a valiant (yet invariably unsuccessful) attempt to finish the New York Times crossword.

None of it seems to work, though. I spend the last day of every trip with this grinding, irrational anxiety gnawing at me.

Sure enough, when I got home, everything was intact, and the only catastrophe was a very angry cat – she’d eaten her food ration too quickly and had an empty bowl.

It’s good to be home.

Filed under: Non-Work

December 2005
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