I'm in the Stanford Library where I work in the catalog room--or at least should be working. I'm actually busy with an art project--sketching and writing on scratch cards.

Marcy, my mom, walks up--alive again. She says "We have to talk." Do we? I've been estranged from the family for months--or years. She's tracked me down and decided unilaterally to insist on a weekly talk. I grudgingly agree to talk--once.

But I say "not in here, those tables and chairs just outside--my co-workers are listening in. They'll even interrupt. No sense of privacy."

My mom says "not out there, I've thought this out. The top of Hoover Tower has a cafe. Private, great views."

I object to the cold wind. She says "No, it's glassed in."

I agree--to one talk, now, not one a week as she wants. Funny, she seems to think I have to; thinks I'm dependent on her, a trust fund baby, so she can call jerk my leash.

But that's false! I severed ALL ties with my parents--financial, not just emotional--precisely because I didn't like their leash. My life's not great--still very narrow. But it's mine. Independent. I see nothing to draw me back and no reason to comply.

So I'll hear her out. Once. And only once.

NOTES IN THE MORNING

• My mom: nagged me to get out more and socialize, yet called me unfit for any girl I liked--because all men are scum. R.D. Laing would call it a classic double bind.
• So what's she represent here? maybe... guilt about surrendering to my inner geek this last month? Updating the code of the World Dream Bank, I massively overworked.
• The tower: an overview, a long view? Hoover Tower's the highest building in northern Silicon Valley.
• ACTION: remember I really AM financially independent. I tend to forget--I CAN do what I like, even if it's overwork one month and fall apart the next.

This was a warning dream I failed to recognize. As a direct consequence of workaholism in March through early April, I got very sick in late April/May. If this is independence, I'm not using it wisely!

So my dead mom wanting regular meetings might symbolize something way simpler than I thought: death! If I don't start regularly checking in with the fact I'm mortal, I'll work till I drop. And I nearly did.

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