You want good news? Well... okay!

Those who know me know that I don't keep a bucket full of good news in the back for these occasions. Indeed, my life doles out good news sparingly - kind of like the way you put dijon mustard on a cheese sandwich, lest you burn your tongue - and who likes that? Now, I wouldn't mind a chance to burn my tongue but, that said, I'll still take whatever good news I can get, holding my tongue out the way we once did on rainy days, hoping to catch a drop. (Kids, don't try this at home - or anywhere - you just DON'T want to know what's in rain these days!)

I've been waiting a few days to make this post. I didn't want to say anything prematurely. (As Steve can vouch, you don't want to do anything prematurely.) (What can I say? Steve's on my shitlist these days...)

As you know, I've returned to taking St. Jon's Wort. With the nightmares, sleepwalking, waking up screaming driving me crazy - IN A LIMO! - I knew I had to try something to change things. Since you really can't change what you do in your sleep, I thought some happy drugs might help.

And they have.

I haven't had a nightmare in a week! I can't begin to tell you what a relief it's been. Consider how terrifying it is to wake up screaming - then multiply that by at least six weeks. My worst fear of returning to the edge of the Grand Canyon was being realized and my nightmares were becoming my waking world. Now, after a week of real, restful sleep, I can feel a change in my outlook. I'm coping. I'm going to be all right.

Oh, I still have dreams and I still wake up in the middle of the night but sleep and I have never been the best of friends anyway so I'll take this. Last night, I had a dream that I was having lunch with Sean. He was the manager at a sandwich shop and he got us free sandwiches as we talked about his problems (which I'll be much more help with here in the real world now that I'm less of a basketcase!). We talked about these insane gas prices. We also talked about a used Volvo I'd purchased for $10,000. This, of course, was the Rosa tie-in. Rosa loved Volvos and it would be highly ironic for me to buy one. But, when I woke up, there was no screaming, no tears, no panic... just a hunger for one of those sandwiches.

So, there's your good news.

Oh, the play still sucks and our Bogart is as British as ever. My job is still a cesspool. I'm still alone. But it's amazing what you can deal with when you're not on the verge of a nervous breakdown!

Rob, who I knew as a boy - everyone should have someone like Rob in their life or even on the periphery of their life - had an interesting response to the things I've been going through. You see, way back when (we're talking the '80s - A LONG TIME AGO!), I used to compile tapes for Rob, with music and comedy and stuff. This was the precurser to the cds that I now compile for people. Rob's response was to compile a cd for me, something he'd never done before. It was accompanied by a short letter, written in typical Rob humility, stating how little practice he'd had in such endeavours. Well, his collection of music and spoken word (lot of Shakespearean bits) really touched me. I wondered, what could he have been thinking of when selecting the tracks. One song, Simon & Garfunkel's The Boxer, hit hard - no pun intended. Did Rob see me as a Boxer, as beaten and bloodied as I've felt of late? Or was he trying to tell me of strength I often forget I have? Then, later, Pink Floyd's Wish You Were Here reminded me of our youthful infatuation with the song, never knowing at the time how ironic those lines would be. Thanks, Rob.

Oh... before signing off, let me just say that I lost another friend in the midst of this, who couldn't stick around when things were bad... she can go to hell.

Hope to have more good news for you later. Stick around.