The newspaper, continued

I dreamed the plot of a mystery novel last night but couldn't put the dream or the plot pieces back together after waking up, and I'm sure that isn't as tragically unfortunate as it feels since the jokes I dream—even the ones that make me laugh in my sleep—are never funny once I'm awake. They're not even unfunny once I wake up—they're non-jokes. They're declarative sentences, like, "We have to deposit your paycheck before the bank closes." What I dreamed probably wasn't even a mystery story—probably the plot of my dream was that I MapQuested directions to a funeral. I remember being in a modern mausoleum in my dream, and I vaguely remember being cognizant of a twist—maybe the dream was from my point of view and I (here's the twist) ended up being the dead one. But that wouldn't be a mystery plot—that's supernatural, and that's silly.

It's interesting to me that mystery novels—or detective novels, I'm not sure what the distinction is (a dick, maybe?)—contain murder(s) without being scary; they're suspenseful without making you frightened the way a horror story does. I guess it's because logic overlays the mystery plot whereas horror stories have inexplicable nemeses, like monsters. Aron won't watch "Dexter" with me—not because the writing and acting are bad but because the violence is too conceivable, which I guess is evidence that shoots in the other direction. Aron watches horror movies without feeling afraid for even a second. I think motherhood has made me too sensitive to horror movies. I don't enjoy being merely afraid—it's like hot sauce without flavor:  a bland burn. If I'm going to be exposed to a fictional dead body, there had better be an interesting, intelligible reason for it.

Because I couldn't extract my story-that's-probably-not-a-story from dreamland, instead of writing a mystery novel during Graham's nap today I returned to the newspaper, the same one Aron brought home Wednesday. Minga's still there, killing me with her cuteness.

The newspaper contains its own mysteries. They're mysteries in the same sense that Graham's growth is a mystery:  it's not unknowable, but I certainly don't understand it. Each morning as I undress him and change his diaper, I hold his feet in my hands and behold his legs with my eyes:  they're so long and thick and straight, and they used to be short and skinny and curved. I don't know when his womb legs left, but they're undeniably, irretrievably gone. And I wonder, because I don't know any better, where this length and the flesh that covers it come from. Does Similac turn into skin? The thought that Graham's foods make him grow and become his skin makes me especially depressed about not having been able to feed him food from my body. But like I said, his growth is not mysterious. I don't understand how there is more of Graham today than there was yesterday, but that doesn't mean it's a secret:  it means I need to read a biology textbook or a Wikipedia page.

But instead I read the paper. I read about a support group called "Emotions Anonymous" that takes place at a church. I'm thinking about renaming my blog Emotions Anonymous. I once posted a secret to a version of Post Secret that some UGA women's studies students set up. What was my secret? I'll never tell, although it was cryptic enough to not be incriminating in any context. Emotions Anonymous is free and open to anyone who would like to be "emotionally well." Is emotional wellness a state? Is it boredom? Is it happiness? I want to go to Emotions Anonymous. Not too long ago—but certainly before I was pregnant—I tried to sit in on jury selection (which I thought was public) instead of going to my German class, but a bailiff told me I wasn't allowed to, so I skipped German in a coffee shop instead. (I don't think I’m unique in any way other than this one:  I want to be on a jury, badly.) I want a story. Emotions Anonymous may not contain a story, but it must contain some characters, and I'd like to eye them. I probably don't want to shake their hands.

The real appeal of the newspaper is that it contains story parts—not complete stories, and probably not even short stories, but story parts. Here's a story part that I heard for the first time just yesterday:  my grandmother and grandfather were so poor when my aunt Sandra was born that they paid the doctor with a donkey instead of money. Imagining the beginning of that story is all the fun you need for an hour.