displacement epitome of incomprehensibility Last Saturday night, after the all-day dress rehearsal, I'm walking to the bus stop, thinking I have four minutes. But wait! The bus is right there! I run and catch it before I realize: I'm on the west line when I want to go east. At the next stop, I see the other bus coming. So I run across the street, not seeing a car. The driver honks; I rush forward to avoid the vehicle; it continues. But in rushing forward, I'm now in the way of the bus, which brakes suddenly. I back up, startled, see that the bus stays stopped, so I get on and apologize. The bus driver is scolding, "You shouldn't run across like that," but in a voice more shaken than angry. He obviously wants to avoid hurting himself and others. I apologize again. Now he's all, "It's okay" - waving me along. ... And I'm alarmed how easily it is to run into one danger by escaping another. Neither encounter was close enough to say I was "almost" run over, like my dramatic self wanted to say on long_day, but it *was* too_close. Is this where impulsivity gets me? Will I die of a stupid accident?? How do I minimize the chances of that? Finally: strategy. My first attempt at an answer: "Remember that the 203 East goes south on St. Jean. It's the 203 West that goes north." Hm. Not exactly widely applicable. Next try: "Don't do things without thinking." Now that's not specific *enough*. And impossible. Everybody does *some* things without conscious thought. How about "Don't cross the road without looking"? (Not exactly a new instruction, but worth a reminder.) Also: "Don't assume that if you see a bus leaving it's the one you need to take; or, more broadly, don't assume YOU need to move when you see something else moving." ... Displacement. Déplacement. From the online Larousse dictionary: "1. Action de déplacer quelque chose, fait d'être déplacé : On suivait des yeux le déplacement de l'aiguille." You follow the movement of the needle with your eyes. You follow the movement of the bus with your eyes. But you want to move your legs too. You ignore other moving things because you're fixated on the moving thing you want. Déplacement. Collins dictionary, French to English: moving, shifting, transfer. ... But the transfer is to fears less reasonable. When my exhausted self gets home, an unbidden thought asserts itself: "I have to floss my teeth or else I'll die." Other thoughts counter it: 1) it's not that urgent; 2) you'll die eventually, whether you floss your teeth or not. But fine: flossing isn't a bad idea. I displace slight lumps of mush before brushing...rinse my mouth...feel a little better. I am hygiene; hear me clean. Squeaky brakes on unknown disaster. 260327 ... nr meeting a family member in the neighbourhood i grew up in, i remembered how snobby and unfriendly people can be in that area. at first i really felt like i didn't belong, but then i was glad i didn't, and felt for these people who i'm sure wish they could be happier. 260327 ... e_o_i Hm. In my previous narrative, I also dislocated a street. It's okay, it's not like people here know the 203 STM route intimately, but yes. ... A funny one occurred in my dream last night, though it stressed me out at the time: I dreamed that an adult student I was going to have a class with this morning (now successfully done) had at least twice confessed his desire for me...plus with the intimation that he gets turned on by being bossed around, etc. This was conveyed in odd sentences at the end of messages: "After that, you can tutor me in other ways [flirty face]" and the suggestion of a threesome with a "simp guy" with "skinny blond hair." Right. The blond hair is skinny. But it stressed me out because I didn't like him that way...I didn't share his kinks...I wanted him to stop. Bizarrely harassing: the image of someone chasing you, going, "I want to submit to you! Let me submit to you!!" ...In real life the student had done no such thing. This was a displaced worry about something only slightly similar: yesterday, I was afraid that the eccentric philosopher whose book I'm proofreading had a crush on me. Why? Well, he called me a genius (as I thought at the time). My response, in my head: "I'm smart, but I'm smart enough to know I'm not a genius." Actually, he'd written that I had "a genius for developmental editing." Hm. Although I was quite grumpy yesterday, for various reasons, I was also oddly confident: I am smart! And attractive! If only to philosophers!! 260331 what's it to you? who go blather from