Posts Tagged ‘dreams’

Take-two Tuesday — Dreamtime: The Hanged Woman

December 21, 2010

This entry was originally posted on December 3, 2009 at 10:01 a.m. I’d originally intended for Dreamtime to be a series of entries, but writing about my dreams was so disturbing that this ended up being a one-off.

Recurring dream — I am in a bedroom with my back to the closet. I turn around and find a hanged woman in a blue nightgown.


“It’s Hard To Say That I’d Rather Stay Awake When I’m Asleep Because My Dreams Are Bursting At The Seams” by inspire*dream*create on flickr

The air in the room feels thick but sounds tinny, like it does in a doublewide, you know, the way the sound and the air are different, I guess because it’s perched on a foundation poured in to the ground rather than dug in, so it’s not flush up against the earth?, and the windowsill is aluminum. She’s in front of the closet, which has a sliding door with inset slats. She’s always high enough up, on a short enough noose, that her face is angled down but very near the ceiling, and I have to tilt my head back and look up to see it. I do not know why I always have to look at her face.


“Hang’er” by Dominic Rouse. Click through to his website.

She doesn’t sway or kick or open her eyes or anything predictably horror-movie-ish like that. In a way, the certainty that she is absolutely dead and has been for some time is worse and even more uncanny than if I had got to the scene just in time for her death throes. Because I never realize right away that I’m in The Room with her, or that it has become That Dream until I turn around and see the closet, and her swollen feet and mottled legs with the blue nightgown at mid-calf.


Stock

The stultifying stillness of the trailer starts beating in my ears, this weird and distant rhythmic roaring, like living near the ocean but if all other life had been extinguished and only the water remained on earth, like the beginning of time is hurling toward me.

I wake myself up.

Daily Batman: Never too old

November 8, 2010

I had to report for Jury Duty last week. I wore a Catwoman shirt. Didn’t really think about it ’til I was already at the courthouse, but then I concluded that anything which made me look less mature, trustworthy, and respectable could only work to my advantage, as I distinctly did not want to be seated on a jury.


“You are never too old to set another goal or to dream a new dream.”

(C.S. Lewis.)

I consider this self-evident on a daily basis but it’s still nice to read from such a beloved source. That C.S. Lewis has not had his own month around here yet is an absurdity and a crime. January, maybe. December is already lined up.

Burroughs Month: Man is designed for space travel

November 6, 2010

Man is an artifact designed for space travel. He is not designed to remain in his present biologic state any more than a tadpole is designed to remain a tadpole.


Postulate that there is no privacy and no deceit possible in space: Your innermost thoughts, feelings and intentions are immediately apparent to those around you. So you want to be careful who is around you.

(William S. Burroughs. The Adding Machine: Selected Essays. New York: Arcade, 1993. p. 85.)

I did a lot of Burroughs reading in October to get all primed for the take-two of Burroughs month this November, and one of my favorite pieces from The Adding Machine was this little gem. I plan to share more later this week, about shit-spotting. But as far as this excerpt goes, I drew a lonely and ugly conclusion from the parameters of Burroughs’ postulate in this passage: if there is no privacy in space, I would not want to go.


Astronomy Domine by pequeñísimo ser on the flickr.

If that’s part of the rules, that I can be in space but people can read my thoughts and my feelings? My first instinct in the face of that stricture would be to reject the chance of space travel, which is something that I have wanted to do my whole life, to the point that I mist up when I think about how I’m getting too old to ever be approved to colonize the moon, which means giving up on my dream of making love on the lawn in my terraformed backyard by Earthlight (the most beautiful thing possible — just think about it), yet here I am saying “no-go” to space travel if it means tipping my hand about all my secret romantic notions. That is crazy. I need to work on tearing down some of my walls.

Langston Hughes Month: “The Dream Keeper”

May 26, 2010


Photograph by Lloyd Hughes.

Bring me all of your dreams,
You dreamer,
Bring me all your
Heart melodies
That I may wrap them
In a blue cloud-cloth
Away from the too-rough fingers
Of the world.

— Langston Hughes, “The Dream Keeper.”

Langston Hughes Month: Quiet Girl

May 22, 2010


I would liken you
To a night without stars
Were it not for your eyes.
I would liken you
To a sleep without dreams
Were it not for your songs.

–Langston Hughes, “Quiet Girl”

Langston Hughes Month: Broken-winged birds

May 11, 2010


Hold fast to your dreams,
for if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
that cannot fly.

— “Dreams,” Langston Hughes

Dreamtime: The Hanged Woman

December 3, 2009

Recurring dream — I am in a bedroom with my back to the closet. I turn around and find a hanged woman in a blue nightgown.


“It’s Hard To Say That I’d Rather Stay Awake When I’m Asleep Because My Dreams Are Bursting At The Seams” by inspire*dream*create on flickr

The air in the room feels thick but sounds tinny, like it does in a doublewide, you know, the way the sound and the air are different, I guess because it’s perched on a foundation poured in to the ground rather than dug in, so it’s not flush up against the earth?, and the windowsill is aluminum. She’s in front of the closet, which has a sliding door with inset slats. She’s always high enough up, on a short enough noose, that her face is angled down but very near the ceiling, and I have to tilt my head back and look up to see it. I do not know why I always have to look at her face.


“Hang’er” by Dominic Rouse. Click through to his website.

She doesn’t sway or kick or open her eyes or anything predictably horror-movie-ish like that. In a way, the certainty that she is absolutely dead and has been for some time is worse and even more uncanny than if I had got to the scene just in time for her death throes. Because I never realize right away that I’m in The Room with her, or that it has become That Dream until I turn around and see the closet, and her swollen feet and mottled legs with the blue nightgown at mid-calf.


Stock

The stultifying stillness of the trailer starts beating in my ears, this weird and distant rhythmic roaring, like living near the ocean but if all other life had been extinguished and only the water remained on earth, like the beginning of time is hurling toward me.

I wake myself up.

The evil eye, lasagna, and daddy issues

November 5, 2009

Paging Dr. Freud. I’m making lasagna right now. Here’s why.

Okay. So. I have a recurring dream that my father is shot and killed by someone wandering on to the campus where he teaches. In the dream, I am always at my parents’ home in their room, taking care of laundry (the curtains are always down in the dream, I get the impression they are being washed as well) when the kitchen phone rings and a call comes to report that he’s died.

Just before the phone rings, I am always thinking two things: first, that once that load of laundry that’s in the washer is done, I’m going to shower, and second, I wonder what the Detwiler twins are doing lately? — these are two girls around five years younger than me that we used to babysit in San Jose, who moved to the Valley around the same time we did. This is very consistent, no matter how many times I dream it: I am always thinking those two things as I fold sheets.

Right when I think the last bit of that thought about the twins, a weird presentiment of dread comes over me, like I am remembering already that I’ve dreamt this, and the phone is about to ring with terrible news. The dream is very vivid, down to the dim light from the overcast sky and the muggy, heavy feeling in the air through the open, uncurtained windows. I look up from my folding and the phone rings. I hear my mother pick up the kitchen extension and I know that she’s being told my father has been killed. I wake up.

All right, I told you that story so I could tell you this one:
After I finished school and moved to Portland with my husband, I figured I was off the hook forever from this dream coming true, as I was a married lady and all grown’z up and would never again be in a position to be home, folding laundry on my parents’ bed, when the kitchen phone would ring and someone would say he’d been killed.

Then I took this lovely nerve-wracking break from marriage and moved home with the kidlet. Things have been pretty good with my folks considering they’ve taken in an adult child and her child, but he and I argued last weekend and things have been “off” since then. I said passionate and unfair things to him like, “I’m sorry I’m such a disappointment. I know you think I’m a failure and that my feelings are only an inconvenience to you,” and I even managed to bring up the time that he told me offhandedly that my mom loved me more than he did.

That always stuck with me because I am one of those sick women that believes their father hangs the moon and would never steer me wrong, say something false, or make a wrong decision, so if I perceive that he disapproves of me or thinks I am not living up to my potential, as he is God, that makes him right, which makes me crap. To get mad and yell at him is like throwing rocks at Heaven, for me. (Yes, I am aware that I need to acknowledge his flaws and humanity if I want to have any kind of ordinary relationship with men other than him. Why don’t you suck it? I’m working on it!) Anyway, we dropped a whole strafing series of bombs rife with psychological napalm at one another for a while. We eventually ran out of gas, apologized, and made up. But it’s hung over my head since then.

So, now, I told you that story so I could tell you this one:
I was folding laundry about an hour ago and the phone rang. It was not sheets, the curtains were up, my mother was not home, and I answered the phone; not the kitchen extension, but an extension they have in their room now. It was a robo-call from my father’s school district offices. It was a recording of his principal, reporting that the school had been on lockdown earlier because of an adult intruder, and the lockdown has now been lifted and parents can come get their kids if they want. I know, right?! I freaked out. Apparently, it was necessary because of some jerky vagrant who came on campus, got in a fight with security, and was quickly apprehended by police and never even got the chance to enter a classroom.

I called my father immediately on his cell phone and he didn’t seem too shaken up, but he did ask that I not go out with Panda Eraser tonight, as I’d been planning. I am okay with that; this week has been so-so for me other than going to mall with Miss D, so I’d have been not very upbeat company, anyway, probably. She wouldn’t mind, she’d understand, but I’d have felt bad for being a downer. So I texted Panda to see about making it up to her by treating her to sushi on Monday, which is her day off from the Cosmetology School That Shall Not Be Named.

Finally, I told you that story so I could tell you this last one:
I’m making him lasagna now. I’m much more shaken up than he is. I have a couple scheduled posts that will appear later. That’s it from me today, though. I am way too much of a Daddy’s Girl to do anything but sit around cooking for him and fretting. I feel like if something had happened to him, I would’ve done it somehow via the evil eye, like invited the retribution from the fact of being so rude and ungrateful as to get sucked in to a fight with him this weekend. In general, he’s kind of a grouchy, contentious, loveable curmudgeon and I try to ignore the baiting, which is good-natured more than anything else, but I was on edge and lost my temper, a total lapse in grace. Naturally, that means that fight we had makes this all my fault. You see? Hence the lasagna. That will make it all better.


“Evil eye tree” by Isarao on flickr.

I’m such a superstitious freak, I swar to gar.

A confession

October 27, 2009

A confession: I have this recurring dream that I work for Tina Fey. She still has her old job as head writer for SNL in the dream and I’m always a lowly peon. Nonetheless, I’m not gonna lie, it’s pretty amazing.

“If you want to make an audience laugh, you dress a man up like an old lady and push him down the stairs. If you want to make comedy writers laugh, you push an actual old lady down the stairs.”

One of these dreams a few months ago went all the way to the end of a week, including watching the show from monitors in a different room, to the point that it was an afterparty situation and one of the host’s friends asked me out to some club to see a midget do stand-up, and I was all pumped, and as I exited the floor I noted that Tina Fey was still in her office working, but I totally wanted to go with the host’s cute friend and see the midget do stand-up, so I skedaddled anyway, although I felt compunctions of guilt about it.

Then we were walking down this very realistic skeezy street to the comedy club, and suddenly I thought, “Oh, no! This isn’t right, I should tell him I’m married,” and I woke myself up. Cheez-its! I totally missed seeing the midget, and maybe even smoochytimes with the guy! I kill my own game in dreams constantly. I need to think about this.

Music Moment: “Neapolitan Dreams,” by Lisa Mitchell

October 24, 2009

Lisa Mitchell – Neapolitan Dreams

You’ll go and I’ll be okay,
I can dream the rest away
It’s just a little touch of fate,
it will be okay
It sure takes its precious time,
but it’s got rights and so have I


I am filling this day up with friends and fun. About to hit up Where the Wild Things Are with kidlet and Special K. (edit: Geo is coming now, too.) Then we are going to a pumpkin patch with Paolo and Miss D, which is the thing I’ve been hiding from, because I have such strong memories of doing that with my husband. That is why I am absolutely going with my friends, and carving up the pumpkins afterward, too. At first I didn’t know about the pumpkin carving because I was afraid it would run late, but the heck with it; we can spend the night again if it gets dark and I don’t like the lay of the traffic and mood of the night. I need to be around people, specifically my favorite people.

I turn my head up to the sky
I focus one thought at a time
I do not let the little thieves
under my tightly buttoned sleeves

Deepest of the dark nights
here lies the highest of highs
Neopolitan Dreams, stretching out to the sea

Music Moment: “Bad Days,” by the Flaming Lips

October 23, 2009

The Flaming Lips – Bad Days

You’re sorta stuck where you are
But in your dreams
you can buy expensive cars
or live on Mars
and have it your way

You hate your boss at your job
but in your dreams
you can blow his head off
in your dreams
show no mercy

And all your bad days will end
And all your bad days will end
You have to sleep late when you can
And all your bad days will end

None of us must lose hope. Even dogs have dreams. Let no one take that from you. Least of all yourself, ever.

State of my state, or, what condition my condition is in

October 8, 2009

T-minus: one and a half days to Paolo and Miss D’s wedding. Squeeeee…..!

Don’t imagine much sleep happening for anyone; I know I had trouble even last night. Miss D and I were comparing nightmares when we went to pick up her gown in SJ. I dreamt that she’d forgotten to buy a veil (totally impossible because I have seen her in it several times now, I even hung it up and put it in the chemical-odored garment bag that David’s had the gall to charge her for after she dropped umpteen dollars in their store). The place where the wedding is being held, Vintage Gardens, had in my dream a loaner veil. But it was stained along the bottom where it had been drug through the dyed frosting of a cake.

Miss D was trying to make a brave go of it, saying, “Whatev’,” and, “It’ll be okay. No one will notice,” but it was totally noticeable and she had tears in her eyes. So I volunteered to nip over to the bridal store and pick up another veil real quick. Of all things, Miss D’s middle sister who is incredibly sweet and easygoing got in a fight with me about how ridiculous this idea was, and that there was no time because it was time to take pictures. This was all very vivid and I woke going, “Why is ‘Nina being so mean to me today?” then realized it had been a dream. Miss D’s observation when I related this dream to her was that we were the last two people she would predict would be in a fight, least of all over that; if nothing else, we would be verbally wrestling over who should be the martyr and go get the veil.

Paolo’s brother Scotty kept popping on and off the yahoo! chat last night; I assume this means he flew safely out of Quatar and was either back in Vegas already somehow or was on a bad internet cafe connection in London. Either way, super-pumped to see him and meet his wife and son! Tempus sure fugits.

Thanks to the masochism paper, I can afford to buy kidlet a really cute, fancy new dress for the wedding (she was a little put-out by the prospect of wearing her Easter dress from this Spring or combining the occasion with a dress which would cross-multiply into Thanksgiving and Christmas, which were the old options before the urgent paper dropped in my lap). I’m hoping to talk Miss D in to joining us: I remember those last few days before the wedding, and the total insanity. This is the last day before the chaos will truly descend, I suspect, and she needs a couple strong drinks and an appetizer from a chain restaurant to fortify her. Plus, we like to relieve stress by yelling at people in parking lots. We’re kind of incredible at it, not gonna lie.

Then I got a hair appointment at 5, which will make it three times this year that I have entered a salon. Look at me, I’m practically a woman! Totally not as nerve-wracking as I used to think. And if I get a little distraught, I will take my cue from the patron saint of you-know-whos and simply grab a smoke, which is also nature’s appetite suppressant. Thanks, Audrey Hepburn. You always know what’s best.