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My girlfriend and i are in the ocean; we are receiving instruction from a man intent on teaching us to kayak against the currents. We are up to our waistlines in swirling, salty water. The wind defies the sun with its cooling whip across our backs.
Our teacher looks over his bare shoulders from time to time, eyeing the clouds on the horizon which hang low and darkly. I sense his concern, and within a few minutes, he’s inistent: “Ok, we have to get out of the water.”
We head up the dunes to find higher ground, and looking back over the horizon, i see the hurried advance of the stormfront. It had descended upon us much quicker than i thought possible, winds whorling in that frantic way that often predicts an impending hurricane.
We pitch my tent, and as we do so, a Jamaican family paddles to shore nearby in a small, wooden boat. They don’t even have to ask–they will be riding out the storm with us in the tent, our common desperation to survive binding us. Mother, Father and their child (Boy or girl? I can’t be sure) clamor into the tent, my girlfriend and i right behind them.
They’ve brought with them a small, portable record player. The exterior of its suitcase-style enclosure is that avocado green that bled from the 1970s, its texture one of burlap. Inside, a marigold deck supports a gooved, black turntable. Swing arm to match.
The interior of the tent is surprisingly spacious! About 20′ by 20′, i guess, and with plenty of head room. Quite comfortable, actually. We feel warm, dry, and secure, despite the distant-feeling sounds of the storm, which is (no doubt) right on top of us.
I’m talking intently with my girlfriend. She has brown eyes and hair, shoulder-length, and wears a salmon-coloured sun dress over her black bikini, tanned skin and bare feet. We’re discussing life, the universe, and everything. The other people in the room–our teacher, and the Jamaican family–have faded from each of their respective corners into non-existence.
But the record player remains, sitting between her and i, in the centre of the tent, turning constantly, but too slowly to play and 33s or 45s. I fumble with a switch on the side of the machine. The record comes to a stop and then begins to move in reverse.
As the record player spins backwards, so does…time.
I hear our conversation in reverse, and flipping the switch, I hear it forward for a second time. I feel my lips moving and hear the words come out. I see her lips move and make the same sounds i heard earlier…only this time i know in advance what will be said. She is aware of this phenomenon as well.
Both of us appear to be “aware” of time, observing these events as they occur, and unable (or not even wanting) to change them. And so as the record player goes back and forth, nothing changes save our perspective.
Using my hand i spin the platter with vigor–a thousand spins forward, two-thousand spins back, and we watch–unharmed–as the word rises and falls around us, never losing the safety of our spacious tent.
I begin to wonder how my manipulation of myself within the timeline affects my own timeline. Or how it could be possible?
–
Man, i really want that record player =)
We are riding on a smoothly-paved road near a lake. The grass between us and the water is crisp and uniformly green…a park perhaps. The temperature is that perfect balance between hot and cold–no matter that we’ve been biking for some distance–i don’t feel even a hint of perspiration or fatigue. “We.” I am with friends–not sure who, but i sense their smiles and playful attitudes as we meander down the street. The sky is greyish but not gloomy–a uniform blanket of cloud diffuses the sunlight evenly throughout our field of vision.
Our bikes are older, as is the timeline. It may be somewhere between 1982 and 1986, and the bikes we are riding feel about 10 years old–mine might be that 1970’s dark brown with a couple tomato and marigold rings around the downtube. They a little clunky, heavy and fendered, but well maintained and performing well.
The road we pass takes us past a structure–not unlike a pole-barn–something you might see in a park, but usually with picnic tables underneath. This one, however, contains a large group of people engaged in yoga asana practice. Standing close together, they contort into poses that are familiar but not–variations i’ve never seen. The instructor calls positions one after another, in a very “flow-y” manner. Positions are held only long enough for the practitioners to chant (in sanskrit) the name of the pose, as though they were chanting “om”–and do so with perfect precision and harmonics–nothing short of angelsong. I cannot help but crane my neck around as we pass–I’ve already slowed myself down to elongate the experience.
Shortly thereafter i’m standing at the edge of the front yard of a ranch-style house down the street from the yoga practice–it looks very much like the one i grew up in on Hornbeam Drive in Longwood. Bikes are strewn around the yard and people are sitting on the grass, talking jovially, or tossing a frisbee. Everyone seems satisfied–or rather, happy.
I have a pillow wedged between my knees and i’m hugging it with my legs as though to afford myself a certain stability, and with a crouch i jump up into the air. And again. And again. Each successive jump is a little higher, each time i hang at the top of the arc a little longer, and each time i land as softly as a feather, barely bending the grass blades below.
On my last jump, i’m hanging at the top of the arc and it suddenly dawns on me that i can choose whether or not to stay in the air. My past experience tells me that after hanging at the top of the jump, i should begin to fall…and this is still in mind, but i am also working with a new understanding of a new moment.
I choose to remain in the air. And i do.
My mind wavers a bit, between confidently embracing this new understanding (and staying aloft, if not rising more) and the past experience, which wants to pollute my current understanding (and causes me to wobble in the air and perhaps descend a bit).
I said yes.
I wake on the couch where i had fallen asleep, the red-shaded lamp still glowing steadily.
It is dark out but the sun is just beginning to diffuse the slightest light throughout the sky. I am startled into an adrenaline rush by a man outside the window who keeps approaching the glass…his face wearing an eerie maniacal smile.
I swing around to the front door which he is coming through, to block his invasion. I can see him better now. He is dressed humbly, in clothing that has probably been on his back for days. He is a bit weathered too, likely not having seen the hot side of a shower for days. His hair might be shoulder length and straw like in colour and fray. His demeanor is calm and his behaviour suggests that he thinks he belongs here–that is, he doesn’t think he’s invading my space, but i feel very uncertain and defensive. And, still calm and smiling, he’s trying to push his way past me, affecting his presence into my space. I am holding him off with pushes of forearm and fist. A couple more guys show up, similar in presence.
I am obviously uncomfortable with these guys trying to get into my house, objecting with screwed up facial expressions and increasingly wider limbs, somehow managing to keep them at bay. Finally i gain ample control over my limbs, and subsequently theirs, and push them out the door. Once this happens, they seem “defeated” and no longer try to come in. Over my shoulder, however, i see a fourth man, standing on the other side of the room, almost statue-esque, and having a skin tone of dusty granite. He is very tall and dressed only in a cloth, appearing very ancient and tribal. He seems to be holding his ground, and certainly he has the physical advantage over me–I’m beginning to anticipate an evictive struggle with him–which may not succeed.
Marshall (old friend, new roommate!) swings around the corner and approaches the statue-man from behind, only revealing his stealthy presence when he had descended upon the intruder, placing himself at a vantage point. The man of granite, with a wizened look upon his face, observes the new odds, and seeing himself overpowered, allows us to lead him out of the house without contest.
I am seated along the length of an enormous dining table in a somewhat suburban home, perhaps approximate to the University. The late afternoon sunshine diffuses its way through the room so that no corner is lighter or darker than any other, making everything appear vivid and alive.
Many lively individuals surround this table, dividing their time between eating and fervently discussing their movement–they are organizing, rallying around a cause–and their youthful energy suggests positive effectiveness. Ideas and smiles beam across the room in a blur of viscous conversation that eludes complete absorption.
This house belongs to Katie’s relatives–her Aunt and Uncle–with whom she spent much of her impressionable youth. And I understand that while they took her under their wing, it was with a certain degree of disdain (or out of some inconvenient notion of responsibility). Consequently, she was often treated as a second-class person, and this created issues that she still struggles with today.
I am in a separate room of the house, just off the kitchen. Here, the Aunt and Uncle are dining–separate from the clamor of the grassroots movement forming a few rooms away. Katie’s presence elicits some kind of comment from these relatives–yet another disparaging remark–and upon its delivery I snap, no longer able to hold my tongue…
I’m ripping each of them a new asshole, surging forth with forked tongue to stab the life out of their inflated egos, leaving nothing sacred, attacking every facet of their despicable existences, criticizing…no, no–crushing them over everything from their complete and utter failure to treat Katie with decency and respect to the blandness and low-quality of the food they serve. As this attack bellows forth, Katie retreats from the scene, her mood somber and reserved. I notice this, and wonder if its a signal that I am overstepping my bounds, or hurting more than helping. But these expressions pump out of me by necessity, and I don’t let her recession stop me–I feel these things need to be said.
I am outside–the dinner party appears to have shifted locale to circle a swimming pool. The same group of vibrant youths are here, but now seem more social than political. Same smiles, nonetheless. I see some of Katie’s closest friends, but not her.
Campus blossoms off of the opposite bank of a short, arched bridge that spans a crystalline river. Academic buildings and collegiate scenery that should feel familiar, instead seems just slightly different enough to provide that sense of newness, and much to take in. All, still perfectly illuminated in perfect light–nothing to bright, nothing too dark. As I cross, I decide to call Katie, feeling a bit of guilt over my actions with her family, and I wanting to discover her reaction. And while the water below moves along at a chipper pace, the line begins to ring.
I’m expecting to leave a voicemail as I’m remembering for some reason that her phone might be devoid of reception recently, so I am surprised when I am greeted instead by an inquisitive, “Hello?” Her voice indicates a certain degree of sadness. We talk as I wander further into a noisy campus. Wanting to give our conversation due attention, I set a course for a large nearby building–perhaps the Reitz Union–whose impressive height is eclipsed only by the amount of glass used to create its face. Inside, I see landings, hallways, offices and doors off to the right and left of an expansive atrium containing a wide stairwell, which I start to climb.
As I climb, Katie tells me a story of recent events in her life. She describes a woman, who upon description sounds like the wife of one of the faculty whom I work with. This woman, she relays, had loaned her an electronic word processor. And it is with this device, Katie tells me, that she wrote out everything–everything, everything–everything she wants, every direction she might take in life, every component of the person she wants to be, everything, everything! As she tells this story I continue ascending the stairwell, and for a brief moment wonder why she might not have used the computer I bought for her for this task–the one offered as payment for the panniers she lovingly and frustratingly sewed together for me…but I quickly decide this detail lacks enough importance to warrant interrupting her flow. She continues, lamenting that ultimately, the document was lost to a technological failure of sorts.
As I round the stairs up to the fifth floor, I begin to hear our conversation in stereo–in one ear, the phone and in the other, her voice from just a few steps further ahead. As I step onto the fifth floor, I see her seated in an office directly ahead. With freshly drawn smiles, we hang up our phones and move to pursue our conversation, face-to-face.
The small office is littered with file drawers and files that might once have lived in them. The desk, which Katie sits behind, holds up an archaic computer of sorts, which I think she may be using to check her email, or something similarly innocuous. A hand-made sign on the door of this small suite reads “The Kickstand”, each 1/4 page letter printed red on white paper and taped together to form the words. I understand this office was used by the first iteration of that organization.
Our surroundings shift around us, back to the house owned by the Aunt and Uncle, and into Katie’s personal room. She asks if I would like to see what she “has so far”, referencing a hand-drawn calendar of July 2008, littered with names and places. She asks me for the dates of our Alaska trip, and I reply with the dates of my upcoming Costa Rica trip. She marks this on the calendar with my name, and highlights that series of days in green or yellow–as she does this, however, I notice the calendar is not correct. I cannot tell where the error lies, but I know that the 11th should be on a Saturday and in this case it falls on a Monday or Tuesday. I study the lines and numbers drawn with a blue ink pen, but can’t seem to find the source of the disparity. There are other names and events written on the calendar. In particular, I notice “the fest” scrawled across the top, and again spanning several days near the end of the month, these days highlighted in blue.
The dusky sky reclaims some of its abundance of light as we pedal on University Avenue downtown, heading West. Repeatedly, we see signs bearing an image or logo of a sliced lemon. Continuing down the dark, wet road, now very much experiencing the night-time, we quickly come upon a dark-skinned man in round, thin, gold-rimmed glasses whose lemonade stand sits in the middle of the East-bound lane. He emerges from the darkness so suddenly we are forced to dodge, Katie hard to the right and me hard to the left to get around him. Our relative proximities scare everyone, and he call me something, using an expletive–but I know his expression comes from surprise and fear of harm rather than any kind of real hate. Still for some reason, I toss at him the newspaper I am carrying?!?
Almost immediately we turn around and head back East, and on our way past him, I call him the name that he called me–but now its funny and we all laugh. The night sky has given away to mid- to late-morning sunshine. I say to her “so…I really ripped into your aunt and uncle” with that inflection indicating an apologetic guilt and my desire to discover her feelings on the matter.
Without a moment of hesitation, and with confidence and conviction, she turns to me and says, “Oh, don’t worry about it at all…”
I can see the wet path left behind by my West-bound bicycle tires. Now with my hands off the handlebars, I’m roughly retracing my path, but not really caring if my tires hit the same patch of sidewalk or not.
Nighttime has settled around us and the cool air is just humid enough to poke through our clothing. But we are warm anyway, basking in the sweetened glow of each others’ smiling faces. Your bleach-blond hair reflects the light dancing forth from ancient streetlights while wisps of wind find their way into the flaps of our pockets and collars. A few dim lights glow from the windows of the three- or four-story apartments above.
Our streetside seats at this bistro have long been warmed from the hours we’ve spent here–most of the waiters and waitresses have gone home for the night, and those remaining are cleaning up. But the table is ours for so long as we want it. A few shadows dance around the walls in the old urban district of this city in the Southeast of France. The cobblestone streets meander wherever they lead, in that interesting way that knows nothing of squareness.
Your eyes are wide; your lips are glistening and red and fascinating! Our conversation tonight wanders from every topic to every other, smoothly and naturally. For a time, nothing exists save our respective consciousnesses and their interaction–their relationship–as though we are in an ethereal tunnel of loving friendship where the doldrums of daily life can’t distract and interrupt us. Familiar.
Some friends of mine appear just down the street. This is expected–the next part of my night is with them, but also means our meeting of minds and bodies must come to a close. Standing from the table, you wish me a good evening, or express thanks for our time together. We set to part and pause momentarily to share a single, purposeful, and loving embrace. I can feel your lipstick transfer smearingly onto my lips, and as we separate, your eyes sparkle me tidings of farewell.
As I walk down the street towards my friends, I look back at you and see that you are looking back at me. It seems the night is still young…
I am preparing to go on stage…apparently filling in for Jimmy Page whose whereabouts are unknown to me, and nor is this explained. It would seem that I am to deliver more than just the music–that I should be the rock-star equivalent of a “stunt double”. Why I have been selected as a suitable alternative perplexes me–I don’t look like him, I am unfamiliar with his music, let alone how to play it, let alone how to play guitar! But there are no consequences for my participation, and I go with the flow. On stage the lighting is dim in most places, like you might see at any concert, with contrasting bursts of color pointed in just the right places. The venue is smaller and contained like The House of Blues versus a large open arena and the air is correspondingly smoky and musty from years of non-ventilation. The stage sits at the patrons’ shoulder-height and there is an ocean of them vibrating to sounds–either the house system is invoking everyone’s groove, or the rest of the band is already summoning rhythms. I keep my eyes just ahead of closed to avoid the stare-lock of expectant fans to minimize my perception of their reactions–which, if bad, would swiss-cheese my confidence and thereby destroy any semblance of plausibility for my substitution.
I’m playing nothing–just making hand movements and singing a melody that seems to match, but keeping back from the microphone and muddling my words. And with this I hope to fool the audience into believing that the imperceptibility of the vocals is a consequence of an inadequate sound system versus my lyrical ignorance.
A stage hand helps me swap guitars between songs–and in my mental discourse I note what a stark contrast this is from my own days on stage where I did everything for myself. This second guitar is a solid-body electric–I think the first was a hollow body electric/acoustic. It occurs to me to check, and sure enough the volume knob is down so I turn it up. But then I wonder why I’ve taken this action as I certainly don’t want this instrument to make any sound.
Toward the end of this song the rhythm guitarist and I face each other, standing close in a sort of comraderatic display of flamboyant guitar virtuosity, and I finally strum a bit, adding a fullness to the overall sound that has been missing!
After the show I’m wandering around backstage, which is a series of hallways and rooms not unlike a house, with a bathroom off of one wall near the back. One of the larger rooms has tables full of food, but it looks as though many people have been through here and most of the platters are almost picked clean. Largely untouched, however, is a tupperware bowl of sliced avocado which I sample–mmm! Its yummy. Spinning around I notice there is a cash register and someone attending it–and I realize these things are not free. I’m thinking how nonsensical this is, and don’t feel too bad about my transgression.
I wake up on the couch where I had fallen asleep. Its well into the morning–the room is well lit even though my white roman shade has not been pulled. My denim jeans are inexplicably folded and tucked halfway underneath my body whereas I clearly remember having them on when I fell asleep on the furniture. Tabitha (the cat) wanders out from the back of the house and I’m a bit confused/wondering why she’s here but call to her with teasing fingers and “here sweety”s. Looking back toward the guest room I see Shwi-Shwi on the floor curled up with a nearly-empty black duffle bag which I presume belongs to the person wrapped up in the guest bed sheets (Vyki?). She gets up (it is Vyki!) dressed thematically for a masquerade ball. Walking out into the living room she explains she was at the Haddon House party last night which I know to frequently host these bizarre gatherings–everyone goes to them, and nobody leaves disappointed. But I don’t recall having heard about this one. Looking into my email account, I see it–cordoned off in some rarely-visited corner by a creative collection of filters is the message detailing last night’s festivities.
And then I wake up.
–
Its rare that my “house” in my dreams is the same pile of blocks that I actually live in, but in this case, the similarity was more than “good” or “striking”–it was exact! Right down to the various bits of life that I had strewn around the room–shoes, cell phone, receipts from the day’s purchases, etc.–this astral dwelling, and the events that transpired within it–made for a confusing morning. As I slumber around my house, I am still perplexed about the jeans (especially since I was actually wearing gray pants rather than jeans…) and the presence of the cats (which are not actually here). I have never heard of any place called the “Haddon House”. It takes a heavy shake of head to differentiate between dream and not.
Perhaps I need another heavy shake of head…
I am at my own house which as grown a second story. It is either very late in the evening or very early in the morning but likely the latter; in either case the outside lighting is a very dim dusk-y or dawn-y, and things are consequently difficult to see. I am moving around my bedroom which is on the second floor and I keep hearing these odd rocky-clunking-scraping noises(?) I can’t identify the source of these sounds except that they are coming from outside the house, and finally it occurs to me to glimpse out the curtain-covered window to the street below. I see four (or more?) men clumsily carrying a stone or concrete sarcophagus past my house on Northwest 11th Street, stopping every few feet to realign themselves or rest for the next few moves; this is the source of the disturbing sound.
The sarcophagus is rectangular in proportion to the containment of a human body; the sides are undecorated, but the relatively flat lid is embossed with an image–the outline of a featureless, wrapped body represents presumably the actual one lying underneath it. Sun-like rays emanate from the head to the outer edge which is adorned with small widget-y symbols.
Drawing conclusions, I presume this vessel comes from the cemetery just North of my neighborhood (which doesn’t exist in reality) while the cemetery to the South has gone uninvaded by these ill-plotting deviants. And because of their apparent vandalism I become empathetic to those who might suffer the desecration of these resting places–and place a call to 911.
A male operator with a shade of a British accent answers my call and gives me an opportunity to state my needs. I’m describing what I’ve just seen and insisting that a patrol car should arrive post-haste! But the response I get is fairly lackluster, as though the other end of the phone just doesn’t believe what I’ve relayed. He repeatedly returns my own statements in question form and begins inquiring about who I am…? Between pleads for police intervention I tell him things like “I’m 30 years old” and “I’m a homeowner” and I feel immediately embarrassed that I’ve chosen these arbitrary indicators to establish my credibility. Honestly–age? Land ownership? Perhaps these things do provide some degree of information about myself, but crazy people are found as easily in the boardrooms of our most mono-culturalistic corporations as they are in any mental ward.
I’m still on the phone, now strolling into my front yard for a look up Northwest 30th Avenue to the East where I see more coffins, piles of dirt and large chunks of cracked sarcophagi. I’m repeating my urgent request for aid to the man on the other end of the line while my feet start moving up the street. I don’t want to go toward this situation, but I don’t appear to have much choice!
Now closing in on these piles of dirt I am near a dirty vehicle or two–pickup trucks–when the same men who carried the sarcophagus realize my presence, and take an offensive stance. They reach to grab me and I’m backing off, avoiding their grasps and dropping my phone. Picking it up, I’m walking backwards quickly, blocking their swings and taking a few of my own, each designed to scare them rather than actually connect and harm them. In fact I don’t think they really want to hurt me; I am perhaps not part of their escapade…but they are fearful for having been discovered and are acting from that rather than any focused desire to harm me. Time seems to be moving a bit slow.
I am back at my house, apparently having eluded them and a black Toyota SUV skids to a halt in my front yard while an attractive woman spills from the driver’s seat with a look of business on her face. She is taller than me with longish dark brown hair. Her antique white sweater has a very tight weave that fits her body well and a silvery necklace dangles a few trinkets near the bottom of the curve it makes around her neck–otherwise she wears no jewelry. Her quality black pants are clean and pressed, and would fit in any office environment. Shoes to match.
She identifies herself as an investigator but shows me neither badge nor sidearm but seems determined to discover this scene down the street. We start moving that way–I am a bit worried that those men will be trouble.
–
This dream reminds me of a recent conversation I had about the word desecration. When a tomb, grave or any holy site is vandalized, it is often said to have been “desecrated”. But I think it may be important to clarify that the act invoked by the criminal is vandalism instead. I’m drawing this distinction because I believe that, should I declare something sacred to myself, nobody save myself has the power to remove that attribute. Certainly they may vandalize something which I hold sacred, but after that act has been committed, it will be my choice, and my choice alone, as to whether that item/place/monument/etc. shall be desecrated.
I am rolling up my sleeping bag in the morning; although this one is technologically far superior to the one I’m dreaming in, and has a sort of fastener that makes keeping it rolled much easier…perhaps I have just invented something.
I am home and have a cat, although this one is a kitten and it is firetruck red! True to its colour it is a fireball with its blue nose and yellow eyes, and a few stripes of red, each a few shades darker than the rest of its coat. It is bouncing all over the place and acting mischievous but not harming a thing. I am laughing from my belly; its a pure joy to watch.
I am seated on the plane. I am taking a flight to I-don’t-know-where, but this fact is hardly prevalent or important. I think I am about twelve-ish rows back. In any case, directly behind my seat is a bulkhead separating me from the next compartment. I have an aisle seat and the seats all around me are occupied. As is the aisle, as the last passengers file into the plane, and manipulate their carry-on luggage into the various over-head and under-seat storage areas.
I see you coming down the aisle…you are so beautiful, but I divert my eyes because for as much as I want to see you, I am still unsure how to reintroduce myself to you. And overall I am still unsure if I can let you back in yet. You are with, I think, your mother and maybe also your sister, and as you file past me I can no longer withhold my gaze–I turn my head up to look at yours as you turn your head to meet mine. These clothings you’re wearing are somewhat eccentric, wrapping you in yellow and bright green.
The crowd forces your continuation down the aisle but I crane my neck around to maintain eye contact with you, and you do the same. Our expressions are somewhat solemn. Neither knows how the other feels, neither knows what to do next.
You disappear to the other side of the bulkhead.
i am seated at a long white dining table; one designed for inexpensiveness and efficiency. Its is perfectly suited for its surroundings which is either a cheap fast food restaurant or cafeteria of some kind. The people sitting around me are unknown to me, but we are packed into the table, sitting as close as friends and family, and everyone is in a jovial mood, eating and drinking and sharing with those around them.
Finally I notice that you are seated to my right, one or two occupied seats away from me. And as I take note of your presence, those individuals separating us are gathering their containers, plates, and plasticware and departing. You notice me too, and while we don’t particularly acknowledge each other, neither are we ignoring each other. Moments later I begin to gather my things, and as I am standing up, so do you. But you are a moment behind me, and I observe that the tattoo on the back of your neck is gone–removed by laser–I can see new skin where it once was, still healing.
As I turn toward the exit, I allow my hand to brush ever-so-briefly against yours. In doing so, I’m inviting you back into my life, but cautiously, because I know that if we are not in similar places of need and want–if I let my emotions take control again, the inequity could send me back down that same depressed path I’ve already walked. How can I be sure this will not happen again?
A few steps later and I feel your hands wrapping around my waist, and your mouth exhales a worrisome “oh” indicating an indulgence in some forbidden act–as though you are taking a risk by making contact, but cannot resist the urge. I am surprised and pleased and a little stressed to be feeling your touch–its been a long time. I turn to meet you, sliding your hands into mine. Now the two of us are leaned against a wall, looking into each other. Our expressions are somewhat solemn. Neither knows how the other feels, neither knows what to do next.
