Switched At Birth

The August Dream

I just awoke from a longer than usual night of sleep.

I dreamed so hard I woke up with my left ear folded over and painful.

I lay on a sofa on the second floor of the New York Public Library wrapped in fur skins, turning the pages of a large book until all the lights were turned out around me. Ancient women gently pushed me out the door and I was suddenly in the dark, violent streets.

I drove through the unknowable avenues like a tiny ball in a huge pinball machine, swerving through noise and neon.

I lost the car somewhere and wandered through fog-filled halls with other lost children. They clung to my ankles, mistakenly thinking I knew the way home.

Then there was the ocean. I saw marble statues, half drowned in the green surf, unblinking eyes wide, terrifying, irresistible.

The old man spoke, then. He broke from the network of vines criss-crossing his chest to walk with me. He stumbled. Sometimes he crawled. But his message for me rumbled, creaked and roared out of that voice that had become strange through disuse.

I looked at my right arm this morning to see if it bore a mark from his grip.

Upon awaking, I passed an old mirror on my way to the computer keyboard. There! The old man again. In one of my eyes.

 

I'm compelled by dreams to take a sabatical from blogging for a few weeks, and won't be writing or reading in this space. I will be available via e-mail, however, and would love to hear from you.

See you in September!

 

Morning Word Scraps 12-3-08

The woman in my dreams last night sat on a bench with her husband. She had the broad slavic face of a Russian peasant. He was more KGB. As she gesticulated with one hand to emphasize some point she was trying to make in her monologue about the joys of world travel, I studied her ruddy face; a face marked by several chins, undulating like clay hills, crescent-shaped fat packets under her eyes like sandbags at the levees of her watery dark eyes.

She wore an unusually ugly burnt orange crocheted cap, its bright label still attached by a white plastic umbilical, and sticking out at a rakish angle like some disguised antenna. Her stream of consciousness blather required no listener participation.

The husband was dressed in charcoal gray all the way, from Hush Puppy shoes to a zip up sweater jacket. He sat absolutely still, taking advantage of his wife's covering stream of words to stalk me with the unblinking eyes of a predator.

Scenes From A Restaurant

Buck and I went out to dinner last night. The restaurant had a little foyer in it with a demilune table and a gold leaf mirror over it. Buck was already speaking to the maitre'd who guided him through a silently swinging, quilted leather door when I remembered the thin gold chain in my hand.

My necklace. It had a knot in the chain, as they always do. I had untangled the knot on the way to the restaurant, but forgot to put it on. I stopped in front of the mirror to fasten the clasp, making sure the diamond solitaire was centered just in the hollow of the v-shaped bone in my neck.

I opened the inner door. The maitre'd was nowhere to be found. Only a few tables were filled and in the dim light, I didn't pay much attention as I wandered from room to room. I got all the way to the very last small room, but didn't find him.

Puzzled, I checked to be sure my glasses were on my face, and began to retrace my steps. By this time, almost every table was full. Everyone was dressed nicely in semi-formal attire. But I stopped still in my tracks and tried not to stare when I saw that everyone's faces were painted or tattooed with Chinese (please forgive my ignorance) or Japanese (please forgive my ignorance) language characters -- men, women and children. There was no conversation; no background music; only the rustle of my dress and the click of my high heels on the quarry tile floor.

I continued to walk toward the front, looking for Buck. He wasn't there.

But I did see my first husband, still thin and wearing gold-rimmed eyeglasses, although much balder than the last time I saw him, looking more like his father now (the one who told me he hoped all of my dreams would turn to ashes and dust, that one).

I kept walking, and walking and walking until I woke up.

Aristotle Speaks!

To me, last night, in a dream.

But first, a few words about post-hysterectomy, menopausal women, insomnia, no dreaming and writing. Heh! My feelings won't be hurt if you leave this discussion and come back on another day.

Okay. Here's the deal. Earlier this week I went for my routine annual checkup.

Last year, I was advised to switch to a lower dose form of oral estrogen. Like a good girl, trying to reduce risks, I did. Yes, the occasional dreaded night sweats returned, energy flagged, sleep became ever more elusive and the wide open tap of my formerly rich dream life became a slow drip.

I saw a new person this year. She asked a lot of questions and offered a variety of options, based on my personal and family medical history. She was smart as a whip and proactive on my behalf. I walked out of there with a clever method of delivering systemic estrogen called a Femring.

Two nights ago, I awoke in the morning after a great night's sleep with my head singing, full of fantastic, colorful, music-filled dreams. There were children playing in a sprinkler and a young couple bathing their baby in a small robin's egg blue Victorian bathtub that had gorgeous flowers painted on it. I saw an old couple holding hands, sitting side by side, their thin legs touching, in a white wicker glider. I met an elderly judge in a 19th century suit complete with ornate pocket watch who flirted with me over tea and scones in a most courtly manner. People gathered for ice cream under the canopy of huge spreading oak trees, and I enjoyed conversations with many of them.

Last night, Aristotle visited. We walked in a grove and talked about some of his favorite subjects: change, movement, purpose and potential. I practically sprang out of bed, fully rested and recharged.

My dream buddy, Aristotle, might note that the empirical evidence suggests increased estrogen is due the credit for my restored ability to sleep deeply and remember my dreams.

 

Breathe In, Breathe Out

I awoke this morning at five, lying on my back in bed, hands clasped tightly under my chin like some anxious child in prayer.

I heard Buck's breathing; a gentle percussive sound on inhalation; the hint of tender endearments in each exhalation.

My hands relaxed.

For half an hour, I listened, remembered the night's rich tapestry of dreams, and then awoke fully with the fresh cold water of an epiphany. Feet on the floor, I slipped from the room, smiling.

Nuts!

It was exciting to pick out courses. I ran around like an 18 year old all over the pretty campus, trying to get the lay of the land. Finally, I made my way to the bookstore. Buck was there, patiently waiting, thumbing through a magazine.

I looked at my schedule again and then my watch. "Eek!" I cried. "My first class starts right now!" I ran up an empty check-out aisle, receiving a stern admonition from one of the cashiers. In my hurry, I dropped the stack of papers with my schedule and the book list, picked it up again, then went to the nearest stack of books, screeched to a halt and put my the flat of both hands on them.

"What the heck am I doing?"

I sheepishly walked back to Buck. "This is silly. We live three hundred miles away. I can't go to classes here every day."

He gave me one of those "I knew that; I was just waiting for you to figure it out" kind of looks.

And then I woke up.

Loss of Innocence

Tangled in soft yellow cotton knit sheets

One foot stuck out in the air, bony weather vane.

Dawn's thin line under the drape,

Bright as a bracelet.

One vision left, I slipped back to that twilight world

Saw safety on my side of the road, danger on the other.

That knowledge tree is for grown-up tastes.

I saw the triangle-headed viper only a hop, skip and jump away.

"It's a crooked stick," they all said.

But the hood twitched. I saw it.

Stone lions guarding that path were by turns solid,

Translucent, transparent.

The young girl broke from my grasp.

I cried, "No!"

She ran to them, calling "Kitty!" and they smiled,

Foamy pink.

A Dream Right Between The Eyes

I was running around a track in a grass field. The track itself was sandy. That doesn't matter. Each time I was about to get into the rhythm of legs stretched, good breathing, forward motion, something would catch my eye: a wire mesh backstop was teetering toward the path in the wind. If not me, who? I would stop to relocate it, away from the track. Begin again. Oh, no. I need my sunglasses. They're in the car. Begin again. The grass has overgrown the path here. Take a detour. Slows me down. Begin again. Over and over and --

I woke up exhausted, a wrinkle pressed down the side of my face from a crease in the pillow case, brain fogged in.

Yellow legal pad in its customary spot, I sit down to write.

Pen needs new cartridge. Begin again.

Can't to do it today without coffee. Begin again.

Oh look at those three deer out front. Begin again.

Time to feed Maggie. Begin again.

Phone rings. Oops, better take that call. Begin again.

Guy coming soon to try to locate source of mysterious water leak coming from underneath the wall of books in my study. Better take a shower and get dressed. Begin again. . . later.

If Distractions didn't exist, I would have to invent them.

Thunder Dreams

Last night the thunder rumbled so continuously I dreamed of a bowling alley from my childhood. That time my finger got stuck in the hole. To say I was a graceless bowler is a gratuitously kind exageration.

It was from a place of deep sleep way down in some well of consciousness that I heard a sound that cracked me awake, out of bed, stumbling around, at first missing the direction of the door and almost tripping over free weights lying near the glass doors. Getting my bearings, I heard the sound again. Someone was pounding on the front door!

Stepping more carefully through the slightly open bedroom door, through the short hallway, around the corner and into my study, I finally stopped. "What if someone is in the house? Is the alarm on? What time is it?  Why on earth is someone pounding on the door?"

I raised my left arm slowly and focused on the small glowing disk of my wristwatch: two a.m. In the southeast corner of the study there is a six-inch wide, six feet tall wood-framed glass panel. It provides a perfect view of the front porch. I peered out. No one there.

"The kids!" What if something happened and they tried to call and couldn't get us and came over to try and wake us up! Last night I had left several cordless phones littered about the house, none in their cradles. I found one in the kitchen. No messages.

I stood there for a few minutes, drinking a glass of cool water, thinking. I thought about putting on some coffee and just staying up, then put my glass down and headed back to bed. Even with his impaired hearing, it's usually Buck who starts awake and reaches for his Beretta when an out-of-context sound occurs in the night. But he was breathing in that husky way of deep sleep.

Maggie was still right there on her sheepskin mat beside my bed, alert but quiet. Her tongue darted out for a quick lick of my palm, and I stroked her once from head to tail. TAIL. That wide labrador retriever tail was stretched out, the last several inches resting on an open space on the bottom shelf of my bedside bookcase.

Ah, I had found the source of the sound of pounding on a door which awakened me from sleep. Maggie was having a thunder dream, too.

April 11, 2007 in Dreams | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)

Last night the thunder rumbled so continuously I dreamed of a bowling alley from my childhood. That time my finger got stuck in the hole. To say I was a graceless bowler is a gratuitously kind exageration.

It was from a place of deep sleep way down in some well of consciousness that I heard a sound that cracked me awake, out of bed, stumbling around, at first missing the direction of the door and almost tripping over free weights lying near the glass doors. Getting my bearings, I heard the sound again. Someone was pounding on the front door!

Stepping more carefully through the slightly open bedroom door, through the short hallway, around the corner and into my study, I finally stopped. "What if someone is in the house? Is the alarm on? What time is it?  Why on earth is someone pounding on the door?"

I raised my left arm slowly and focused on the small glowing disk of my wristwatch: two a.m. In the southeast corner of the study there is a six-inch wide, six feet tall wood-framed glass panel. It provides a perfect view of the front porch. I peered out. No one there.

"The kids!" What if something happened and they tried to call and couldn't get us and came over to try and wake us up! Last night I had left several cordless phones littered about the house, none in their cradles. I found one in the kitchen. No messages.

I stood there for a few minutes, drinking a glass of cool water, thinking. I thought about putting on some coffee and just staying up, then put my glass down and headed back to bed. Even with his impaired hearing, it's usually Buck who starts awake and reaches for his Beretta when an out-of-context sound occurs in the night. But he was breathing in that husky way of deep sleep.

Maggie was still right there on her sheepskin mat beside my bed, alert but quiet. Her tongue darted out for a quick lick of my palm, and I stroked her once from head to tail. TAIL. That wide labrador retriever tail was stretched out, the last several inches resting on an open space on the bottom shelf of my bedside bookcase.

Ah, I had found the source of the sound of pounding on a door which awakened me from sleep. Maggie was having a thunder dream, too.

Wrong Elevator

Buck and I had stayed several nights at a Marriott Hotel attending a meeting for a corporate trust. It involved helping to equitably divide proceeds of a defunct, albeit profitable, business. The last event of the meeting was a large cocktail party/dinner in a palm-tree filled room, complete with a separate art auction in a theater setting, a bell choir in a glass tower atrium, and an art exhibit lining the walls. 

Buck and I had gotten separated, but it was time for us to leave and we found each other near the elevators, where a large crowd was gathered. Some men in taupe colored suits with matching hats monopolized us, talking as though we knew each other. Consequently, when nearby elevator doors opened, we stepped in quickly,  cutting off conversation with the strangers.

The elevator was mostly glass, with walls to the outdoors. One wall was partially open. It had a girder-type beam jutting out into the air. Two men in suits sat comfortably on the girder, rolled up blueprints in their hands. Buck and I exchanged long looks. We were on the wrong elevator. This one was an express going straight to the top, all 122 floors to the very top, to the Dreamland Express, a restaurant, bar, swimming pools, and a lake at the peak of the volcano, around which the hotel was built.

A perky 1960's stewardess type in a pill box hat began handing out big keys to everyone. Buck and I refused a key, saying we were just trying to get to the parking garage. She couldn't believe that we wouldn't want to stay. Everyone else chuckled.

The elevator stopped. In the rush of people exiting, I was swept out, and for a few moments, wandered around, almost in shock.Throngs of people, in full swim resort regalia, were sitting at floating tables, drinking tropical cocktails with little umbrellas in them, lots of young men who looked like they were part of some college athletic team with goofy looking grins staggering around, lots of old people on floats. There were even rafts designed to looking like living room sofas. One person shouted over to me, "Try one! There are plenty of them!"

Shaking myself, I ran back to the elevator. It was empty. I felt a cold shiver. Where was Buck? Then I heard him, talking to someone. An ancient man, with an ancient-looking pair of bleached out cut-off shorts, no shirt, and a long beard, muttering about how it's just not done, accompanied Buck back into the elevator. "Stay put, Twitchy Baby," Buck said to me, "we're going home." The elevator had changed from a sleek interior to one that looked old, covered in white dust and rickety feeling. The old man banged on the doorway to get the door to shut and had a little trouble getting it started. It finally came to life, shuddered, shook, and headed down.

I woke up in a sweat.

Must have been that chocolate ice cream with chocolate syrup and walnuts I ate just before going to sleep. . .

February 23, 2007 in Dreams | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBack (0)

Buck and I had stayed several nights at a Marriott Hotel attending a meeting for a corporate trust. It involved helping to equitably divide proceeds of a defunct, albeit profitable, business. The last event of the meeting was a large cocktail party/dinner in a palm-tree filled room, complete with a separate art auction in a theater setting, a bell choir in a glass tower atrium, and an art exhibit lining the walls. 

Buck and I had gotten separated, but it was time for us to leave and we found each other near the elevators, where a large crowd was gathered. Some men in taupe colored suits with matching hats monopolized us, talking as though we knew each other. Consequently, when nearby elevator doors opened, we stepped in quickly,  cutting off conversation with the strangers.

The elevator was mostly glass, with walls to the outdoors. One wall was partially open. It had a girder-type beam jutting out into the air. Two men in suits sat comfortably on the girder, rolled up blueprints in their hands. Buck and I exchanged long looks. We were on the wrong elevator. This one was an express going straight to the top, all 122 floors to the very top, to the Dreamland Express, a restaurant, bar, swimming pools, and a lake at the peak of the volcano, around which the hotel was built.

A perky 1960's stewardess type in a pill box hat began handing out big keys to everyone. Buck and I refused a key, saying we were just trying to get to the parking garage. She couldn't believe that we wouldn't want to stay. Everyone else chuckled.

The elevator stopped. In the rush of people exiting, I was swept out, and for a few moments, wandered around, almost in shock.Throngs of people, in full swim resort regalia, were sitting at floating tables, drinking tropical cocktails with little umbrellas in them, lots of young men who looked like they were part of some college athletic team with goofy looking grins staggering around, lots of old people on floats. There were even rafts designed to looking like living room sofas. One person shouted over to me, "Try one! There are plenty of them!"

Shaking myself, I ran back to the elevator. It was empty. I felt a cold shiver. Where was Buck? Then I heard him, talking to someone. An ancient man, with an ancient-looking pair of bleached out cut-off shorts, no shirt, and a long beard, muttering about how it's just not done, accompanied Buck back into the elevator. "Stay put, Twitchy Baby," Buck said to me, "we're going home." The elevator had changed from a sleek interior to one that looked old, covered in white dust and rickety feeling. The old man banged on the doorway to get the door to shut and had a little trouble getting it started. It finally came to life, shuddered, shook, and headed down.

I woke up in a sweat.

Must have been that chocolate ice cream with chocolate syrup and walnuts I ate just before going to sleep. . .