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    lucyoncolorado

    One Hundred Nine

    by , 02-24-2016 at 08:36 PM (621 Views)
    Basically one long dream that had three distinct parts.


    In which A's new dog's former owner returns...

    I'm returning to an upstairs apartment after walking Lucy and Moose. I can picture the layout of the flat, but it's not a place I recognize from real life. When I open the door to the apartment, I enter an open rectangular space with a wall of windows directly across the room from me. To the right of those windows is a hall leading into a kitchen. There are people in the apartment, including my mother. I don't know all of them.

    Moose is dirty from a walk to the river, and someone tells me that his owner will be upset that she has to wash him again. What owner? Not A. A asked me to walk him in the first place.

    Now we are downstairs. Moose is in a crate, sleeping. Two women, one with curly long strawberry hair, sit nearby. They are both all about their calm smiles to the point that it is difficult to communicate with them. I'm trying to figure out how it is that they think Moose is their dog. They explain that he just runs off sometimes to live with others. He's theirs, though, and they want to keep him. I tell them that he's been with A for months now and that he really loves his new life. He looks so sad sitting in the crate. I tell them how he gets to walk down to the river and go for a swim every day. They just shrug. We can take him for a walk whenever we want, so long as we don't get him dirty.

    I'm back upstairs in the apartment, trying to text A to let her know what is going on. I'm furious and confused, and I'm eager to scheme a way to keep Moose. Maybe they'll let us buy him from them. I'm having trouble texting because I can press the letters properly. Meanwhile, there is a knock at the door.



    In which H is a zombie, again...


    I open the door, and H is standing there. My initial feeling is terror. She looks healthy and pretty, but her hair is wrapped in a tight fitting cloth- not quite a turban. It looks like that part of her head has been wrapped up in plaster bandages that have dried into a cast around her skull. Otherwise, she looks normal.

    Many things rush through my mind in a second. She can't possibly be there because she's dead. Maybe she's not dead and it was all a misunderstanding. No that's not possible- I saw her body, I know she's dead, it's been a year and a half, any misunderstanding would've been cleared up by now. So it's not possible for her to be standing there. Maybe it's not her. I look at her more closely. It is her, she is smiling now and coming inside. I'm terrified because dead people can't come to your house and walk inside. I wonder about the cloth wrapped around her head. Is this is a new fashion? Is it holding her skull together? There was nothing wrong with her skull when I saw her body. She looks young and healthy and happy. I'm going out of my mind with confusion and fear, and more than anything, I want to run, but there is nowhere I can go so I keep backing away from her, slowly, trying to grapple with the impossibility of her presence.

    Ah, I realize, this is a dream.

    I feel slightly less scared, but also exhausted. Usually, in dreams, I'm glad to see her. I try really hard to take advantage of the opportunity to tell her things. I try to focus, but those feelings aren't there this time. I'm just afraid and tired, and I don't want her to be in my dream.

    By now, she's in the kitchen chatting with other people. She's leaning against a wall laughing. She's taller than I am. That's not right. But I shrug my shoulders- it's a dream after all.

    I look up at her. She seems very big now. Her shoulders are wider than usual. I try to give her a hug, but I can't quite reach up to her or wrap my arms around her. She looks down at me, mockingly, and says "Are you going to tell me you love me?" It's what I always tell her when she's in my dream. But now, I feel it's insincere. I look internally, but I can't find feelings for this wide, tall, H-like being with the cloth wrapped around her skull. I realize I'm going to regret it later if I don't tell her that I love her, just on the off-chance that this really is her and it really is a visitation, but I think that lately I've been thinking/talking about her so much that I've projected my own thoughts/words on her to the point that I can't even find the original sincere feelings and memories anymore. It's not been about her- it's become about me and how I tell that part of her story, and I wonder if she'd agree with it and I feel selfish because she's not here to correct it and I wonder if I'd even notice if I slipped into bullshit. You can go so far into your own bullshit that you can't see anything clearly anymore. I should stop talking so much.

    Just as I'm about to walk away, she says, "Are you going to start praying for me now?" The mocking tone stings. She does note my insincerity. Of course I'm not going to pray. I tell her that I'm not going to pray. I don't even believe in god or that she's in heaven or that she's here visiting and it wouldn't make any sense for me to pretend I do just because a dream image that I create asks me such a thing. Then for a second, I see what is maybe something real in her eyes, and I think, oh shit, what if this really is a chance to help her. Why can't I listen? Why can't I turn off my thoughts for a second and really let it be about someone else. I stop my rant. "Why? Do you want me to?" But that little glint is gone, and she is a zombie again, walking towards me, and I'm terrified.

    There is another knock at the door, and I have no idea what is on the other side, but I know it's not good. I rush to the door and lean against it to hold it shut. There is an immense force trying to blow the door in, and I'm digging my heels into the floor trying to keep the door shut. I shout out for the other people in the apartment to come help me, but no one else seems troubled. They tell me just to let the door open, but I know some real horror would fill the room. I'm begging others for help, and finally my mother comes over. She half-heartedly leans against the door with me. She's doing it to make me shut up and perhaps even to comfort me. But she doesn't believe me that we MUST keep out whatever is on the other side.

    My eyes are squeezed tight and I'm still holding the door closed with all my strength when my mother starts telling me to open my eyes and look towards the window. I hear the panic in her voice, so I respond by closing my eyes even tighter. I tell her not to look, not to think about it. This is a dream, so if we don't engage and we don't see anything, nothing can hurt us. If we think of other things and try to keep THESE events out, we'll fall into another dream. But she's insistent that I must open my eyes and see what is happening.

    I do. I look towards the window and see all the people coming in towards us. I only look fast- just a quick scared glimpse- and then I shut my eyes tight again. They are coming towards us. My mom is fully panicking now. I tell her to relax. Focus on her breathing, keep her eyes shut, don't think about what is happening. This is how you can end the dream. It's not real, just relax and don't think about it and it can't hurt you. It will go away. I'm telling her this and focusing on my own breathing. The door starts to feel softer; my head rests on it like its a pillow. I'm thinking of my body, relaxed and floating, and I'm blocking out the sounds and sights around me. But my mother keeps shouting and pulling me back into this dream. I start to think about what is happening. I'm terrified, and I start to think that I need to see who is attacking me so that perhaps I can defend myself. Against my better judgment, I look up again and see the people surrounding us, looking down at us. They are tugging my mom's hair, poking her in the ribs, kicking her legs, tickling her. I tell her again, Don't think about it! Shut your eyes! But then it starts to happen to me too. I've engaged with them. One of them, a woman, starts poking me in the ribs too. It starts out as a tickling annoyance, but it starts to become hostile and suffocating. I start to panic. I start to struggle, and the more I struggle, the more hostile the people become.

    And then, I put a stop to it. This isn't real. This is a dream. I lean against the door. The door is a pillow. I'm in a bed. I focus on my breath. The ribbing and beating and struggling and shouting become softer and more muffled. I stop fighting. I relax. I let it happen because I know it isn't real. Slowly, it passes, and I'm sleeping, warm and soft.


    In which I get an MRI and meet an old friend...

    Someone is shaking my shoulder to wake me. I sit up and see R crouched over me. I look around. We are in a small dark waiting room with some 12 other people. I'm sleeping on the floor, inappropriately. I've passed out drunk, it seems.

    The others are couples or parents with children. The mood is somber and tense. I can tell that they are judging me. What sort of fully grown woman gets so drunk in public in the middle of the day that she has to sleep it off on a waiting room floor? I'm embarrassed.

    I stand up, stumbling a bit, and try to stretch my arms. As I do, I hit an older man who is standing with a cane, and he falls over. He's a large (but not fat) older (but not elderly) black man, dressed in warm layers (coat, blazer, vest, shirt, slacks, boots, city hat). He falls to the ground slowly, and when he hits the ground, his legs fly up into the air. His wife runs to his side. I bend over to try to help him. He's on his back with his legs still up in the air. The wife says nothing, just holds his head in her lap as she glares at me. The fallen man says nothing either. He looks me straight in the eyes, then reaches into his blazer pocket for a wooden professor pipe. He lights it, and then smokes, staring at me from the ground with his legs up in the air. I tell him I'm really sorry, and I mean it. I'm also mortified.

    I walk away and stand with R again. Because I'm inebriated, I lose all sense of reflection and start to act on impulse. I say that I'm going to read while I wait, so I pull out Burroughs' Queer which is what I happen to be reading in real life at the time. I try to read aloud, to entertain the waiting group, but I'm not able to make out the words because I'm so drunk that I see double. I place one hand over my eye and try to read with the other, but it's no good. In my grandiosity, I decide that no one will be able to tell if I simply fake it and make it up as I go along, pretending that I can read.

    I orate. I wave my hands around as I speak. I pace around the crowd, exaggerating my facial expressions for emphasis. They are captivated. They shift in their chairs and stare at me silently. At some point in the story, I realize that I've lost track of my thoughts and that I needed to refer back to something I'd mentioned before, but I couldn't remember what it was. I realize that I'm running out of ways to complete the sentence that I'm on- that the end of this sentence is approaching and that I can't remember what it was I was trying to say. I get there and just stand there with my mouth open, my mind blank, and I blink at the crowd. Did they notice I screwed up? Are they enchanted? Or can they tell I'm making it up as I go along?

    I decide the only way to save face is to claim that this is performance art. I begin to ramble about post-modernism and the deconstructed narratives. I'm keenly aware that I don't actually know what I'm talking about, but I hope they won't be able to tell. I run back over to R and begin to climb up his body. I put my foot on his hip and I grab his arm and hoist myself up until I'm standing on his shoulders. I'm towering above my audience, and I continue my oration, waving my hands madly.

    And then I fall. On the way down, I strike the same older smoking man, and he falls too. We both tumble out of the waiting room and down a flight of stairs. People rush to the older man's side to see if he is OK. They help him stand. They light his pipe. They scowl at me. I'm a fool. I return to R's side, but when I look into his eyes I can tell he's ashamed of me.

    The commotion has caused the management to check on us. A middle aged woman rolls over to us in a wheelchair. She has a hard face with a sharp nose and dark skin. Her hair is swept back from her forehead severely. She's beautiful, but not pretty. We recognize each other instantly. It's TM- a girl I knew in elementary school. Then, we attended different middle schools where she became friends with H, K and S. Then all five of us went to high school together, and though she and I were never close, we always seemed to have a lot in common. Aside from our elementary friendship, we had these mutual friends from her middle school time.

    "C and R!" she shouts. "Fancy meeting you here!" I'm surprised because I haven't seen her since I was in high school so she's surely never met R. For a moment, then, I doubt that it is her. I look right in her face, and yes it is her, but she is quite a bit older looking. I realize that I must look old as well.

    I hug her and ask about the wheelchair. She wasn't in a wheelchair last I saw her. She does not tell me what happened, but instead demonstrates how she can twirl and dance around in her wheelchair. She says she is the star of a reality show in which modeling contestants compete in wheelchair bound dance offs. As she rolls about in her chair demonstrating this, the floor lights up beneath her Billie Jean style and spotlights follow her from above. I mirror her movements beside her, letting her take the lead, and we dance together in front of all the waiting people. See, I think to myself, I'm not a fool. It's fun to be flamboyant.

    She asks about K, and tells me to take a selfie with her and send it to her. R comes over and takes the picture. It's unflattering to both of us. He tries several more times, but there is no improvement. I'm not photogenic, I shrug. She does not ask about H. I keep expecting her too, but she doesn't. If I post the selfie on FB where K can see it, then TM will likely scroll through our pages and learn about H. I wonder if it is better to let that happen or to pull her aside and tell her myself. They were not close. I doubt she could be truly affected. I decide it would be awkward so I leave it alone, even though I realize that I actually want to tell her about it. I want to tell the story to someone who knows H but doesn't know already know what happened. I wish she would ask me about her, but she doesn't.

    Instead, TM explains that she is a nurse and that she and the doctor will guide us through our MRIs. They apologize for the delay, but it is complicated running a recording studio at night and an MRI clinic during the day. We nod our heads. Of course this is complicated.

    The doctor walks me over to my sound board and starts adjusting switches. He wipes down the equipment and clears out the cigarettes and empty beer bottles. The sound boards transform into the shapes of coffins. He hands R a kazoo and asks him to play. R plays poorly. The doctor explains that if I feel that something is wrong inside my sound board, then I should tell R to play the kazoo and he will come over and open it up and let me out. Then he tells me to climb inside. It opens like a coffin, but the interior bed still has volume knobs and sound switches that I'm sure will poke me in the back and be quite uncomfortable. I ask the doctor if he is sure this is safe and if I should take a sedative or something. He guarantees that all will be well. I climb inside, and he starts to lower the coffin lid. Only then to I remember that my podiatrist wrote the wrong diagnosis on my MRI form. Wait! I shout. R plays the kazoo. The doc haults the closing process. I explain that I need my heel imaged, not my ankle. He nods as if he isn't really listening and doesn't really care, and he closes me inside.

    It's uncomfortable and I have no way to communicate with anyone on the outside. I hope that R will make sure everything turns out OK and advocate for me, but I'm not sure that he even cares enough any more. He seems more disappointed or ashamed than anything. I wonder if it's even worth the hassle for him anymore.

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    Updated 02-24-2016 at 08:50 PM by 38879

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    Comments

    1. Nellas's Avatar
      Wow that is some intense detail. You're inspiring me to be more committed to writing down everything when I wake up.