Archive for the 'dreams' Category

25
Aug
13

just another day

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Photo from Dream Meanings
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I returned to the base of Wind Mountain on a hike with friends, some old, some new. It was such a high, we decided to continue it. We chose an urban adventure this time, and around 4 o’clock the next morning we set out walking with our dogs, down the sidewalk along a neighborhood road, no particular destination in mind.
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It was beautiful for awhile, what with the light of the morning creeping up, eerie at first, then floating, a thin glow barely on the horizon like hope showing itself from out of despair. People stepped unsteadily out of their houses, squinting in the mist in robes and curlers with coffee, cigarettes. And eventually kids began to be let out with basketballs and skateboards and some with nothing but trouble to cause.
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We walked past one kid getting an old penny-farthing out from a garage. About the time he sped past us on it, I got a call on an old cell phone I no longer have. Yet there it was, the sturdy, silver Samsung flip-phone ringing in my hand. We all stopped and looked at the thing like it was a space pod. A kid screamed bloody murder, jarred us out of our trance. I shrugged and answered the phone.
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An androgynous voice droned in my ear the news of my father’s death. I said, “What? My father died years ago!” and yet I cried and cried, tears which were a long time coming, ones I hadn’t cried the first time he died. And when I was done, I closed the old phone and buried in under a rock. There was no other way to take this but as a sign to return home, and thus was a destination made clear to us.
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We cut across the salt flats and too many cities, mountains, and fields to count, until we saw the old dirt road up ahead. We hung a left onto it, and there, at the very end of the road, was the old homestead, like it was before it was renovated. The old carport was there off the cinder block base. And the huge rectangle of mostly glass that sat atop it and jutted out from it, had the old ramp slanting down from the sliding doors to the great eastern lawn, like freedom, like a dock to all of the Atlantic ocean.
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My dog, Nova, and I went upstairs to find my mother, searched all the rooms for hours as the sky grew darker and darker, and by the time I gave up looking for her, I could see dangerous clouds coming down from Canada, each full to bursting with killing intent. I started toward the spiral stairs and caught a glimpse out the eastern windows. Rain was starting to come down like spears with blunt ends on a lawn strewn with smoldering briquettes and half-eaten hamburgers.
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I ran down the stairs and out the door to the carport and found marijuana everywhere, some of it burned, some still fresh, strewn like a ripped-apart bale of hay amidst a wasteland of bitten-into burgers and hotdogs and buns. Rain spears were turning into streams from the sky and I looked outward from it all just in time to see my friends down the dirt road, leaving, high as kites and fat with food, and the one on the tail end of them was my oldest, dearest friend, and he must have felt the heat of my eyes on his back because he turned and grinned and waved a big, happy goodbye.
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I whirled around and ran back through the door and into the house and I started back up the spiral stairs. I could see poor Nova stranded there at the top of them treading and circling all nervous and beside himself. He was on my heels as I ran down the hall and into the expanse of living room like a Nebraska prairie, and I could see it then, that the western half of the ceiling was soggy with moisture and the eastern half was beginning to sag and drip great handfuls of water and sodden drywall.
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I looked out the eastern windows and could barely make out the silhouette of my mother at the clothesline trying to hang clothes up through walls of rain. I crossed the soppy carpet to the sliding doors to tell her the house was coming down. Nova wouldn’t come. I had to go back and pick him up in one hand and manage the sliding door with the other. We scarcely made it out and down the ramp to the grass before the doors fell outward onto the ramp.
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I hollered to my mother, “We’ve got to go Up On The Hill!” and then I ran around and down under the carport and into the house that way to my room to gather up clothes to take. Nova jumped up onto the bed and curled up like it was just another day, then my mother wandered in, dry as a bone.
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Neither of them saw the wall of water coming down my closet, drenching half of my clothes, making it impossible to choose outfits that made any sense. Neither sensed the urgency of the situation or the severity of my distress, and in the screaming madness of that, I was forced awake, solitary but sound, to just another day.
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Fin
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Click here for more on prompt #384 – Solitary from other Sunday Scribblings participants.

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28
Jul
13

Less monster

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Photo credit:  “Dreamscape” © Luca Pisanu made for the CGSociety Event “Dreamscape”

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I was amidst a small party of faceless acquaintances, and we were navigating steps amidst columns, turning corners, taking in the sights like wares before us, a renaissance festival amongst the woods perhaps. We were in a collective state of quiet, discovery, adventure, appraisal, the respectful togetherness of a unit.
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There was no sign of distress until we were walking back to wherever it was we had come from. As we walked down a steep dirt slope thick with rocks and the roots of trees, it became increasingly clear that a man among us was falling more and more deeply into darkness. I felt him intend to lose his footing and tumble away from us, down and down toward a shallow ravine of slow-moving muddy water.
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He came to rest on his back where the ravine widened into a brackish pool. He rolled himself into it and allowed himself to sink to the bottom, but it was only deep enough so that the water barely covered his face, an awful face like Severus Snape, with dead eyes staring straight up. He breathed in the brown water and I thought that would be the end of it, but blood and another fluid of a different color began to rise from the area above his throat, and I could barely make out his hand there. He must have torn into his throat with it, to end it sooner.
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………………………………………………………………………………# # #
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I popped up from a dip in the ocean and cleared my eyes. Edith emerged a moment later slicking her hair back, her ancient face made smooth with the water pouring down it like olive oil streaming down marble. And her eyelashes, my eyes were drawn to them, and they became all there was. They were remarkably long with tiny sparkles of water resting in the bends of them.
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When Edith was alive in Pocasset, we would walk from her weather-beaten house to the sea wall and down the steps, Edith in her apron style swim suit, white bathing cap and Pinwheel sneakers and me in my black bikini. I’d help her to the steps down to the water and she’d descend them slowly, gripping the rails with her blue-veined hands, and ease into the water, breaststroke-kicking serenely with legs as white as her Pinwheels.
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………………………………………………………………………………# # #
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I woke excited to call my mother, to tell her I’d seen great aunt Edith in a dream, and ask if her lashes were really that long, because I certainly hadn’t noticed…and then the memory of the strange Snape sequence crept in, and I felt in general like I could do with less monster and more magic…
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Fin
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Click here for more on prompt “#379 – Less” from other Sunday Scribblings participants.