Archive for the ‘Dreams’ Category

I slept like poo last night, that’s right poo. My throat started to hurt again because my boyfriend caught some venus fly disease on the airplane and brought it home and I became so grumpy that I might get sick again that I ate nachos with maybe some questionable cheese and took 6 vitamins and pills and in the middle of the night I kept dreaming of stacking boxes, of aligning lines. I felt I was working. Mostly what I do during the day is a puzzle – fitting stories together and photos together with the one grand centerpiece that we may/or may not get to be creative with. But mostly it’s stacking boxes and that’s what I was dreaming about. That and the bad cheese. And my friend’s husband getting upset with me because we invite people to stay at our house when they are moving across the country. Apparently that’s not OK to invite people to stay at our house while they move across the country. I don’t even think anyone has stayed at our house while they’ve moved across the country, I don’t even know of anyone who’s moved across the country recently.

That was my final straw though, I wouldn’t hear any more from him. It was night time and we were standing in the yard and I turned to walk away and yelled “I’m sorry I love your children!” And threw a purple glittery helmet I was wearing at him across the yard. Shooting star!!!

But I’m going home! Close enough to home to call it home. LBC in less than a month and I can’t stand it – it’s a dream.


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I held my coffee through the dark, U-ed around the banister, found the landing in the deepest black, the occasional car passing on the road outside shedding light through the curtain. I did it all without seeing where I was going. How much of what we do is just a bodily memory of having done it before? Knowing the exact spot on the wall of the light switch – how do we know in the dark exactly where the spot on the wall is? Or the first step? Or the second? Or the abrupt right turn?

Some days just the waking up makes you grumpy. It’s the dreams faults, the cars on the road, the sick boyfriend snoring, the cat stealing your covers. Last night I dreamt I went to starbucks and a women working there was so chipper to the customers because that was part of her job, but I showed up and under her breath I could hear her say how much she hated all the people and the customers and the fucking cream. And I was the one listening to the things people say when they think no one can hear them. I was there listening. And I told her I wouldn’t tell anyone and we became friends.

Who else do I write about if not you?

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It’s quiet here at my house. After all the commotion of spending the morning with my family away from family. All the yelling, the excitement. I woke up at 2 in the morning and couldn’t sleep, laying on the couch made up for me until I realized I had forgotten to prepare the sticky buns for the morning. This recipe requires the dough to rise under a tea towel overnight. I tiptoed around the kitchen, melting butter, quietly chopping pecans, sprinkling cinnamon with the glow of the Christmas tree lights and the oven.
Sophia was so excited she couldn’t sleep either. She came running down and we both looked at each other – me with a “what in the world are you doing up” look and she with the same. Except I’m an adult and am allowed to be up at 2 in the morning for no reason at all.
“Get back to bed,” I said.
“This is when I normally get up,” she lied. “I always get up at 2.”
“You do not. Get back to bed. Or Santa’s not coming,” I lied.
And to my surprise she didn’t fight me, she ran back upstairs without question. And I finished chopping nuts and sprinkling cinnamon and placing dough in a bundt pan.
I had strange dreams about cats again and pains in my stomach. What a wonderful day yesterday. I kept looking at the blinds to remind me to treasure such moments – looking away from it all to get perspective – and then looking back to feeling like I belong somewhere.
And now today in the quiet it all feels wrong. The place I know I should be in thousands of miles away and the cat is bored and I’m left with a hickey on my body that I told my love to leave with me while he’s away for 9 days and when he returns it will be yellow and faded just in time.
You forget what it feels like to be you when you’re not at home, he said. And I know exactly what he means. I know exactly.

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Flesh dreams

I still feel the flesh of that dream. I feel the weight of the lives I took in it – not guilt, but the weight of them. I feel the crisp, tart skin of an apple in between my teeth – the thick skin of it.
Someone at work was talking about dreams today and she said, “I just don’t know what’s going on in my head.” And I said to myself, “you got nothin’ sister. At least you didn’t dream a Shakespearean dream about massacring people and trying to murder your brother.” I very much like my brother. I love my brother. I don’t want to kill you, I swear. I swear, I swear.
Strange day today, though I’m not sure why, have no reason.
Dear _____,
sometimes writing makes me feel like a kookie lady carrying bags around. Or perhaps the writing is only the proof.

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My father’s house is mossy with high redwoods, a creek in the back. Fallen walnuts litter the ground. We’d always throws them over the fences, into the neighbors’ yards to see how far they could go. Sounds idyllic (his yard). Did I mention the dozen rusted cars, the big-rig trailer full of hand-me downs (junk), the road signs he’s stolen from the roads, the charter bus in the back back next to the apple tree? I have a lot of dreams that take place here – perhaps it’s just a familiar setting, but they always seem particularly strange at my Dad’s house.

Dream: My Dad’s yard (see above), I was outside in the warm sunshine. I came out to the front yard and two young boys standing there. They were supposed to be fixing something with the house, I think, (or they were just snooping – not sure) and when they said they couldn’t fix the thing or I realized what they were doing – snoops – I screamed, “GET THE FUCK OFF MY LAND!”

I went around down the side of the house – in my dream it was a long driveway. In reality the driveway is on the right side, but I went left and still a driveway. I remember the bright cedar-colored wood on the house as I walked by.

But the boys didn’t leave, in fact they went down the right side driveway and when I saw them from the other side, I picked up the biggest rock I could find and chucked it at the back of their heads. I have good aim. Nailed one, laughed of course and then I crouched down….(oh geez, sidenote – I said something much meaner to the boys to get off my land I said “GET THE FUCK OFF MY LAND OR I’LL BLOW YOUR FACES OFF” with a gun of course, I think that’s why they came after me). Anyway, I crouched down and the deck shielded me from sight, but they looked over to where the rock assaulted them from and decide to come check it out. Now we are playing hide-n-seek. They creep around corners and I creep around corners, I move where they aren’t, they move where I am. I finally hide behind a tall, fat redwood, but they see me anyway and come rushing toward me.

Now it gets sort of fuzzy – my brother and I are the last remaining members of our family. In my dream we are a cursed family. In real-life, well that’s up for speculation. But we are the sole survivors to our name, to this grand empire of an estate, a cursed estate. My brother and I are trying to figure out why the members of our family kept dying (the curse). We both live in the house, we have both thrown glorious parties, we are very rich and very famous and every one wants to come a drink our drinks and eat our eats.

Out of nowhere, my brother comes rushing down the right side of the driveway to me. I think he’s coming to help me from the boys, but he grabs me. He has a knife. He mentions something about the curse. Says he’s sorry, but only one of us can make it to keep the family name going. Only one of us can stop the curse. He thinks I’m the one who has caused all of the deaths, he thinks I killed all of them. He gets the crazy eyes and then he stabs me in the side.

I have no pain, other than the world becoming cloudy and gray. My vision spins, the shock, the spins, the shock.

When I come to, the sun is out again and I’m walking just as I was in the yard. I am alone. I notice this time the tombstones of my family members we’ve buried there. The stones are big as bed, the words scratched in with a rock. My family members were buried by a person who had no idea what they were doing. The letters uneven and rough. I see my Dad’s, I see one of my cousin’s, three rows of tombs all carved the same way. And then I see a bulbous tombstone, it’s not really stone at all. I’m not entirely sure what it is, but it has a tag and I’m holding this tag in my hands. It’s the kind of tag you’d find on a new toy, but this tag is covered  in a film of plastic. I turn the tag over and find my birth date written in pencil and some other random information, all pointing to my identity. This is my tombstone. I know then that I have died, that my brother murdered me, that my brother has been so paranoid about this family curse that it drove him mad. He killed every one because of it. I know at that moment that whatever is in my brother, the curse, must be stopped.

When I arrive back in the house there is a party going on. Food and wine, we live in a grand home with white columns and chandeliers and three stories, red velvet carpet. A few years has passed at this point and I have taken revenge on the innocent visitors that have come to the house. There is a growing reputation this house is haunted, which entices people all the more. The danger has becomes the allure. The mystery is that I am unseen. I am a ghost. I can move as I please, but still have the ability to touch and to grab and to do all the things necessary to haunt. I shove people, I play tricks on them and then I kill them, as I was killed – with a knife. It’s as if I, too, have become cursed by a need to make things right, to get my revenge, to ultimately get to my brother. All I’m trying to do is to get these people to leave my home.

At this particular party, I’m trying to find my brother again who has turned into a woman (no need for explanation – it’s a dream!). But this party is bigger and grander than any party he has thrown before and finally, finally I decide that this is where it stops. Every one must die.

Since my brother is a woman now, of course he has male suitors. He has left one in a private room. The white walls gleam, the red carpet sits ominously waiting. I sneak into the room, take part of the chandelier and smash it onto the floor. The suitor, elegantly dressed in a tux, looks around in confusion. I continue to smash bits of the chandelier blocking the entry-way with shards of glass creating, in my mind, a sort of trap to keep him in the center of room. The suitor, clueless to my presence, yells to my brother, “Be careful, there’s broken glass in here.”

As my brother re-enters the room, the suitor strategically placed below the chandelier, I chop the cord it’s hanging from and watch the light, the glass, the weight smash into the suitor killing him instantly.

People rush in, screaming. All this time, through all the murders, no one has known who or what was causing them. Not even my brother, he could never see me. I’ve lived anonymously, silently, invisible in the same house. He fears being alone, yet continues to live there. He invites people over. I kill them. A vicious cycle really.

I sneak past all the guests. I don’t have shoes on (ghosts don’t wear shoes, especially not in their own homes) and as I walk over the bits of glass, large pieces get stuck in the bottoms of me feet. I can feel the pain of it, but I know I can’t stop right now. There are still people downstairs in the living room. I decide to deal with them later, but right now my plan is to get every one in this room (about 15 people) corralled into the upstairs bedroom and trap them there.

I scream and I scream, the guests are running away from my screams and away from my voice, they are running upstairs, running into the bedroom, my brother included. The last I see of them I’m slamming the door, they are huddled together and terrified, my brother (the woman) is in a white wedding dress. Her long black hair is dressed with orange and pink flowers, but I close them in and lock the door.

I rush downstairs, running through the broken glass again. I grab a knife and head to the living room. Through the crowds I stab here and I stab there, watching the people fall while the others carry on with their conversations. No one seems to notice anything or care.

I rest by the fire, sit next to a woman with black hair. My feet are bleeding, chunks of glass sticking out from them. I begin to pull the logged glass from my skin and place the pieces on the floor.

The women next to me see the pieces of glass suddenly appear on the floor. She can’t see me, but we are close, almost touching. She seems to look directly at me and I twinge inside, feeling certain that she cannot see me, but a strange discomfort that she can in fact sense me there. I continue to pick the pieces of glass from my feet. She is still looking at me or through me, in my direction and suddenly she grabs my shoulders. I scream and spin up and around and around. She lets go and I rush to the middle of the room. I feel she has suspected some sort of presence in this house, that she’s been waiting by the fire for me to arrive, to touch me, to discover me. She knows I am there and yet something brings me back to her, the feeling of finally again being acknowledged. I sit down again next to her, all the while knowing now what I have to do. I can’t let anyone leave this house, not her, not me, not my brother, not the guests. No one can leave alive.

I take a book of matches, trying to light them in the fire quickly without her seeing the sticks of wood lift into the air and catch a flame. I place my hand in the fire, light the matches and move them over a pile of presents on the floor. They catch, the paper begins to burn, the flame grows higher. I need to get to the other fireplace on the opposite side of the room, but the dark-haired woman grabs me and tries to stop me. I shake away from her, knowing my brother is upstairs, knowing the whole house must come down in flames, knowing all of this must end. Our whole family is dead, the curse has to stop. I have to stop him.

I’m trying to light the matches quickly, but the fire on this side is mostly embers. The matches become long, slivered pieces of white wood, they won’t catch. I stick my hand in the fire, longer and longer, but I need to do this quickly or the woman will find me again and stop me. The matches catch, I place the flame on the furniture, but the flame turns to smoke and then out. Nothing will burn and people are rushing around me in a panic. The woman finds me somehow, places her hand on mine and says, “Look outside, look who is here. You can’t do this. Look outside the window.”

I look through the front window to find a blond-haired woman opening her car door and getting out. I feel a faint recognition. She has two small children with her. “It’s your mother,” the woman says.

Up until this point I had no recollection of a mother. It had been all males, a grandma here and there, but I had grown up in a cursed family completely of men. I had never seen this woman before, but I felt drawn to her. She was surrounded in gold light, the sun outside. Everything else at that moment disappeared. I didn’t see anyone else, not the screaming guests trying to put out the fire, not the knife I had been carrying around in my pocket, not even the woman next to me, seeing me for the first time since my death, talking to me. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t do this. And just kept watching the woman outside and I let the matches in my hand slowly turn black and burn out.

*if you read ALL of this, I would like to give you a prize*

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I woke up feeling lonely. For no particular reason. Maybe it’s the dream I had about my mom and it was us against the world of revolutionized cats and my brother. Every one but us had been zapped by an electricity gun and their teeth turned blue and they were coming after us. We were holed up in my old bedroom in Davis. When I left to go to the bathroom my old cat Mittens (R.I.P) came running down the hall at me and I kicked her, well more like swept her feet from under her with my foot. But it turns out she was normal, she wasn’t a zapped cat and I felt really terrible for kicking her in the face and lead her into my safe room.

But then my brother and some other cats were trying to get in the bedroom. I was trying to lock the door and keep him from getting in. Somehow I mustered all my strength and my feet didn’t slip on the carpet and my bones and my  muscles and my body kept him out. And then I finally could lock the door.

Before of after, I’m not sure, some people also turned into strange Japanese toy-like characters. They were tinted blue and they were about to be attacked by non-Japanese Toy-like characters and one of them kept saying they wanted to go back home to their planet. One had strange flower blood powers (I’m not sure what flower blood powers are, but she had them).

All of this I can be sure relates back to my awful licorice cough syrup which is another reason (case and point) to say no to licorice: blue-people-flower-blood-powers-alien-electric-cat-attacking dreams. Just say no.

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say no to licorice

I’m sick again and waking up with headaches and coughing and coughing and cOUghing with a brain full of fuzz. The radio frequency has gone dead or I’m just off the map at the moment. Hiking around in the middle of nowhere some cornfield in Illinois or the eastern-plains part of Montana. When people think of Montana, they always picture the Western part, the rockies part. Eastern Montana with its high plains, gold hills, high-rise silos – that’s the part where the ghosts go and get lost.

My cough medicine is from target and I should have been suspicious when it was green in the bottle, but I wasn’t thinking (obviously) and it’sohgodtheworstflavorevermadeontheplanet – it’s black licorice flavor and now I can’t take my medicine because it makes me want to puke. But I do anyway and take shot after shot of water to chase it down.

I have no idea where I’m going with this. No point really. Other than I got up to write this morning, was too tired and sick, went back to bed, got up again to write and then got totally distracted by the powers of the Online. So here’s my poor excuse of morning writing. My poems will have to wait. Perhaps if they leave out milk and cookies I will return to them.

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