I've been having a lot of dreams lately that involve trying to wake up. I know I'm sleeping, but I want to wake up, I need to wake up, and it's a monumental struggle. I can't move, but I try my damnedest. I free an arm, open one eye, try to pull up my head, try to speak, try to control my breathing. Sometimes I feel like I'm suffocating. Usually it's scary; sometimes I'm just annoyed. And sometimes I succeed in "waking up," like the last time this happened. After which I promptly rolled off my bed (in my dream, not in reality), and then lay there, sprawled on the floor, tailbone aching, wondering, "What the fuck did I do that for?"
It makes me wonder if this is symbolic in some way, or whether it's physiological. It's happened so often recently, though, that sometimes when I'm very obviously awake, I seriously wonder if I'm really dreaming. Which makes me feel a little psychotic.
My dreams were cinematic and strange last night. A group of bookies was unhappy with how odds were playing out, so they decided to salt the universe with new possibilities. I saw acquaintances and near strangers from high school: one so cold and odious, I hissed and growled at her, the other so garrulous and happy, I told her things I've never told anyone. Another long-ago friend developed a predilection for cats, to a deviant and somewhat disgusting extent.
There were other pieces, but I can't remember them now. All I know is, that cat part woke me up at 3:30. Yikes.
In one of my dreams last night, I turned into a sparrow. When I looked at myself, I looked like myself, same size, same shape. I spoke, and I heard my own voice. But everyone else saw a sparrow, heard a chirping bird. But they knew it was me, or at least one person did. A friend held me, and promised to keep holding me until I turned back to my real shape. My real self. I felt deeply sad, but I also felt loved. I was still known. I was safe.
It was like a fable, but I'm not sure what the moral was.
Yesterday I tried to save a lost doggy. I left the store on my dinner break, and as I reached the edge of the parking lot, a dog came trotting across the road toward me. I stopped to give it a pat. "Who do you belong to, puppy?" It had no people, no collar, no tags. But it looked familiar, and was headed from my neighborhood. It trotted away from me, into the parking lot, and I followed it. While it busied itself munching on something it found in a plastic bag on the ground, I ran into the supermarket. Found the manager, found security, asked them to call Animal Control so they could hold onto it and make sure it didn't get smooshed by a car. But when the security guard lunged to grab the dog, it bolted and ran back the way it came. "Shit!" I followed it, watched as it almost got hit by an SUV while it crossed the street again, and kept on its heels until it trotted into a backyard. There wasn't much else I could do -- it wouldn't follow me or stay with me -- so I headed back to work and crossed my fingers that it would stick close to home until its people came back.
And to you people who are charged with the care and well-being of this creature: PUT TAGS AND A FUCKING COLLAR ON YOUR VERY SWEET AND CAR-SMOOSHABLE DOG. Jesus Christ, people, it's really not that hard.
Switching topics...
Last night, I had a dream that I was roller skating, bombing down the sidewalk in a short skirt and knee pads. I was off-balance, and there were tree roots and patches of snow, but somehow I managed to speed along without a hitch. It was awesome and exhilerating. After this dream, I must fully confess to having fantasies for quite a while now about becoming a roller derby queen. Evel Kvievel? I fear I don't have enough tattoos, though.
I keep having dreams about kittens. The night before last, I dreamed that the baby I was taking care of (mine?) disappeared, and I frantically looked for it all around my room and my apartment, under the bed, in the closet. I finally found it, unharmed, but it had somehow turned into a kitten. I was a little confused, but relieved.
Last night, I was at the airport on my way to Paris. Suddenly, I had a bag full of kittens. I knew I couldn't take a freaking bag of kittens with me on the plane or through customs -- I got it into my head that they would take the kittens away from me and drown them, and I couldn't let that happen. I had to protect them. I made a lot of frantic phone calls to people who might be able to take care of them for me, but I don't think I had much luck. The kittens were mewing, the clock was ticking, and I felt desperate and confused and stressed.
Apparently, my dreams are telling me that I can't take care of babies or kittens very well. Poor things.
I had a dream last night, which was mostly about bikes and naked hot-tubbing, and so which was mostly good, in which I was asked, "So, what were you dreaming about?" And it was so recursive and meta, me still being within my dream and being asked about my dream, it made me tongue-tied and also possibly ripped a small hole in the fabric of the universe.
I had some horrifying and bizarre dreams last night, strange even by my standards.
I looked down at my left side, along my torso. It was covered with raised, frilly growths of mottled skin, like the fungus you might find growing on a tree. "A rash, some horrible rash. I must be allergic to something." It didn't hurt, it didn't itch, even as I poked at the grotesque eruptions gently, scared of making it worse. One area was different from the pink-red frills and had specks of black embedded in it. Somehow I removed one of the specks, which dropped onto the table. It had legs, and it scurried away, a tiny black insect. Visions of the brain-bugs in Wrath of Kahn rushed into my consciousness. I freaked out, and furiously dialed the doctor's office.
I was sitting in a car, stuck in traffic. A parade was going on up ahead, and there were cars and people clogging the road. A few people in costumes came riding by on bikes, swerving through the crowd. It was my friend's bike gang, and I waved at the people I knew. As one boy rode through the crowd, a spectator shoved him, almost toppling him. "Hey!" the crowd shouted. "Not cool!" The pushy guy ran across the street, and a cop followed him, his futuristic ray-gun/taser thrust out in front of him as he gave chase. The bad man was caught quickly and brought back to the crowd of spectators, where the cop gave him a lecture, delivered in rhyming verse.
I have a lot of dreams about airplanes. Airplanes out of control, swooping and diving around dangerous obstacles. Airplanes that are late, or hard to find at a confusing, enormous airport. Airplanes that can't take off from a teeny, hilly runway. Dangerous machines that take me somewhere, conveyances I can't control. Hurtling through the sky, going somewhere quickly, and I have little power over that somewhere, or that somewhen.
I was listening to Yo La Tengo's "Don't Have to Be Sad" this morning, and I think it's one of the most beautiful songs ever.
I wanted to feel that way forever
And that's why
If you're looking at me I'll try to be what you want to see
and if I'm, if I'm, ever that lucky
You won't have to be so, You won't have to be so sad
You won't have to be so sad.
Tylenol PM is my new best friend. I slept a good 8+ hours last night, mostly uninterrupted, and my brain seems to be working better now. I'm a little groggy, and my eyes are hideously puffy, but... Whew.
Last night at work, I saw John Malcovich, who comes in to get coffee sometimes. He didn't smile and seemed a little grey and gloomy, but he did say "Hello," and he sounded just like John Malcovich. Which seems like a silly observation, but gave me a little thrill.
I also had a nice long chat with the film critic at the Weekly Dig, David Wildman. He's interviewing Augusten Burroughs sometime soon, and so he bought a copy of Running With Scissors, which I read a while ago and liked quite a bit. I have a sneaking suspicion that Augusten Burroughs might be an asshole, though, and told him so. "Oh, I'm used to interviewing assholes. Did you see the one with Harrison Ford?"
I am newly slightly obsessed with a Seattle band called The Trucks. Think Peaches combined with Bikini Kill/Le Tigre.
What makes you think we can fuck
Just because you put your tongue in my mouth
And you're twisting my titties, baby?
I've been in therapy for five years
I'll be in therapy for five years more.
I like it, I love it, I like it, I love it.
My two favorite things in life
Are big afros and riding bikes!
With you!
Yeah, sex, shrinks, bikes, and afros. Rock.
I had a dream this morning when I fell back asleep after my usual far-too-early just-for-practice wakeup.
I went to talk to people about work -- trying to drum up work, trying to sell myself, pointing out the merits of my services and cost-effective blah and high-quality blah. I came back, and you were working on this and that, drawing and making pretty pieces of metal and writing, switching between each endeavor quickly, flitting like a bird.
"How was the art museum?" you said.
"Oh, well, this person was truly horrible, and what a bitch, and I'm not really sure if I'll get any work from them, and..."
"Well, yes, but what about the art?"
"Oh, I didn't have time to really look at that, though I did like this Chinese painter-slash-photographer I noticed during one of my meetings," I answered, a tiny bit cross because that sounded like a criticism to me and, yes, looking at the art would have been quite nice.
"You went to the art museum and didn't look at the art?!"
"Well, no, but, look...it's...aw, hell."
And you laughed your throaty laugh, sweetly, good-naturedly, and I laughed too, and the crossness melted away. And I touched your face gently, and asked to see your drawings, and then kissed you, softly.
I had strange dreams last night (no nightmares, though -- hooray!). I had grown a full-on mustache somehow. A bunch of people were watching me wash my face (second night in a row with bathing/washing dreams...?), and it was kind of uncomfortable. There were also monkeys -- a room full of freaking screaming monkeys.
I blame this on the article about Dada I read not long before getting into bed. But I suppose it could just be my bizarre psyche having some fun.
More bad dreams last night. Like little demons rapping on my head, who can only get in at night when I'm sleeping, defenses down. Death and sadness and pain, my own and others'. I woke up crying.
My legs hurt, back hurts, hand's numb. I'm tired of chronic pain. I'm even more tired of doctors telling me it's "just stress." Yeah, well, that's "just unhelpful," and I'm beginning to think that you're "just an asshole." I have a massage scheduled today, though. I'm hoping she'll pound me into goopy, relaxed jelly.
It's strange, these dreams, this unrest. Besides a few key elements, I suppose, things are pretty good. Some things are even pretty great. But I have a lot going on, maybe too much. Maybe I'm overloaded. I think I need to figure out ways to cope with the new load right now, though, rather than simplify. I need all of these spinning plates in the air at the moment; I need to figure out how to keep them moving.
I had bad dreams last night. Dreams that made me sad and angry and scared. That made me wake up and whimper once or twice. Guilt and shame and fury and disappointment, while other people in the dreams were blithely ignoring what was right in front of them. That made it worse, made me think I was nuts. Sometimes I think I channel all of this bad energy and feeling for other people. Soak it up and feel it and deal with it so others won't have to. But that's just a thought.
A chat with a friend this morning:
tc: I had a dream about you last night.
vv: oh yeah?
vv: i hope it was good!
tc: I think we lived in the same building as you, and we saw you in the early morning. out front
you were trying to order some breakfast from somewhere.
because you had had a gentleman caller and y'all were hungry.
vv: hee
tc: and we went up to your place, and the front room was all run down and dismal
but then the rest of your place was huge and gorgeous.
and I am not sure, but there may have been two gentlemen callers in there, eating scones.
vv: so...i am a little slutty with a seemingly dismal but really gorgeous "apartment"
sounds about right ;-)
I was just rereading this, about a dream/set of dreams I had in late March. I think I get it now. Mostly.
The past two nights, I've had dreams about my hair. The night before last, it was long, about halfway down my back. It was wavy and shiny and luxurious, and looked really cute in a ponytail. I was showing it off a little bit, tossing it around and playing with it. It made me feel kind of sassy and sexy and confident, even though I was in the same room with two people (who I didn't acknowledge, but I knew they saw me and I knew they knew I saw them, and so on) who would probably make me feel self-conscious and awkward and anxious in real life.
Last night, I had these funny little braided extensions in my hair. They were all different colors--mostly red and blue, I think--and were kind of neat, but they started halfway down my head, so it looked kinda dumb. I was trying to take them out, but they were all woven in with my real hair, and I couldn't untangle them.
Hmm. Hair dreams. This is a new one. I have my thoughts, but your thoughts are more than welcome.
The plane was coming in for a landing, swooping low over the city. (I've had a lot of similar plane dreams in the past year.) I could see the pilot, and I could see past him to the whole 180-degree vista ahead of us. We clipped one of the wires on the suspension bridge, but that didn't seem to be a problem. Didn't concern me, strangely. We approached the runway, but were going too fast and so touched down for just a second, the pilot lifting the plane up again, presumably to circle around and try again. I hate landings, hate the sudden bump and rattle and whoosh of wind. This landing was not going well, and I was scared. I don't know how it ended, because my dream flitted to some other corner of my psyche.
I was with a former friend/acquaintance, someone I don't speak to anymore. He was talking to me, being very bossy and condescending and really pissing me off. All of a sudden, I started screaming at him, all of my frustrations and anger rushing out, until my throat got scratchy and hoarse. He didn't take it too well, and I felt guilty, but also relieved. (I must be very angry about something or at someone, but I'm not exactly sure who/what it is. If you think it might be you, let me know. IF YOU DARE. I have quite a set of lungs on me, at least in my subconscious.)
At some point in this mess of emotions and neuroses, I decided I was going to move next month. Quit my job, give up my apartment, and take off, I think somewhere West. I didn't have any concrete plans--no job, no particular place to go--but I felt resolute in my decision, even though people were trying to dissuade me. It was freeing, and frightening, and exciting. I have these "running away" dreams every once in a while, and lately I've been daydreaming about moving to California to grow avocados. I do love avocados.
I was somewhere West, in a field of dust and rocks. I wasn't welcome there, and this had been made plain to me. A father and son were playing baseball a little ways off, and I knew there were others around, though no one I knew.
I looked to my left, and a rattlesnake was coiled in the dust. I stared at it, frozen. My heart thudding, panicking. I didn't know what to do. I turned and tried to run, even though I knew the snake would lunge at me and catch me. And it did, striking my arm, piercing my skin with its fangs. I fell down on my side, striking the dusty, stony earth. I could feel the venom moving through my blood, reaching my heart, which started to slow. The world grew hazy, the snake was still attached to my arm, and I started to yell, hoarsely, "Help! Help!" over and over.
No one was coming to help, but I kept yelling, as consciousness started to fade. No one would help me. No one helped me.
I woke up, and yelled "Help!" a few more times, and then I cried. Because I was scared, and alone, and no one helped me when I most needed it.