October hauntings

Wes once wrote a supportive response to a post about nightmares I'd had (also in October, I noted): "I do think writing one's dreams - letting them out for others to see, too - takes away their power," he said. I guess I've dabbled in dreamlogging (like weblogging, right?) here and there, when my dreams force my hand. Lately they've been fairly forceful.

The night before last I was on a huge ship of some kind. There was a danger lurking, and a kind of us-versus-them tension. I'm not sure who made up the crew of people on my side, but the other side was rumored to be unnatural; maybe they'd attack as trolls, or bats, or shadows. When they did attack I thought they were visitors.

They walked onto the ship from the sea, normal people in boring clothes with welcoming smiles, easy conversations. At some point I became aware that they were specters of some kind - projections from the true fiends who hid somewhere else. We tried to attack them but their unreal bodies proved impermeable to hooks, broken glass, fireplace pokers, and even, I believe, some kind of heavy kitchen utensil I'd found. A meat mallet? Something strange.

When the real bodies of the enemies arrived we couldn't tell which ones to spend our energy attacking. They were identical to their specters and seemingly benign. They had placid faces and boring clothes. I still felt the need to attack. My poker would deflect off of a specter body and sink squishily into the real body, loosing blood and screams and pain. Meanwhile the ship steadily sank - not tipsy like the Titanic, but evenly, grade by grade, the way I imagine the coasts disappearing with global warming. I woke up with a Charlie horse, all my muscles tense and pulsing.


The night after that I dreamed about my father. He was much older, saggy and little. My brothers and I were playing a kind of serious game, keeping a wine bottle out of his hands. At least, I was keeping the wine bottle out of his hands - my brothers kept handing it back and forth between them, and occasionally handing it straight to him without seeming to notice.

When my father drank from the bottle we could all hear the liquid splashing through his dried-up organs. It leaked out of his chest and onto his chair and left holes. He never looked at any of us. His eyes were grey instead of their usual warm brown, and he seemed blind.

My brothers were talking and arguing but my voice, as in so many of my dreams, grew tinier the more I tried to shout. I tired to whisper to see if the opposite would be true, but found that whispering shut me into a different room. When I tried to yell the walls would vanish and I'd be back in the game, but useless.


I've had several dreams about my body lately. They seem to be about privacy - like not being able to find a bathroom to change in, or often one thought I have will expose a part of my body to the person to whom I'm talking. For instance, the person will be telling me something, and I'll think, "I should write this down," except every time I think that a part of my shirt goes invisible and the person can now see my left breast and a big scar on it. Everything hinges on word play and I can't figure out the code.

I have this repeating image, too. I wouldn't call it a dream. In the vision there's a little girl swinging in a dark space. She's clinging, actually, and I think it's a rope at first, but then I look and look at it and the image reveals itself. The girl is clinging to a long and delicate set of vertebrae that stretch upward into darkness. She's near the bottom, her legs laced through and her arms clutching like it's a swing or a rope ladder. She's stuck - she can't go up or down. There's nothing around her, just the bones and the stuff joining them, floating in that space.


My mother tried to help me with my nightmares when I was younger, because they've always been vivid. She told me that if I thought about the way the different dreams felt I'd get closer to their purpose. She thought of dreams as the brain's recovery time. In dreams, according to my mother, you let feelings surface that you were unable to feel during wakefulness. So, if the overriding sensation is anxiety, frustration, tenacity - that feeling is worth investigating, and you can kind of throw out the symbols that seem to point elsewhere.

I kind of buy that, but I think I've read too much to allow my dreams to just lie. My brain gives things purpose all the time because I like to think that way. I think this makes my dreams more pungent, in a way.

That being said, the most disturbing thing about the aforementioned dreams is actually my own disgust of them. I'm repulsed by my brain's ability to come up with gory, macabre and violent dreams. And so, unsurprisingly, I suppose it all comes down to my overall disgust with my lack of control - over my life, my body, and especially my own mind.

R.I.P. Maurice III, IV, V

My plant has passed on. It was a lovely dracaena - three plants, actually, that came in one pot, which I transferred to a very large ceramic urn. They lived happily for a while, spiking out their happy leaves from sad apartment to sad apartment. They accepted, with aplomb, over-watering and starvation. They bent, they shriveled, they flourished, they... died.

I don't recall when I named the first Maurice, which I got from a grateful parent back when I worked at the YMCA camp. That little plant lasted through the end of college, my first rented apartment in Ithaca, a brief sojourn in Victor while I was away in Ireland (Mom sent me polaroids to assure me of his health), and the first year of grad school.

Maurice the first was tough. He died the same week Shane died. I came back from the funeral and found him crumpled, brown, and beyond rejuvenation.

Maurice the second came puny and remained puny. He liked his little life on Beacon Street, looking out the fifth floor window at the manicured patio below. He withstood a bit of Christmas decoration and several tipping accidents, but then he got bored or fried or something, and he gave up the ghost riiiight about the time I found out the Big U was semi-dumping me.

Les Maurices III, IV, V died last week, really, only I haven't gotten around to a proper burial until now. These fine fellows loved the front porch of my otherwise delapidated house on Winchester Street. It's actually a very good thing I never brought them inside, because we had some kind of larva infestation that surely would have snuck into Maurices' gorgeous green locks.
And then here, on Longwood, Les Maurices seemed happy. They gave all outward signs of health. I mean, they leaned a bit longingly toward the big front windows - the only windows that get any kind of steady natural light - but it seemed to me like a winsome, sweet leaning. Alas, when my brother's dog whined out at the world by that window, she knocked Les Maurices over, as well as a few other fragile things, and the poor dears were less anchored than I thought. Their roots torn, their summer light fading, they perished within a month of Tom's visit.

Here's the eerie thing; when I went home for Baby Girl's birthday, I found out that the same week Les Maurices passed on, so did my great-uncle Doc.

Spooooooky...

Anyway, here's to Les Maurices! All five of 'em! That's the end of dracaenae stewardship for me, my friends. It's just irresponsible to buy another, both for the plant's sake and the fragile threads of my sanity.

Listless

(As much as you people must love my lists, that's not the kind of listless I mean. It's pure coincidence that this post doesn't have one.)

My phone showed a missed call. It was Papabiv. Checked voicemail. He's in New England this weekend, the people he's here to see have flaked out on him. He has free time--do I have free time?

I do. Acres of it. None of it is free enough to put myself through another dinner with Dad.

Once I realized this, the tears started coming. That was about an hour and a half ago. Now I can't stop. I spent some time laying on my bed with the music on very loud, my hands uncomfortably pinned behind my back. My bald spot...

Well, I had this literary moment the other day, much like this one, when I thought of my dad's natural baldness, and how my illness is making me more and more like him. Physically. A bald spot.

I have to call him back at some point to tell him I'm too busy to see him. I can't be crying when I call. I've picked up most of the clothes on my floor, sorted them. Played Snood. Back to laying with the hands pinned. Put more clothes away. Sing along with Leela James. Still crying.

Tooth loss, Dad loss

"Hey Dad, you called?"
"Hi Joey! Yeah, I just called."
"Yeah? So what's up?"
"Well I was wondering what you're doing tomorrow," he said hopefully.
"Umm, well I have choir. Where are you?"
"Still in Milford. I lost that contract..."
"The one you were working on for a week?"
"Yep, that's the one."
"Awww... Dad, that sucks. I'm really sorry to hear that..."
"Yeah, I did suck."
"... umm. It's the first one you've lost, right?"
"Wanna hear something funny?"
"... sure..."
"I lost a tooth."
"What?"
"Yeah, I lost a tooth. Right in the front. I look like a jack-o-lantern."
"What??"
"I bit into a piece of brown bread and it fell out. I was having lunch with a client."
"Wait, from the root?"
"Yeah, like a second grader. It was so weird."
"Does it hurt? What the Hell??"
"I know, weird, huh?"
"Very..."
"I got it fixed, no biggie."
"No, you don't understand. It's very, very weird. I have nightmares about my teeth falling out all the time."
"Aww Joey, really?"
"Yes! All the time!"
"That's really strange..." he chuckled uncomfortably, like maybe he'd just damned me to a life of leaping teeth.
"Wow. Very." Involuntary shudder. "Well, I have choir tonight, in like ten minutes." Was that bitchy?
"Oh honey, well, so you have choir tomorrow night, you said?"
"Yes, from 7-10." Slight exaggeration. (It's actually 7:15 to about 9 or 9:30.)
"Well I was thinking of going to this place on the South Shore, Blahdeeblahblah (don't recall what he said here, it had a name), but you said you might have plans, so..."
"Yep, choir."
"But during the day?"
"I have an appointment with the career counselor."
"Oh. Oh, right. Well, I guess you're busy."
"Yeah. Sorry, Dad."

In that moment I had a sudden vision. I could see my dad pacing with the phone in his hotel room in Milford, the weight of his business failure pushing him into a stoop, his brows creased in their expressive way, a way that says, "my daughter hates me. All I need in this world is a nice drink and some friendly conversation..." But I hadn't lied. I have appointments tomorrow. I do have choir. I can't cancel all of that.

I hate this transition, from daughter to mother. I refuse to mutate.

"So when do you get to head back to Rochester."
His tone was brisk, professional, upbeat. "This Friday. I've got to open up a new client on Thursday and then I'll head back for the weekend, come out again on Sunday night or Monday."
"Sounds good, Dad." I could have asked, then, if he'd be around next week, mentioned that I have the week off. I didn't. I said, "Well, choir's about ready to start..."
"Oh, okay honey, I'll let you go."
"Alright, Dad. Keep your teeth in."
"Ha! I'll try. Love you, JoMary."
"Love you, Dad."

A lecture on potential energy

Wow. I forgot that I could be fun.

I got my hair cut yesterday. Very very cut. Above the shoulder, front pieces about reaching my jaw. And I didn't cry! I was shaking a little when I first sat down in the stylist's throne, but then I got over it and everything proceeded beautifully. And now I have short hair. No really, I do! It's amazing.

And now you can't know that I'm a hair-pulling freak because you can't really tell where the short spots are. It's amazing.

Even more amazing, the haircut seemed to unleash something in me. Remember my weird Victorian symbolism thing? I think it worked in my favor. Last night Chester and I somehow ended up at a party and I felt like my ecstatically social self. Maybe it's the weather, too... I don't know. But somehow, I felt very free to do and say whatever the hell I wanted. I didn't, though. I mean, my filters were still operational. That's a very good thing. But I mean to say that I felt like I had more freedom and more control. And nary a hair was pulled.

We'll just see what the baby thinks of it. I have a feeling she'll have quite the field day. And I'll have to train myself not to scream expletives when she pulls out whole patches... (It's different when someone else does it. No really.)

Shane used to put his pj pants on his head and call it his "Long Beautiful Hair"

Have you read The Crying of Lot 49? Have you read it in Dr. Anthony Farrow's class at St. Bonaventure University? Well then, you will know that all extra meaning we give to life events is always a figment of our overactive imaginations. This is not just a theme of the book, it is true. According to Dr. Farrow. Who looks remarkably like the Lorax.

I think of this because I'm thinking of cutting my hair, and I've always placed a symbolic value on my hair. It's rather Victorian of me, and you would think it's an affectation, but I think you can easily stop affectations, and I can't escape my little hair problem.

I mean, besides the pulling.

The Other hair problem swam beneath the surface until I allowed my mom to treat me to a haircut at her salon on winter break. I think I was a junior in college, maybe a sophomore. At that time I was none too comfortable wearing my hair down, and when I did I was feeling pretty good about myself. It was so long... it reached my waistband if I pulled it straight. And back then I wasn't pulling it, so it was very thick and crazy and sometimes cool.

It was around New Year's, and I know this because this is where the artificial meanings come into play. On New Year's Eve I went to a party in Rochester. This older guy, a friend of the hostess, picked me up. And then later, he picked me up... Umm...

I remember that someone had spilled her screwdriver down my shirt, that I was wearing a long skirt, that my driver and I were the only non-Goths at the party, and that my hair was down and he could not stop touching it. The rest is pretty blurry. (Or I'm too much of a lady?)

Two days later, Mom and I went to the salon. The woman cutting my hair was my mom's age and had clearly given my mother the exact same haircut she had. I was worried but tried not to panic. She marveled at my hair - how curly, how thick, how long... "You know, people pay big money to get their hair like this," she said. So why, I wondered, would you want to do anything to it?

She cut it. And then she kept cutting it. And then she did something else weird to it. And then she cut it s'more. And in the end my hair was 10 inches shorter.

And no, this did not mean my hair was short by any means... It still reached past my shoulders. But I definitely took it badly. I had lost control somehow, and it was due punishment for losing control on New Year's Eve. Of course the part of me that had lured this man into temptation should also be the part that got a brutal chopping mere days later.

So if I cut it short now, what will it do to me? Will I feel less feminine, somehow? Or perhaps I will walk out of the salon with a sudden lightness, a weight literally and figuratively lifted from my shoulders.

And then there is the threat of the Ronald McDonald effect...



But Sarah looks awful cute with short hair. There is hope.