In Dreams

Make it stop! Enough already! I’m exhausted, not sleeping well, too many dreams. Crazy things —

. . . Stacy dressed like Patty from Grease, preppy, poodleskirt girl, at a dance (school? legion? i can’t tell the difference), calls out to me then some guy named Danny, (a mathmatician!) who is probably the most unattractive man I’ve ever seen, wanting us to meet and mingle and hopefully get married and have what I can only imagine would be the homeliest babies of all time, He’s just your type! Blech! Adios!

. . . is this prison? Or school? All the lining up to be ushered somewhere, places I never actually arrive at, just the line, barely moving along, people bullying, pushing, threatening, fighting, stealing, stuff to hide from the wardens? teachers? This is boring. Tedious. I growl when someone notices me and considers approaching. Deep in my throat. Like a child. Like an animal. I won’t be bullied. Don’t mess with me, I’m pissed and half crazy. The line parts and I glide to the front. An abstract painting, all reds and blacks, hangs on a white brick wall. Is this all there is?

. . . another dance. No, this is a club. Drinks. Dancing. Not a dance club, though. There’s a band, jazz, and couples grooving. The music takes me and I sway against strangers, eyes closed, feeling the sax. A man at the mic starts to sing and tears leak, streak navy mascara, salt my lips. It hurts to be here. Too beautiful. Too much.

. . . cement steps outside an old store. Blackville. The store that used to be out that lane by the Irving, before the ballpark, Hazel’s? Maybe. Sitting on the cement steps eating candy, flavoured crystals you pick up with a candy stick you lick, orange and grape. We watch cars. The steps are hard and cold. I’m a child wearing shorts. Tiny little legs. I wonder how it can be that even now my knees hurt.

. . . steps still, but now the church and I’m wearing a short skirt, sucking on a cigarette. Hanging out. Looking toward Dungarvon in the sunset. Somebody’s dead. Drowned. And we don’t understand how. Why? What happened? We talk about the wake and funeral. Maybe we’ll go. I understand this is a memory, this really happened. Why am I here? Why revisit? I look for clues. Cars passing. People honking. Waving. I sip Coke. I NEVER sip Coke now. Some of these people on this step are dead now, I realise. Linda. Karen. Were they really there? I don’t think so. In the graveyard I see Clyde and he grins.

. . . ferris wheel takes my stomach as we round the top and drop to the ground backwards. It’s too high. Too creaky. I don’t like the look of the carnie running the ride. Where is this? It’s night. Nothing to see beyond the carnival. I’m holding someone’s hand, a little bit too tight. I’m afraid to look and see who this is. The last time I rode a ferris wheel was at the Blackville Fair. I don’t want to be there. I don’t want to be trapped on this ride with him. The night is too dark and the rides too bright. Is that water over there? Focus on the hand I’m holding. Fair. Long fingers. Light hairs curling into denim jacket. Can’t be him. Not dark enough. Take a deep breath, look over, look up, find his face. And it’s okay. I’m safe here.

And when all this happens and you wake up and look at the clock to see that you’ve been asleep about 15 or 20 minutes, you know you’re in for a wild night. Am I the only one so moon-effected? Surely it can’t be.

Mood: the original sleepyhead
Drinking: COFFEE!! But I need a pure caffeine injection . . . or cocktails
Listening To: Deny, Default
Hair: blah!

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