Dreaming...

Photo by Marcus Cyron
via Wikimedia Commons

About a week ago, just after the start of the new year, I dreamt I was married and had a daughter*. But it seems I'd been neglecting my family, as well as my duties to our home. Not sure why; possibly because I pursued a career or simply my own entertainments, apart from them. A violent pang of remorse, and a deep desire to atone and reclaim my life, made me return to our home.

I went to my "husband" first. He was grimly unhappy with me. Hurt, somber. He was a tall, blond man, wiry, with a bit of scruff along his jaw and chin. He looked like a man who hadn't slept in God knows how long. He's not anyone I know in real life. I walked up to him, gingerly hugged him. I had to stretch and get up on my tiptoes to do it. He didn't resist me, but was slow to respond. He did eventually hold me, though. It was almost as though he surrendered to the inevitability of having me back.

I apologized for not being what I ought to have been to him and our daughter. He was quiet, wary, sad. But he loved me, he wanted me, and he was prepared to do what it took to mend things because we belonged to one another. His embrace went from passive to active, he held me closer, welcoming whatever I had to offer, even if it was more pain. I pressed a kiss, like a pledge, to the area of his face between his chin and cheek, and I loved the feel of his yielding flesh beneath my lips. Then I sagged in relief against him. Over his arm, I spied a home in dire need of attention, a sink overflowing with filthy dishes. Guilt for having shirked my responsibilities to those I loved, for so very long, overwhelmed me.

I searched for my daughter next. A matronly woman appeared, a babysitter or nanny. She eyed me with grave suspicion, and I couldn't blame her. I told her why I was there. The woman said my daughter feared me seeing her, worried that I'd be disappointed by her. From what my dream self could remember, she was really just a little girl, perhaps five, and that she could harbor such concerns puzzled me. I stood firm in my wishes and the woman took me to my daughter's room. I approached a crib, I think, and a small, blanketed figure was handed to me. But it wasn't human. It was a tiny Lego figure. That was my daughter—a thumb-sized, hard, plastic figure. I felt alarm, hysteria, but also a bewildered love. Had she become that way for want of me?

The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters
by Francisco Goya

I awoke soon after that discovery. Regret, shame weighed heavily upon me all that day. The suffering of my dream mate I could still feel, like a fog drifting around me. And the shock of seeing what had become of my daughter, I couldn't bear. Meaning grew, like ivy, taking over every thought. My husband was God, a Judeo-Christian omnipotent power, ready to forgive and welcome home the wayward sheep; the home in shambles really my notebooks, containing tales and songs half-done, gathering dust in their various stacks; my plastic daughter who'd failed to become real and thrive signified the talents I've been given and have failed to nurture ever since the fall of 2013. Or maybe she represents me: a woman made small, and immobilized, by depression...

...or do dreams even mean anything, at all? Back in college, a psych professor told me they were nothing but electrical activity in my brain, triggering memories that flashed in my mind's eye. Maybe that's so. Maybe we'll never know, either way. Perhaps we're not meant to be satisfied on the matter, but to ever wonder at the secrets we tell ourselves as we slumber...


*In reality, I'm a divorced mother of a teenaged son.

Streaming Consciousness...

I'm introducing a new feature to my blog, "Streaming Consciousness." I was gonna call it "Random Streams" but there are already way too many blog posts (and blogs) with the word "random" in their titles. So yeah, I'm just going to babble on, without rhyme or reason. (As per usual...)

...you may be wondering about the image on the right. Well, it's there 'cause Burns' dilated eyes remind me of one of my fave Simpsons episodes, the X-Files crossover. Also, I adore potatoes. Fried, mashed, hash-browned, nice and salty, mmmmm... ::licks chops::

...chops, by the way, is short for Pork Chops, a pejorative used to refer to Portuguese folk. You may not know this expression if you've not lived near/around them. Strangely, it's never offended me, as I was inordinately pleased we had any kind of slang term associated with us. Since many folks I run into have no idea what or who the Portuguese are, I guess I prefer a slur to obscurity (as does this blogger). Some Portuguese of my acquaintance consider Pork Chop an endearing epithet and often use it self-referentially (as folks in my family do)...

...my friend Nikki and I saw Paranorman Saturday night. It was a cute, entertaining, and sometimes really gross film. In our opinion, the best of the flick came in the last 10 or 15 minutes, which were dramatic indeed. And I would've taken a different angle in resolving the major conflict of the story (don't want to spoil things here, as the movie's only just opened). Still, it was a bit of Halloweenish fun in balmy August, which only whet my appetite for autumn (as well as for Hotel Transylvania and Frankenweenie, coming to theaters near you at the end of September/start of October, respectively). I'll caution parents of very young children that, though the previews for Paranorman look fairly innocent, it is rated PG and I wouldn't say it's appropriate for children under the age of maybe 9 or 10 (of course, you know your kids' ability to handle violence and gore better than I)...

...I continue to experience surreal dreams. In last night's, I was the object of great sympathy from family and friends as I prepared to marry a man by the name of Carlos de Castro. He was a nice-looking fella (who slightly resembled a friend from the first college I attended and with whom I'm completely out of touch), that I saw at the ceremony only. It was depressing how sad folks'd seemed that I needed to marry this dude, when there was nothing (apparently) wrong with him. Though I don't personally know anyone by this name, I've since learned it's the moniker of a footballer from Uruguay and was reminded it's the name of the Portuguese journalist who was found murdered (and castrated!) in a hotel in Times Square last year. (Quelle bizarre...)

...speaking of bizarre, on Sunday I watched the full six-episode IFC series Bullet in the Face, which I quite enjoyed, though it disturbs me somewhat that I find the lead psycho, Gunter Volger (played by Max Williams) dangerously attractive, if Joker-esque. ::shrugs:: I don't normally go for blonds but I dig this character's hairstyle and, I have to admit, he's got a killer grin (pun intended). It ended on a cliff-hanger, leaving me with the reasonable hope for a second season of this off-kilter action/thriller/comedy...

...I'm researching tattoos; these images have caught my fancy: Celtic Moon, Stars Tribal Tattoo, Sun. Celestial combos also appeal, like this one, or this one. I'm not sure where on my bod to put it/them. I want to be able to see it/them easily without having to contort myself Kama Sutra style (especially without a partner), but don't want the average Joe or Jane to be able to see it/them without express permission from moi. Decisions, decisions...Meanwhile, as I agonize over my as-yet-unchosen-tat(s), I think I'll purchase something less angst-inducing (and probably way less permanent)—the Kindle Keyboard 3G. Any o' y'all use that bad boy? Got any feedback on it for me?