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My dreams have been absent from waking memory for more than a month, a fact which is highly unusual. I can recall only one other time in my life where this occured. It was eight years ago exactly, and that was because the man I was dating at the time, commonly known as The Devil, was stealing them. He was also causing me to bleed each time we had sex, regardless of the force or tenderness we engaged in the act with. Upon being told that I felt he was stealing my dreams and that I was bleeding each time we had sex, my dreams returned and the bleeding stopped. There are other reasons he was known to us as The Devil, and those reasons, while important, hold little bearing here. Just understand, that it is not easily my dreams should slip away from me in the daylight hours.
Knowing this, though, sheds little light on why it should have been occuring the past month. My stressors have all but disappeared. Money, love, life are finding a pleasant equilibrium. My lover, Andy, is not stealing my dreams, we in fact rarely sleep in the same place together. No, this time it is a mystery.
What there has been to recall is little. There's the brief snippet of Michael J. Fox shambling toward me with heavily cataracted eyes, an image unsettling enough to have me wake with the certainty that I'd dreamt his death into being, and there's the dream last week I recall swipes of, a Grey Gardens-like duo of women who were my "aunts", and pails of ranch dressing being flung at a large crowd of people who wished them harm, one member of this masse being my friend Hilary Davis, whom I recognised from behind by her red hair, just seconds after the dressing hit her. There's also the brochure which featured a Korean restaurant called Babi, which served pizza with a Sriracha cream sauce and artfully cut, cold, raw vegetables placed aesthetically over the surface of the Sriracha slathered crust. But none of these dream snippets add up to a whole, nor have they provided me any insight to deeper brain goo.
In other words, these dreams are not like my dreams. They are inferiour imitations of what I know to be my dreams and praise the lord, it would appear that the real dreaming is back as of two nights ago.
I dreamed of a huge old pale yellow house, which sat on a hill that slipped gently into a cliff which overlooked a large lake. It was surrounded by thick woods of elm and oak, with a private drive not easily seen from the main road. The house was run down, as if it had not been tended to in a decade or more, but its build was solid, and its foundation crafted from natural stone. I had found out that this house was an heirloom, passed down for generations, but kept secret; the previous owner had cared little for it and spent no time there. Thus, my time had come to make it my own, lest the house fall further into disrepair. I stood on a higher hill which overlooked this house and took photos with my cell phone. I'd been unprepared for this gift and the elation had made me weepy, heady with possibility. I sent these photos to Andy with the understanding that he was to keep it secret. He was welcome to live with me here, of course, but it had to be tended to before that was possible.
What is curious, then, is the course the dream took after this. Being as religiously romantic as I am, I find myself wont to believe that this house is real, and that it is a place I have been, in a life long past. I've had dreams like what this dream turned into before, where people I've never knowingly met have names and rich lives of their own, and understanding of the dream landscape, technically foreign territory, is as known to me as my own life.
I arrived at the house in the early afternoon hours as people bustled about tending to tables and wreaths and streamers. Signs of festivity, of celebration. I wore a cotton dress, in the style common to women in the mid 1950's. This was not the house of the first portion of the dream, but that same house, decades earlier. In pristine condition. Full of people, of life, of love. These woods were somewhere south of the Mason-Dixon, and the inhabitants were lifelong, old money Southerners. Happy, genteel folks. And I was one of them. But, in pondering this in the waking, it was not a me that I know, but yet a me no less familiar than the me that is now. My hair dusted my shoulders, a dark blonde which shone with shades of red. I wore a small white veil upon my head. My dress was perfectly tailored to my shape. I kept looking down, to my stomach, touching it gently. I was pregnant, and it was my wedding day.
I dashed upstairs, to the servants' quarters, where I spoke with my dear friend, our black head servant, Albert. He was the only one who knew that I was pregnant, but it was not something we spoke of, or indicated. In the dream, I just knew it to be true. He sat at a small table in a nook just off a children's playroom, eating a simple sandwich. His eyes shone with happiness and pride that I was back home, and that the reason for my return was my wedding. I knew that there was much to prepare for, and bid him adieu.
This is where the dream ends. I find it curious that despite Andy being prominently on my mind in the first portion of the dream, he is absent from the second portion, and that I've no impression of who my groom and father of my child was to be at all, other than the understanding that he was the right choice.
Last night's dream is less worthy of detail, so I shall summarise:
Connor, an ex quite possibly least likely to ever interest me again, wound up interesting me again, and things were vaguely rekindled. I moved to Madrid, and he followed me there. It was shortly after this that I became suspicious when I noted him frequently talking to large groups of people. I realised he was proselytising them to be in his army for Satan, and when he couldn't convince them on the simple merit of his words, he would resort to casting a glamour upon them. This fact raised my hackles and caused latent messianic powers within me to come to the fore and thus an epic battle of good versus evil began.
The end.
I'm sure I won. Connor's a putz.
I feel like I must keep writing as there is so much I want to say to Andy. About my day. About observations. About life. About the food I ate. About how loving Gaia's been lately, even asking for belly kisses when I get home, her little black furry body writhing about on my bed simply desperate for belly kisses from mommmy. As I wrote that, she lept on my lap, and oh, how she looks at me with pure love.
I miss lighthearted Andy, who even though since day one he's freaked out about the intensity of what's gone on between us, was full of adoration and certainty that I was to be his lady. "I want to spend as much time with you as possible." "I want you all to myself."
The latter when I was combatting residual feelings for The Mexican Who Don't Want Me and continued, probably eternal love/in love for the lad who has been making my life nothing but complicated since April 2008. I didn't feel it was unfair, I knew I was dealing with it and I knew they had and have no influence on my feelings for Andy, but his particular ghost, having throwing him into a tailspinspinspin, well, his love's been reawakened and confusion emotion bears down hard. He thinks it's unfair to deal with this and be with me, or he feels he needs to work it out by himself. And I fucking GET IT. Exes are god damn hurricanes and they don't give two shits about the new relationship. I wonder if I'm the only lady who thinks about that; if someone is dating someone, I don't fuck with that, no matter the circumstances. NEVER. My feelings take a back seat. My needs are put on hold. I know if it's meant to work, it will, when there aren't brain and heart exploding complications afoot. And when it's from the other direction, and I know someone has feelings for me, or I want to pay attention to someone while I'm in a relationship, I continue the situation I am in to its logical end and I put the other feelings away as much as I can. I don't try to fuck myself or anyone else up in the scenario, and it's probably because I'm so often in the position I am in right now.
I need to ramble and ramble because my brain is running at high speed with all these thoughts and my fingers have a case of sober TMT and I've already sent an email today to him on the topic of how he can combat panic attacks, and I promised I'd leave him be this weekend and I know there is no try, only do (thanks, Yoda), so I'm just muscling through all these urges and sating them by writing these meandering blogs. Thanks be to Jesus that I think there are only about four people who are reading them regularly.
I miss him. I hate this current him, whiny, sweeping dramatics, flailing gestures, and it looks like he's having an aneurysm when he tells me he loves me. Pull it together man, none of this is anywhere near as big a deal as you're making it, the "what if" thought process is bullshit and will only make you crazy. You have me. Enjoy me. It'll work out or it won't.
Pleas into the ether, he doesn't read this. Quaintly, he doesn't even have a computer right now.
Honestly, and I feel like somehow I should whisper this in text form (smaller font?): I don't think it's going to work. Not for me and him, not for she and him. Not for any of us.
His face reminds me of John Frusciante, of Nathan Followill, and of Jesus. Yes, Jesus, and anyone who has known me in any meaningful way over the past fifteen years or so knows I'm kind of in love with the dude. Not the pasty blue-eyed near to blonde Jesus who seems primed to star in some 70s soft-focus porn excursion with a curvaceous, afroed, Nubian goddess (or just a rock opera primed for vocal histrionics), but the more mildly Semitic brand who is a bit wild-eyed and commanding. My Jesus. The one I read about in historical studies and apocryphal texts, the one that used Salome to get John the Baptist's head, who loves Mary Magdalene and wishes her to carry on his teachings, the one that, in a poem by me at age 20, licks my cunt and loves it, whispering between my legs that I had been his thirst all along.
But, that might make it sound as if I've put this man on a pedestal. To the contrary; instead, I find the comparison makes him even more meaty and earthy to the Sarah brain. He has, this man, already demonstrated nuanced humanity. He is strong, but vulnerable. Admirably intelligent, but not intimidating. He listens at length, but also speaks at length. He remembers names, the myriad names I rattle off in any conversation, and he's got them logged and annotated with the appropriate information. He tells tales of his life and puts me into his heart with them when he talks; it is not a distant, removed story he is telling me, it is His Life. When he touches me, he makes me shudder and convulse in the most electric way. Literally, it is as if I feel currents running through me as he strokes my skin. His mouth, when on mine, or upon any other place on my body, makes me remember that sex and sexual intimacy are direct lines to the Godhead.
When he's nervous, or feels out of place, he holds his hand to his mouth, his fingers fluttering against his lips. When he's upset, he rubs his forehead, causing a punk-rock formation of his quite perfectly formed eyebrows, hairs standing tall, at defiant attention. When he looks at me, his expression drifts from something like lovestruck to stricken in the span of seconds. I am afraid of him but not afraid. My fear seems conceptual, seeming to be more that now that I am again aware that love and tender feelings are not beyond me, it would just be silly to do something stupid and lose track of such a worthy human being to explore.
And perhaps I have. I told him I loved him last night. You know, prime third date material. I mean it, however, and I do not regret it. I've pondered this all day. Better to have loved and lost? The eternal question (but not as hard to answer as beaten in vs. sexed in, in my opinion). He did some hearty freaking last night after these words passed my lips. I talked him down from the ledge, but I know what things the brain does in the hours after. I have, in the hours since I dropped him at home this afternoon, come to accept that I may have been too much. But, in an unusual twist, the fact that I've been made aware again that I can feel this way, and maybe even better that there are amazing, beautiful, gritty, sexy, potent people who can make me feel this way, then maybe it's not so bad to have acted on my feelings. That being said, I hope I've not been too much. He is one to fight for.
