Dreamt I was on a light rail train. In the front car. All was glass windows for viewing, including the floor. We sped out over Chicago. I could see the buildings beneath the water. Submerged. Dizzying with their height and the depth of the flood. A day bright with sun. Warm and blue sky. The other passengers laughing with apprehension of the clear bottom of the train.
She says, The thing that bothered me when I saw my house down there is that I know I left my door closed when I left. But now it’s open.
On the train. The planes and angles of his face. The lay of his hair. The shape of the rims of his glasses. His profile.
An instant reliving. I am in an apartment. In the living room. A group of us from the corporate music store I work at. We are gathered for our monthly movie night. It is night. Our host sits in a chair. His sister draped over him in his lap. We are confused.
A break. One by one those gathered slip off to the kitchen for drinks and food. I remain seated with a friend, Rex, and a man known as The Claw. With the planes and angles of his face. His glasses. His hair smashed by stocking cap. He is a giant of gangle limbs sunken into couch cushions. His head leaned back in inebriation.
He speaks in rambles and incoherence. Sometimes the volume of his voice falls so low we have to lean forward and strain to hear his words, then sudden bursts of excitement, speed and volume. A chaos of inflection and cadence. Rhythm and meter.
When he casually mentions that he’d like to kill us, we join the others in the kitchen.
After seeing this stranger on the train. And this memory resurfaced. I dream. I dream of him. I dream that he chances upon me in a bookstore. He as he may be now. He and his wife. The bright lights of this corporate bookstore. Standing between wooden shelves. He approaches from behind, says – boo. And I jump. He is older. But still those same angles and glasses. The lay of his hair. Yes that was me on the train, he says. He and his wife smile friendly.
Dreamt I was asleep in bed. Then half awake. Run my fingers through my hair. I feel something thicker. A knot in my hair? A tangle? I grasp it. Pull sharp and quick. Pluck. I feel it loosen and free from deep roots. A long black fibrous stem. With burst of white roots at the base. A plant growing from my scalp now next to me on the white sheets of the bed.
February 8, 2016
Things said to me while I dreamt I was taking a German class at a community college.
That bike is like a tutor mobile.
That bag makes you look like a dad.
Signing up for an account before class starts is like twenty percent of our grade.
Dreamt. September 8, 2015.
We race across water in small swift boats, this small group of people and I. We flee some unknown thing. I let the current carry me and drift uncaring or oblivious to any danger. Others on a boat nearby alert me.
I see shadows beneath the surface – large and dark, approaching then circling under me.
I paddle with my hands and arms. Long full strokes. And try to hurry along. The water is wet. Without temperature.
Dreamt that I was at a lecture that took place in the living room of a house. A small gathering of people. The lecturers were Angela Davis and Audre Lorde. I was frantically trying to write a paper about what they were saying as they were speaking. They sat in chairs in front of the windows. Daytime. Sun filtered through gauze curtains. Warm.
This morning dreamt that it was winter. Winter. Cold. I had to get to work. H not at home. She told me to stay with a friend so they could take care of me. But it was late. Late out. Dark. Night. Cold.
Leaving school late. Filing out of the train station. In a line going up wooden stairs. Slow moving line. I see JP from high school. He’s speaking French to a girl who’s with him. There is also a third man. I hear their French and turn to JP and say, “Mirate! Cómo hablas el francés!” Continue reading “winter dream”