I went through a pretty lame period these last few months, either of dreamlessness or dull dreams. Those aren’t fun to describe here, so I’ve just kind of been ignoring this blog. Not sure what the change has been, but these last few nights, my dreams have been crazy vivid. It feels like the old days!
Last night, I was sitting in a room with no furniture. I felt an awful pain in my left arm. When I looked down at the skin, I saw there was a small bump, almost like a pimple. I went to touch it, and when I did, I made the quick decision that it needed to be pulled.
What follows is kind of gross. Little by little, I pulled out a hugely long rainbow gummy worm. I could feel its body sliding through mine as I pulled on it, and I remember wincing as I felt the other end of the gummy worm trail from my right side, up my right shoulder, across my shoulder blades, and then out my left bicep.
When it was all out, I felt such a sense of relief. I turned around to see that Pete had been standing there the whole time, and I was immediately ashamed.
I’m still pondering the shame-y bit.
Last night I had a wonderful, peaceful dream about the birth of my friend E’s baby. She’s due at the end of December, which I guess means that the baby can come anytime in the next 6 weeks.
In the dream, we are visiting her in her “hospital” room (it looked a lot more like an old bedroom in a victorian house–dark hardwood floors with wide planks, a huge queen-sized bed, lots of drapes and draped things everywhere). The light was soft, filtered through some gauzy curtains. We walked in and there were she and B, lounging on the bed with baby. They were so happy! She asked me if I wanted to hold the baby, and of COURSE I said yes. I picked up that little cherub and she was perfect: a happy little ball of flesh and organs weighing in at 8 lbs, 8 oz., with wispy dark hair.
E was walking around while I held the baby, gathering up all her stuff. I saw some laundry and the floor and thought she had been wearing my underwear during her hospital stay. Then I realized it was HER underwear, and it was embarrassing to realize I was wearing the same kind of underwear as a pregnant lady. HAHA. In real life, I’m sure I do wear pregnant lady underwear. Whatever. It’s comfy.
I asked E about the birth experience and this is what she said: “I do not understand what the big deal is. We waited around for a while, came to the hospital, and as soon as we got here it was just like…bwoop! And she was here. It was fine. They need to stop scaring pregnant people. It took like three minutes.” While explaining this to me, she was also doing hand motions in front of her body, with her arms imitating the size of a pregnant belly, and then the hands pushing down fast during the “bwoop” noise.
That’s all. Just thought I’d share. There was more to the dream when I came downstairs and people were at a restaurant eating these weird chocolate-covered sponge cakes that I didn’t like at all. I was at some guy’s birthday party and he was being annoying about everyone eating the cake. But also my mother was there, and we talked about E’s baby, and I told her how much it weighed and said, “That’s not too bad, right?” My mom replied, “That’s a big baby. Your brother was 8 lbs., 12 oz., and that was like Hell.” For the record, this is my dream mom talking, so I don’t know how much my brother really was, but I don’t think I’m that far off.
Anyway, I think the moral of this story is that B + E are going to have a wonderful birth experience and labor will be short and sweet. Then we can all get to meet this baby, already!
I went shopping in my dream last night, and the one thing I really, REALLY wanted was a pink, bedazzled Barbie casket. As in, a casket that a Barbie could fit into, so as to have a fun pretend wake and funeral. No word on whether Barbie would request “Eagle’s Wings” for the service.
Really quickly (gotta go to work in like 3 minutes):
Had a dream last night that my family was putting up a huge white tent for me. You know, the kind that people get married under…very tall, with plastic windows and all that. There was a dance floor and a living room area. There was also a nursery.
My aunt walked in with her three children (who are all grown, by the way). She was holding a big ol’ baby in her arms and smiling widely. I asked to hold her new baby, because, why not? And wouldn’t you know it, but that baby was HEAVY. It was so hard to keep the baby in my arms that I had to sit down and play with him on my lap. He was so cute, too! Dark hair, little overalls, big cheeks. My aunt kept going on and on about how happy she was that he was hefty, and that it meant he was nice and healthy. She was so excited! She also kept comparing the baby to her oldest child, also a boy, and how this baby seems to be so much nicer and happier than his older brother.
Then, when the tent was finished, we all sat around, and there was a book we all had to read (that I remembered the name of this morning but now can’t recall). It was understood, though, that this book had been written by one of us, and that it told our story.
After a really great weekend up in Portland, ME, hanging out with some of my very closest friends, I got back yesterday and crashed. I ate a LOT on Saturday and slept very little (3:30-7:00 is not what I would call a full night’s sleep!), so Sunday afternoon was spent napping and relaxing. I went to bed around 10:30 and woke up this morning at 7:30 (that nine hours felt gooooood), and my dream was great last night, so it was a restful sleep! There’s no denying that I’m getting older, though. There was a time in my life that four hours of sleep would have been fine. That is, sadly, no longer the case. Also, note to my future self: pizza at 1:30 am is a terrible idea. Stop it right now.
On to the dream!
I am in my high school, searching for my locker. It’s the first day of school and all the students are bustling through the halls, looking down at their schedules and hurrying to find places they aren’t sure of. After trying to open a few lockers that aren’t mine, I realize that I should go into the girls’ locker room to find it. Sure enough, my locker is there (in the dream it’s number 1022, though I’m not sure the significance). People I didn’t go to high school with, but have known since high school ended were all there, bustling about.
I look down at my own schedule to find I’m already late for my first class: banjo! My schedule goes like this: Intro to Banjo, Intro Music Theory, Wheel Throwing (Pottery), and Chorus. It’s a short schedule, so I must have early release or something wonderful like that. In my dreamworld, the first day of school is a half day wherein you meet your teachers, they give you a list of supplies for class the next day, and then you move on to the next class. I was afraid to be late to banjo but it ended up being fine. Dan Kilgour was in my class (the only other student), and he was very excited to be getting started. I apologized to the instructor because I’ve never played any stringed instrument, but he told me not to worry, and that it was called “Intro” because he didn’t expect anybody with experience to come. I felt better after that.
At the end of the day I walked back to my locker to return my schedule to its rightful place. As I’m walking down the hallway, the school changes to look like a replica of Hudson Memorial School. Just like at HMS in sixth grade, my locker is only a few paces away from Mrs. Elgart’s science room. Coming from the room I hear Brady Gerdts singing “How Great is Our God” to his class (he’s a teacher?) and I run to the locker room to find his wife, Emily. When I ask her how he’s allowed to sing the song in a public school she playfully rolls her eyes and says, “He’s singing THAT?! That’s dumb. Well, we’ll see what happens.”
As a side note, imagine if I just predicted one of Brady’s song choices for this upcoming Sunday? Other side note: why didn’t we have banjo classes in high school? And if we did, why didn’t I know about them? I took ONE art-related class in all of high school and that’s because it was required. If I could do it over, I’d definitely take more. On a more positive note: I can’t do it over again, so I should look into learning some new art things on my own!
I’m driving quickly through a bad section of an old, weathered, seen-better-days seaside town. It is evening, and the passengers in my car urge me to drive faster and faster; they want to get to their destination before all the gangs come out. As I take their advice into consideration, I realize I’ve taken a wrong turn and pull into a gravel parking lot to turn around. I am not long in the parking lot, because suddenly hundreds of “bad”-looking cars have materialized there–the flames-out-the-tailpipe, spikes-on-the-wheels kind of bad. In other words, they a looking for a rumble.
I peel out of that lot as fast as I can and speed off in the other direction, heading for the section of town that houses all the restaurants. In that dreamy way that only dreams have, I am suddenly alone, and suddenly without a car. I am in a run-down pizza joint, being cajoled by Fidel Castro to buy a slice of his supposedly-delicious pizza. Also, he wants to take me into the back room for some fun. For some reason, though I am totally unwilling to follow him into his back room for whatever romantic encounter he has in mind, I stay in the restaurant and mull over my pizza options. What to get, what to get? Pepper and onion? Mushroom? Sr. Castro has one other employee and she looks exceptionally bored at my inability to decide on a flavor. He looks exceptionally annoyed that I won’t follow him into his sex lair. In fact, after a while of my peering through the glass at the pizza, he pops out from the counter to stand beside me. Why don’t I want to join him? I can help him rule Cuba! We would be a powerful pair, and I could have all the pizza I want. Not to mention that he’s an excellent lover, he says, and could teach me many things. The ways of Cuban love-making are exotic and passionate–none of this boring American business! I begin to wonder.
I agree to visit his home behind the pizza parlor. Just as I do, the dream changes again. Now, we are in Fidel Castro’s apartment. It’s decked out in that pastel geometric+brushstroke kind of art that’s only found in 1986 and at the beach. The couches are a light pink and teal, with a flowing brushstroke pattern. Everything looks at least 25 years old–faded, worn, shabby in an un-chic way. Fidel sits on one side of the living room, looking at me. I sit on the other. Also there are two librarians and my brother. I pick up a book that Fidel has on his plastic coffee table. It’s a picture book of an odd shape, and it looks very familiar to me. I suddenly realize that this tall, skinny book was written by my brother for a school project and illustrated by my famous artist uncle (actually, that I have such an uncle is a real thing! You can find more about him here). I am encouraged to read the book aloud, and so I do. The book is all about a journey to find the best pizza in town, but it’s very wordy and the illustrations are terrible. As I finish reading, I wonder aloud whether my brother got a good grade. “I got the best grade in the class,” he retorts. Ah, of course. I forgot he was sitting right there.
The librarians loved the book and found the illustrations interesting. They enjoyed it so much that they wanted to add it to the library’s collection. Just as I was about to tell them that there was only one in existence, my brother produces 3 or 4 smaller soft-cover versions of the same book, and the librarians smile in delight.
Then I woke up!
This dream was from about a week ago, but I wrote it down so that I could relay it later on the blog. It had four parts.
First, there was anthropomorphic lightning that actively tried to electrocute us (not sure who the “us” was). Then tourists arrived on our deck (this time, the “our” is Courtney + Pete), and we had to explain why the lightning was attacking us. I can’t remember our reasons, but the tourists ate it up.
In the second leg of the dream, I am at the gym changing into a tennis skirt and a long sleeved shirt. I am not in the locker room, but rather out in the middle of the tennis court, while matches are being played. Tennis balls whizz by my head as I basically get naked and then re-dress. I remember the shirt was very tight–probably a compression shirt of some sort–and it made me feel extra powerful.
Third, I am sitting on a wooden swing with a friend. The swing is attached by some ropes to a very tall tree. Before us is a huge Olympic-sized swimming pool, with a VERY high diving board. As we watch, a man makes a graceful leap from the diving board into the pool, making only the smallest of splashes as he enters the water. I begin to tell my friend all the reasons I love watching the high dive, and ask her lots of questions about her favorite Olympic sports. I also start heading into “personal question” territory: what does she do in her free time? Where does she see herself in five years? Is it weird to be pregnant? You know, personal stuff. She finally ends my line of questioning by callously answering, “I think I’ve heard enough questions.” Snippy! We watch the high dive in silence after that.
And finally! Julia Berry was in my dream that night, and she wouldn’t let me throw anything away. We were going through my house, finding old magazines and clothes to either give or throw away, depending on the condition of the items. When I picked up a small stack of two-year-old magazines (National Geographic, mostly), she grabbed them from me, exclaiming that it was simply wrong to get rid of such useful objects. I promised I would recycle them, that they wouldn’t end up in a landfill somewhere. She opened one of the magazines and out fell a bunch of clippings. “You can’t recycle these because I’ve already started repurposing them for collage bow-ties in my shop,” she replied. I figured there wasn’t much I could do, but I was frustrated that I couldn’t just get rid of the magazines once and for all.