dreamscapes

What is it about being sick (in this case with a sinus infection/cold/cough) that makes you dream so vividly, almost frighteningly so.

In a span of 6 hours, I went from whimsical and positively light reverie to trolling the depths of despair and darkness.

The beauty of a wheat field

late night

I am in a deep sleep and the lulled scent of fresh flowers, of life, wakes me. I am in a building cut in half, like a diorama where anyone passing on the outside can see in even though the surrounding streets are empty. There is a cool breeze the type that is awakened by a midsummer day and curls around your skin like silk beckoning you to begin the day. There…here it is twilight in this room where I’ve been sleeping. No larger than a broom closet, and a male voice asks why I am sleeping in such small quarters, but I do not feel the size of the room, only peace. Untangling tan legs from crumpled white sheets I walk towards the window. A large plate glass that reminds me of the loft scene in Ghost; nearby I hear the mewing of a cat and can vaguely see the shadow of one on the fire escape. I reach around the window, the wall to pick the kitten up, his fur is soft and blue-gray and he is comforted by my touch. Just beyond the window, there is an empty lot and I can see 2 figures: a man and his daughter. The child is wearing a pink dress, her dark hair cut in a pageboy; she laughs and waves to me, I smile and wave back.  I blink, the scenery changes. Now there is a meadow with a small lake bordered by dark gray cobblestones slick with moisture, the grass is yellow-green and surrounded by wheat flax rising on the hills. It reminds me of the rolling leaves and mountains on the drive to Lake Tahoe with Mon Frite.  To the left, there is a playground shaded by a large oak tree that appears to be growing adjacent to my building, almost as if the building and tree are one. There is a barn, actually, no a monkey bar set with a yellow thatched roof, the oak branches sway side to side and I feel content, blissful even. And when I wake it is 2 AM.

# # #

 

 

early morning

We are in a courtroom. I am dressed in a simple black dress, fingering a strand of pearls at my neck. My mother is there, except she is older, her hair is white as if she were here with me in 2011. She is also dressed in black. In my dream, there is a young boy maybe 6 or 7 and he is drawing in a sketchpad. We appear to be waiting. A nondescript man appears, his presence ominous almost fearful. He pulls me aside with mom lingering nearby one eye on me, one eye on the boy. His words are unclear but his tone undeniably forceful; when he is done he calls to the boy who looks up and follows him without question.  I seem to be trapped where I stand, now in the middle of the courthouse lobby. The walls are stone cold, the marble floor dull and gray, there is but one chandelier lit. The bulbs reminiscent of movie marquees from the 70s, only these one circular, the glass frosted. I look toward the staircase, the boy grows smaller and smaller in the distance. A woman resembling my mother walks over to me, holds me close and whispers with a soft Irish brogue, “It is for the best my love.” I feel heartbreak, and my body starts to shiver uncontrollably. And that’s when I wake up at 11 AM feeling ill and disoriented, hungry yet nauseous, mind unclear and foggy.

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