Prom and World Domination
I dreamt I was decorationg for prom again with Tasha and while we were looking around the hotel we found a college guy rigging cameras in some of the hotel rooms. We started looking through his bag and saw that he seemed to film porn. We didn’t want to have to bother with that at prom so we knocked him out and shoved him in a duffel bag. We went back to Tasha’s house and threw the bag in her closet. I was spending the night there and then getting ready with Tasha for prom the next day. When I woke up it occurred to me that we had kidnapped the guy so I got up and went into Tasha’s room. Tasha had forgotten all about him til I reminded her so we drug him out of the closet, let him out of the duffel bag and invited him to breakfast in the hopes that maybe he wouldn’t press charges. As Tasha continued getting ready I noticed that the two of them wer flirting like crazy. Brandon had showed up for breakfast two and was going nuts watching the two of them. Tasha invited the guy to go to prom with us.
When we arrived at prom I noticed that we were no longer at the Windsor hotel but at Oakridge instead. The whole church was dressed in funny costumes and was dancing around the tables in the fellowship hall. Jeremiah and I decided we’d had enough craziness for the day and just left to go home.
When we got home Brandon was there frantically doing job searches on our computer in order to get Tasha back. I went outside to get Bonzai and ran into James. He asked if we could get back together and I said no. Then he askes why I was still wearing the ring then. When I looked down I realized he was right and was extremely irritated so I yankedit off and threw in into a big pile of leaves. James got really mad and started yelling so I went with him to the pile to find the ring. Instead I felt my middle finger start stinging like crazy and pulled it out to find a tiny wasp stinging me. I smashed it and decided I’d had enough so I got up to go inside. James wanted to know why I was quitting so I told him about the wasp but he didn’t believe me. I started walking to the house any way and he followed demanding to see my finger. When we got to the front door I showed him and he finally believed me. He tried to go in with me to help me get something for my finger but I shut the door on him and locked it.
Dad was in the living room and saw me holding my finger so he took me to the kitchen ad said mom wouldknow what to do. Mom was frantically cooking something and the kitchen was a wreck. She told me she didnt know what to do but i could tell she just didnt want to be bothered. I just kept stepping in her way and so in frustration she ran over, poured some laundry detergent in a cap and shoved it at me to put my finger in. I did so, not because I thought it would help but because I didn’t really want to get into it with mom. I started looking around the kitchen for some baking soda. Mom got irritated that I was still in her way so I told her I knew the detergent wasnt doing anything and I knew she knew what to do about my finger and so the most expedient way to get rid of me was to help. She got the baking soda for me and so I put some on my finger and then asked her for some tweezers. She found some in the bottom drawer of our kitchen and handed them to me. She said they were hers. I told her no, I kept a pair in the bottom drawer but when I lloked at them I saw they weren’t mine, so I told her she waws right. She looked up suddenly and said no, if I said so then they must be mine because I was her daughter and she would always believe what I told her and that she hoped I knew that. Unsure of what to make of this Dr. Spock moment I didn’t even bother with the tweezers. I walked out of the kitchen and woke up.
In other news: I have a twelve page paper due today and currently only have 5 pages. It’s not going to be a fun day. On the bright side, I am now the Secretary/Treasurer for our Student Association here on campus which means an additional scholarship of 25% of my tuition.
April 2, 2009 at 7:05 pm
Hmm… I’ve heard the blood from the ripped out heart of ex-fiances works wonders for wasp stings.
I seemed to remember I was the one who always dealt with bug bites and wasp stings.
April 24, 2009 at 4:44 pm
I’ve missed your dream sequences. Do you actually analyze these dreams or just journal them? I find this one quite sad, especially your mom’s reaction to the wasp sting.
Here is one of mine, from early this morning. It’s real. . . for some reason people never seem to believe me when I’m serious. . .
It’s early, early morning and I’m in bed asleep at my Grandma’s farm in Baird, where so many of my dreams live.
Someone is trying frantically to wake me. When I open my eyes, I ask who it is. No answer. I can just see the person’s vague outline through sleepy eyes, backlit by a single bulb hanging in the hall. I have my contacts on still from the day before and can’t quite focus through the haze in my vision, so it takes a moment longer to realize it is my mom. Before she silently mimes that I should get up and follow her, I notice that her hair is different and she looks younger. She is a beautiful specter moving silently out into the light.
As I stand from the bed, cold air hits me from all directions. It is very early and winter. I’m undeterred, though, and follow her into the kitchen where the light is slightly green against the white wall from a florescent tube mounted over the antique oven. She is leaning there, sticken.
I ask her what is wrong, what has happened, but she only shakes her head in a tremor and hides her head in a shoulderful of locks. I lean forward to grasp her shoulders and point her gaze in my direction when the awkward position of our bodies and the sting of cold ceramic oven against my skin communicates to me that I am all-but-naked, wearing only a pair of black too-tight underwear.
I am embarrassed, uncomfortable against her. She is dressed in a 70’s style blousy pearls-for-buttons shirt with shoulders and something beneath. The difference is shattering for a pale, green-hued moment before all that is forgotten and I begin again begging for the news she so obviously has but cannot express.
She shakes her head again and I notice she has not spoken all this time. But as I look into her determinedly worried eyes, I know the answer. And speak the words aloud. It’s Meemaw? What happened? She. . . dead? A picture snaps into tight tolerance squarely in my vision as the turning of a ViewMaster shows a large bed, almond-flesh colored covers lightly rumpled, and an imperceptible outline of a body, you have to imagine it, can’t be seen, of an old woman, dead in sleep.
My mom’s eyes snap to mine as if she too sees the image that has brought tears to my eyes, and the spell is broken. “No, not dead,” she says, “but something is wrong, they had to take her to to hospital.”
She describes to me a scene where, in the early days of the AIDS scare, before much was known, my grandfather had taken my grandmother to a clinic where— and this is unspoken though I see it as a television just behind my brow— she is given a blood transfusion, and infected. She is just now, frail and old as she is, succumbing.
And unspoken: it is my grandfather’s fault.
The weight of this news cannot begin to sink in, however, because a car is arriving. It is perhaps not a Model T, but a very old Ford, gleaming with new but dull black paint, is pulling to a stop in the yard. It is Meemaw and my aunt Sue.
At my aunt’s unexpected arrival: I silently assign her some blame.
I watch from the impossible vantage of the kitchen where I still stand with my mom at the oven and gauge her condition as she exits the car. She seems well, or well enough to walk on her own, though the tall step down from the old Ford is problematic for her. She waits for my aunt to round the cab to be escorted up to the house. As they meet this side of dull black metal and an exhausting night spent away in hospital waiting rooms, on the right side for now of endless needles, pain and death, my grandmother swings a long, heavy arm around her daughter’s waist for support, and in return is given a limp hand draped idly over the crown of her aqua-net-ted, brittle hair, tips of fingers lightly touching the old forehead where two blue veins form a cryptic capital Y.
I see all this through two interior walls, a stone facade and night almost as dark as death, and know.
April 24, 2009 at 8:26 pm
I just journal, usually the theme of them is pretty blatant but Cryss analyzes them for me sometimes.
Your alot better at describing your dreams. I noticed you didn’t analyze yours either…
April 25, 2009 at 12:52 am
I always analyze mine, but I never write them down. I always remember the dreams I have just before waking (lately). This one is pretty obvious, yeah?
I was looking through old photos last night and that provided a lot of the imagery in the dream. I videochatted my mom last night too and she had a new hair style, which made her look younger. I’m not sure why the old Ford but it kinda fits in with the whole old age/death theme. The scary bit at the end with the hand draped over my grandma’s head is actually right out of a photo of me and her last year. For some reason I had my hand on top of her head goofing around and she is laughing in the photo. In the dream it is sinister but in the photo it is funny.
My grandma tells me every time I talk to her, “well… i probably won’t live much longer.” She has an obsession with death going way back. She would make long lists of her possessions dividing them among us kids and tell us what we were getting when she dies. One day in front of a bunch of strangers my sister said loudly, “meemaw, can i have that necklace when you die?” All eyes turn at a moment like that. So, yeah, death.
I’m assigning blame left and right because my grandmother’s death would be truly tragic for me. She was a second mother to me, and so reliant on my grandfather in hidden ways.
About half of all my dreams are set at my grandparent’s farm. I wrote a poem about it, which is on my blog. It’s called When A Young Boy Falls Asleep (for my grandfather).
http://jasonenchile.blogspot.com/2009/02/for-my-grandfather.html