Locked inside

In her four and a half years at college, Kitty hadn't seen one sign of anyone from the Interior.  If she didn't still have the bracelet, she might have convinced herself that she’d dreamt the whole thing up.  Lately Kitty had even started to wonder if the bracelet came from some rummage sale she’d been to with her mother, and that in her need to feel special, she spun a fantastic story around.  The more time that passed since her last visit, the less real the Interior seemed, and the less she remembered about it.

Sometimes in her dreams she could hear the King talking to her but, of course, she never saw his face.  Nor could Kitty recall what the apartment looked like that she’d stayed in during her convalescence.  The much-faded scar where the Minister’s knife had gone into her side failed to jog her memory.  Even when Kitty went to visit the Minister’s grave, she found no marker, presumably because no one had known who he was.  Its absence only heightened her sense of unreality.  Not for the first time did she wish Jack could remember his trip there, if only someone could validate her experience.  But she seemed fated to just forget more and more about the Interior until, somehow, it would cease to exist in her memory at all.

Looking beyond

Recognized your torture, my friend,

but the the coldness of your world

froze useless my hands.

Mercy is a desert with a one way

sign,

strange we never could follow that line.

But I will remember you as the bridges

burning,

I will remember you as the leaves

turning,

and I will dream of you every night

even though I lost it all,

even though I meant to give up

believing.

The coming fire

                “Oh, it’s some kind of tumor.”  His mother waved a hand dismissively.  “Who can understand a thing those doctors say nowadays?”

                “But are you going to be all right?” Jonah demanded, a strange feeling of desperation burbling up inside of him.

                “Hmmmn.  Now where did I put that phone number again?”

                “Mom,” Jonah loudly interrupted, “are you going to be all right?”

                “What, dear?  Oh, that.  No, I don’t think so.  Tumors aren't good, you know, and they can’t operate on it for some reason or another.”

                “What are you saying?  Are you going to die?”

                “Well, we’re all going to die, dear.”

                “I mean soon!”

                “It seems that way.  Can you help me find this phone number?”

                Jonah stood there, watching his mother search the roll top desk that used to sit in Grandma Mueller’s dining room.  She’d mis-buttoned the back of her house dress, so that one of the tiny pink plastic buttons stuck out on top by the collar.  “Cheer up sleepy Jean,” she was singing to herself.  “Oh, what can it mean?  To a daydream believer, and a homecoming queen…”

Stuck

The thunder called to me yesterday,

because there is nothing obvious

about inevitability,

and sometimes nothing left to mourn.

We wander in and out of these tunnels,

hugging the walls of our confusion,

our pockets empty after the long journey,

only to find ourselves wishing for the 

destination we avoided most

and have forgotten how to find.

Misconnections

Dream Journal, March 7-8, 2005

Obviously haven’t been keeping the d.j. lately.  Got sick of everything.  Well, I’m back—at least for one day.

Yesterday went to see Linda with Ryan & also on my own.  A bit rough but okay. 

Last night dreamt that Ryan & I were staying in my father’s room.  It looked like his room how I remember it.  It was filled with lots of stuff he had bought on sale, like extra bottles of shampoo.  Anyway, it was late & we were getting ready for bed.  On the way back from the bathroom I saw someone—a young woman/girl—downstairs (weird, since my dad's house is one-story) just break down the back door like it was nothing.  Freaked out, I ran into the bedroom and closed the door & told Ryan what happened.  I tried to call the police but the girl had cut off the phone lines, so I had to use the cell phone.  

After a bit of a delay on the side of 911 I got through & told the police to come.  We then tried to keep her from getting in the bedroom, but she was stronger than us & got inside.  I was terrified of her but she seemed more desperate than anything.  To my disapproval Ryan started handing her lots of cash, something like $150 so that she could eat or whatever.  She was still trying to get stuff from us when the police showed up & arrested her.  They told me that she’d go to prison for at least twelve years—which I wanted—but that when she gets out, she’d come after me, which freaked me out.  Some guy who lived in the house & supposedly took care of the “old people” who lived there seemed surprised someone had broken in but very calmly got back to work to repair the door and come up with a better lock.  He didn't seem super competent to me, nor did he seem all that worried about what had happened.

After that Ryan and I went out.  We all decided to walk the rest of the way to wherever we were headed.  It was gray out & cool but not the dead of winter.  We wound up at some place where my aunt (who is no longer living) was, along with some other people who might have been my extended family members.  My aunt was knitting.  Excited, I told her I liked to knit too, and we proceeded to have a good conversation about knitting that involved her giving me some tips.  It was after this that I realized I hadn't actually been talking to my aunt, but to the girl who had broken into the house.  I was very surprised by the fact that I liked her & that we had so much in common.  When I realized it was her I asked her what she wanted from me.  She smiled, leaned in very close to my ear, and whispered, “Friendship.”  And then she ran off.

Swimming upstream

Do not be afraid, loved one

swim out into that dark ocean

swim to the castle where he

waits for you, his eyes

calling

the dock is behind you now

I will ask nothing more from you.

The unexpected refuge

“She’s down!” someone shouted, but Megan wasn't hurt.  She was just curled up in a ball on the kitchen floor a few feet from where Alturis lay, his dead eyes staring at the Williams-Sonoma Thanksgiving cookbook cover.