Dream Journal Update – The Target

Dreams May 13, 2012

Besides wearing a scarf to cover my hair in public, I must be sure to wear a white kerchief underneath the scarf; a white kerchief to hide the bit of my hair that would otherwise peek out from the scarf.  This is even stricter than I remember, I think.   It is so strict, how can I do it?  I don’t want to do it.

We are indoors now, so our hair is showing carelessly.  Dark curly hair.  I tell a friend what I had heard.  “Let me tell you what my mother said about me,” I tell her.  The friend says perhaps the information isn’t reliable; I shouldn’t believe everything I hear.  “But I overheard my mother, myself.  I was nearby and she didn’t realize I could hear her.”  Oh, that is different, agrees my friend.  She follows me to another table so we can have some privacy.

“She was talking to my teachers.  She asked them if I was good in creative writing.  Yes, the teachers said I was excellent.  So my mother told them, ‘Don’t tell her that so often, don’t let her know.’  She asked the teachers if I was jealous.  The teachers said no, I’m not.”  I tell my friend, “She is looking for things wrong with me.”

Next – our army is waiting to engage in combat.  I find myself walking at the end of a long column of marchers; the end with the women and children.  They are Germans; why am I here?  Am I a spy?  I don’t understand why I’m here, but I know to keep myself incognito.  Oh no, we women are not safe; some of our own soldiers are throwing stones from the unpaved path.  I hope I don’t get hit.  I hope I don’t get recognized, and no one tries to speak to me in German, which I don’t understand.  Now we are crowding near round huts.  What are they?  I am afraid.  I feel so vulnerable, so at risk.

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Updated Dream Journal — Circles

Dreams April 20, 2012

The flower bunches hung over us, like constellations in the sky, buoyed by balloons.

“Look, how beautiful!  Though some are uneven, it is a great arrangement.”  We admire the dozen bunches of pink and white flowers floating in a circle above our heads.  But suddenly, what is it? A dog.  A dog on the ground has punctured the airbag with his paws and in one swift movement the arrangement collapses.  I’m standing so close to the dog — will they think I did it?  Will they blame me?

No, the only story goes that I am the one who created the wonderful arrangement.  In truth, I had no involvement; I don’t deserve the credit.  “See how rumors start, and become historical fact?  There’s no controlling it,”  I say.  I regret the confusion but don’t try too hard to combat it; I am relieved that no one blames me for any part of the collapse.

Meanwhile, we try to figure out the rules of this new planet.  For, surely, it is a new planet.  First of all, the weeks lack Fridays.  Then, the fashions are different.  I watch the women move in a spirited dance in a circle, wearing strange print dresses with ruffled skirts, strange wrappings around their mouths and lower jaws — like bandages.  We try to account for all this.  Someone figures that this universe is much smaller, the planet is closer to its sun, and that is why the week and all time is shorter.  What else can we discover about this strange place we find ourselves, we wonder.

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Dream Journal Update — Seeking China

Dreams, April 4, 2012

Where is the paperwork for the tentative flight reservation?  I need to call to confirm the trip; the 30-day deadline might already be up.  I look through the boxes but I don’t see it.  And because I don’t have the paperwork, I don’t have the phone number for United.  Oh, my cell phone will have the number.  But where is my phone?  Don’t have that, either. 

I ask the people in the house if I can use their phone and borrow a pen and paper, so when I get through to United I can write down the information.  Begrudgingly, they let me take some yellow post-it notes and a pencil.  So many people in the house; what are they doing?  Am I intruding?  I try to find a quiet place to call, but I can’t.  I will have to let them hear me call about the China trip, though it may be so showy to do so.

It’s a small town, with small town ways.  Everyone knows everyone, by first name, and only first names are used.  The town is dark with factories along a waterfront.  When I pick up the phone, a woman comes on who seems to be the local telephone operator.  Or is she at a hotel desk?  After several attempts, I think I make it clear to her I’m trying to connect to United Airlines.  It takes so long, and time is running out.  I get through to United but the connection is bad; they say to call back.  But, I don’t have the number!  I have to go through Molly again.  This is torturous.  Okay, I’m put through to the airline.

“Is this United?” I ask because all I hear is a woman saying hello.

“Yes.”

But I’m not convinced.  No wonder.  It is Lila from down the block; she’s the town travel agent.  She wants to chat.  I insist on dealing with the reservation.  We get nowhere.  “Damn you,” she says.  I hang up.  She calls me back, but one of the locals is telling me his life story and I can’t take her call.  Yes, she is still on the line.  As the ordeal continues, the phone in my hand is getting smaller and smaller.  It has turned into a slice of brown bread, and only bite-sized pieces are left.  Now just one piece remains; I have to switch it from my ear to listen and then to my mouth to speak into.

Eventually I get my flight to China confirmed.  Lila says that if Lee and I travel on the same flight, they will give me a special gift picture book.  No thanks.  She alerts me to a great club and bar in Atlanta; I should visit it during my layover.  Thanks. I’ll do that.  I still don’t have her phone number, or United’s number.  But I have the China trip confirmed.

Now I must find my hotel room again in Chicago.  It’s on the fifth floor, a top floor, at the end of a hallway.  No, not in that building.  Not that one either.  Not that one; I would have remembered lugging my luggage up the steep steps.  There, that one, at the end of the block.  It’s good to be in Chicago again.

Yes, this is where my room is.  I remember the lobby, the wood-paneled walls.  The cabinet of small drawers, like a library card catalog.  The tiny elevator.  People are talking about getting mugged in the buildings in the neighborhood.  “Especially on the top floors,” says a woman.  “They chase you down the stairs.”

Emptying my pockets, I can’t find the hotel key.  Even the bite-sized piece of bread has crumbled.  The women at the desk shake their heads.  “No, we don’t have extra keys.  We can’t help you.”

I have no idea how to get back into my room.  My resourcefulness seems expended, and I despair.  Is it time to give up?  Must be: my pockets are empty.

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Dream Journal Update – The Asian Woman

Dreams, March 10, 2012

After a week, my new roommate arrives.  I have carefully left half the drawers empty for her use, and cleared my things off half the desk and dresser tops.  The staff come and make up her bed, and we lower the railings on my bed and hers for ease of access.  I know my new roommate is an elderly woman, and she might be frail.  But when she arrives, she is quite sprite; she has put her things away so quickly I barely noticed. 

I am in the apartment next door now, in Grant’s apartment.  He will return the end of the week.  When he comes home, I see he looks like Clint Eastwood.  He wears a soft, forest green shirt.  But, now I am disappointed and afraid.  He has a new woman with him, an Asian woman.  

I tolerate the woman, not getting too close.  But one day she tells me what she wants.  “When the three of us sleep together, why do you sleep so far away?  I want you to sleep closer.”

“I don’t know why I sleep on the far side of the bed,” I tell her.  “But now that you said this, maybe I will move closer in while I sleep.”  So we are accepting each other, I think.

The three of us are in the bathroom.  Our Woman is in the bathtub, naked and submerged, eyes open.  I’m afraid she is not breathing.  Oh, there, I see she has exhaled some small bubbles.  How can she stay underwater so long?  Grant is next to me, suddenly pouring water over me; my own shower.  As the water hits my skin, I’m in ecstasy.  I relish its warmth and wetness.  Finally the woman comes out of the bath, and I survey her body.  She is so slight, she looks like a girl.  So this is the woman Grant has been with.  I wonder what it is like for him, to be with her.  I feel some jealousy; she looks like I did as a teenager, years ago.

Our Woman announces she wants Grant to take her to have her nails done.  I don’t want her to have anything that I don’t get, also, even though I know he is poor.  “I need my nails done, too!” I say, even though I never get them done, ever.

“You want me to get your nails done?” says Grant.  He sounds put off.  Then he confirms it.  “It isn’t enough that I let you stay in my apartment for a week?  And, by the way, I don’t think it a good idea for you to arrive 3:00 am again.  The sound must have disturbed the neighbors.”  I’m nervous now; he is threatening to withdraw and take things away from me.

“They weren’t disturbed,” I tell him.  “No one was in the apartment next door until the end of the week, until Saturday.”

The three of us go to the nail salon.  I realize that I am married to Our Woman, just as Grant is.  The salon is too crowded and noisy for me:  narrow aisles, overflowing counters, people everywhere.  A manicurist grabs my hand.  “Short nails,” she says.  She sounds disapproving; I’m embarrassed in front of Grant.   Our Woman has long fingernails; she wants an elaborate manicure, with many colors of polish. 

“Just shape my nails, please.  No polish,” I say. 

The manicurist takes out a tray of gold and silver fake eyelash-like gizmos.  She is painting with them, to determine the best protective nail coating to give me.  I turn my head to watch the goings on at the salon. 

It’s been awhile since I felt anything happening to my hand.  I look back; she is working on someone else’s hand.  Another manicurist comes to work on me.  Meanwhile, Our Woman is still waiting for service.  Another manicurist inspects my face; tells me its flaws.  “No, I don’t want a facial,” I say.  “I have my regular person who does facials.”  The manicurist leaves; I’m still only half done.  I see several of the manicurists behind a curtain.  I can’t get their attention.  I grow inpatient; angry.  I look for Grant to tell him the problem.  But, then I don’t want him to know how impatient I am; he might think poorly of me.

When I find Grant, still in his soft, forest green shirt — that’s how I can spot him in a crowd — he is not sympathetic to my frustration.  I go back to get my nails finished, and find Our Woman.  She is still waiting.  I suspect she is ignored because she is a minority, and I’m angry about it.  But then I realize, almost everyone in the neighborhood is Asian or Hispanic.  I am the outsider.  I wonder if I can be happy; I feel out of place.  What have I done, I wonder?  But, I realize I always feel out of my culture, out of my element, and how frustrating that is.  Still, I have never been this far away.  What have I done to myself, I wonder.  Do I stay, or go back?

I can’t find Grant now.  I ask around.  One old, unkempt man looks at me in a way I know he wants me.  He disgusts me.  He says he will help me find Grant if I have sex with him.  I refuse; he gets angry.

Our Woman and I keep looking for Grant.  Finally I see him, getting in a taxi.  I run to the taxi, only to find it is a police car.  Grant’s not in it, so I take the driver’s seat.  Must find him.  I almost crash into the car in front of me; I realize I must remember I am driving in NYC, with aggressive drivers.  They don’t even respect “Police” on the side of my car.  I see other police cars: I’ll follow those and try to get help.  No, they aren’t police cars after all; they are Magen David cars and ambulances.  

I step on the gas pedal and push the car through, to find the police station.  There they will help me, even though I might get in trouble for driving a police car, myself.

Must find Grant. 

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Birthday Dream Journal Update – March 8

Dream, March 8, 2012

When I look out the window, the moon is so big and so close, it takes my breath away.  I see its full roundness, but I can also see the edges that are in shadow.  Its features — its hills, its craters, its blueness and its whiteness   —  are clearly visible.

My fellow space traveler calls me to the windows on the other side of the spaceship.  “Look!  Look at the sun!”  It is huge in the window.  Awe inspiring.

Beyond the moon and sun — both so close I feel I could reach out the window and touch them — I see wisps of clouds across the blackness of space.  My heart sings, I can’t believe my good fortune to be on this spaceship.  The universe is a beautiful place.

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Dream Journal Update, February 3

Dream, February 3, 2012

As I wait for my sister to visit me in my prison cell, I develop a plan.  How easy it would be for her to help me escape, if she is willing.  But would she break the law? 

She comes in and I ask, “What would you do to see me out of prison?” 

“Anything.”

“Then here is the plan.  You go out and get shopping bags, filled with groceries.  Then we leave with them.  See I have on regular clothing.  No one will notice as I walk out of the store that I’m a prisoner.  They will think I’m just a regular shopper.  Don’t I look like a regular person, dressed like this?”

“Yes, you do.”

“I have an even better idea,” I say.  “You take the bags of groceries out first.  I won’t leave right with you; that will bring attention.  You take out the groceries, and they will be looking at you.  I will follow a little bit later, and no one will pay me attention.  They will be looking at you.”

My sister brings back the bags of groceries, and puts them by the door.  Meanwhile, we sit at the table and order breakfast.  “Let’s be very nice to the waitress,” I say.  “So she will only remember wonderful things about us when they question her later.”

By chance I look out and see the orange moon begin to rise above the horizon. I’m in awe of its beauty. It rises so quickly, by the time I comment, it is far above the horizon. “I just caught a moonrise! No, no, it’s too late to see it, the moon is high in the sky now.  So wonderful.”

I tell my sister there is a catch to my escape plan.  “Later, they will hunt me down, and bring me back to prison.”

“You could write a book about what it is like here,” she says. 

“Yes, several prisoners are doing just that.”

“I saw them when I came in.”

“You know,” I say, “they will just bring me back here.  There really is no escape.  Maybe I should not try to leave.  It could only make it worse.  But just knowing you would help me escape, knowing I could get out if only for a little while, makes it all bearable.”

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Stalker, Scene 48, A Moment

(Dear Reader, have you missed any earlier scenes? Catch up with this link: Stalker.)

Portland, Oregon 1998

A perfect moment.  Baby languished in her backyard, listening to the fountain nestled in the wall that James built for her from rocks he lugged in from the Clackamas River.  She watched the sky turn as the sun began to set, as the moment began to shift, as she breathed in the air from her blooming late-season azaleas and early roses.  A perfect moment of relaxation and beauty.    Her lovely world of the house, the garden;  the life with the reliable man.  Finally, she could relax.  Stop trying so hard.  Enjoy.

James came through the kitchen door and sat across from her, at the white round table by the waterfall and the hummingbird feeders.  She was surprised to see him looking right at her.  He was still.  He wasn’t filling the bird feeders, or watering the lawn, or trimming the hedges.  He was looking right at her, and she was startled to think that surprised her.  She met his eyes.  She met him with a full searching gaze.  And for once James did not give her his frozen poker face.  No, his eyes said something now.  What was it?  Pity?  Shame?  Apology.  All of those.  Baby felt her stomach tighten.  James had never looked that way before.  Was he about to say something?  What was this about?  No, he just kept looking at her, in that pathetic way.

She broke the moment.  She looked away, regaining her confidence.  She was in control.  She wasn’t going to ask.  She was above this.  Above this look.  She was mistaken, no doubt.  Baby picked up her book, picked up her glass, and retreated indoors.

Only a month later did she remember his look.  Perhaps he was going to tell her then?  Was that why she went indoors?  She didn’t want to know?  Nothing was the same after that moment.

. . . .to be continued

Dream Journal Update, January 29

Dream, January 29, 2012

My friends are going back into the room with me, to check on the bug spray.  Is the can letting out the cloud of mist to kill the ants, yet?  No, I don’t see a cloud.  Oh, wait.  The can is emitting out a small stream of steam.  That must be it.  But my friends are right near it; they will get hurt.  “Leave,” I tell them.  Leave!  But, they dawdle.  They don’t see the danger.  Now they are noticing.  Is it too late?

The steam has let out, and it is working.  Bugs are coming out from their hiding places.  Not dead, still crawling.  The huge ants are disgusting.  I hope the bowls and dishes for the other pets, for the fish and other pets, are not contaminated by the spray.  What a mess.

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Dream Journal Update, January 26

 Dreams, January 26, 2012

So many pieces of luggage and totes to carry, I’m embarrassed I don’t pack lighter.  R. will see me struggle and think poorly of me, I’m sure.  Yes, he does raise an eyebrow when he sees all my bags, and that’s not even all of them.  I still have to retrieve the clothes I left in Santo Domingo, because I didn’t have room in my bags. 

Meanwhile, we go to dinner with another couple.  Three of us seem much younger than R., and I think how well he fits in.  Then I remember he is only a year older than the oldest of us.  R. and the other man go ahead to pay the checks.  I’m left behind, but I catch up.  R. has movie tickets for us.  An action flick.  Oh well, I guess it will do me good to expand my horizons.

Juggling the bags now falling out of my arms, I must find Joni McVey’s apartment on the seventh floor. When I get on the down elevator for stops 7 to Lobby, I assume I can get out on the seventh, and I will see her apartment right away.  Someone alerts me that the elevator won’t stop at seven, but will take me straight to the lobby.  Yes, she is right.  But she intervenes and finds a way to get the elevator to let me out on the seventh floor.

But, which apartment is the one?  I walk past the doors and none of the names are familiar.  Someone asks who I am looking for.  “Doris. Doris Day.”  Well, that will be tough to find, they say.  Such a common name.  But I keep looking.

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Dream Journal Update, January 13

Dreams, January 13, 2012

I take Frank on to the dance floor, my left hand on his shoulder, my right holding his hand.  Music is a simple waltz, but I see he doesn’t know the steps.  I demonstrate and count it out for him, slowing it down and showing him where to take the turn.  He struggles and is about to give up.  ”Let me switch my hand to a lead position,” I say, and I move my hand from his shoulder to his waist.  With my strong lead, now he gets it and we dance the waltz together.

I weave through the crowd to get something to eat, and realize I’m alone. Decide not to let that stop me.  I see the bagels and salad buffet and try to get my bagel on the grill to toast, but it is falling apart.  Jim makes light of my awkwardness and encourages me to keep trying to get the bagel right.  I see lettuce, tomato and cheese but not the protein I need.  I will make do.  A table near the front of the room, near the stage, has empty seats, so I make my way there.  As I put my plate of food down, the women tell me the seats are disengaged so I can’t sit there. 

“Disengaged?  That means no one is here and I can use the spot.”

“No, you can’t sit there, it’s disengaged.”

A woman sitting near the stage pipes in, insisting all the empty seats are disengaged so I can’t use them.  I continue to protest that “disengaged” means no one is using them.  I try to think of an analogy, to explain it to them.

“It’s like saying someone is engaged to be married.  That means they are taken, occupied.  Disengaged means available.”

They refuse to agree and I give up, saying that it’s a linguistic puzzle and how interesting how the language evolves.  I look for a seat elsewhere, where I will be welcomed.

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