Dreams July 5, 2012
J. approaches me on the street corner. She is tall and large and she is angry.
“I’m gonna punch you in the face,” she tells me. “I’m gonna hit you. I can’t keep it in. I’m gonna get you.”
Now I know J. pretty well; she is intelligent and reasonable. I appeal to her better senses.
“It won’t do any good to act out like that,” I say. “You have that frustration in you. You want to get it out. You can take it out on an object, if you must. But not a person. It won’t do any good. You won’t feel better. You think you will, but you won’t.”
My two girlfriends come up beside me to help out. J. is not calmed down.
“I’ll get you, too!” J. tells my friends.
Finally J. gets on the bus and leaves. I wonder why she is so angry at me. I am afraid and want to change things, but I can’t seem to reach her and get her to understand.
Now I walk along the street with my friends. I am on the right of a line of five friends. Two more walk ahead of us. We started as a loose group but now we are tight. We stick together and take these walks frequently. I feel my heart overflow with joy that I am part of the group. I love them. I belong.
The terrorists threaten to cut off one of my fingers. I am lucky, I guess; the last person had his left hand cut off. I don’t know why this is happening. How can I stop it?
I check the pockets of the jacket I’m donating. It’s the purple velour jacket I love so much. “But it has become thin, faded and old,” I tell the person receiving the donation. “It was so plush and deep purple. My favorite jacket. This fading on the sleeve — how much will that affect the price?” Why am I giving away the jacket, I wonder. I still love it. But I must have had a good reason. I’ll let it go. But I’m not sure. Maybe I will grab it back at the last minute.