See: Porcelain, Moby
[DSL was out last night]
Last night I was abandoned at sea by my mother, my father, my sister, Ethan. None of them heinously, just a quiet dismissal of my presence and worth, leaving me alone to plunge myself off the freighter into the waves and strike out for land. I did catch up with the group eventually (apparently I have a fantastic sidestroke) and led it into shore where I found a friend waiting for me. A friend who greeted me with talk of going to dinner (Amy's, for crab), who slid over on the white marble step and put a welcoming arm out, took my hand. And I wondered to myself if this was allowed. We stood to go, and that was the end of it. It is not always the same person, it is not always the same situation but my unconscious finds ways to explore all the aspects of my life - sometimes in the context of present circumstances and sometimes not. In the bright grey light of the morning these concerns may seem trivial to most but I have a long history with these night-time adventures. There was a summer in high school I remember where every night my parents tried to kill me, or I had to kill them. Variations on a theme. The recurring mummy dream of my childhood - every time I had a fever. When I met death, when Ethan was assassinated, when I was pregnant, when I miscarried, the secret agent series. If I wake up with no new memories I feel as if something is missing. Sometimes I wake up truly terrified or exhilarated. When Ethan was assassinated, killed as we slept by a sniper, what woke me up were my tears, just as real in life, and it took several minutes of serious reasoning (it was just a dream, it's all fine) to calm myself down. They are more real to me than I should allow them to be. So I worry about this hand-holding, dinner dates, of people I know and of strangers; if it makes me a liar, a betrayer, less or more in real life. It is possible to exert some control, with practice, although my only real contribution is being able to fly when chased and I can never fly quite high enough to get my ankles out of reach. Imperfect skill. If I practiced more, perhaps I would be able to turn away in all the dreams, to say no to say what would Ethan say? and yet part of me wonders if this vicarious exploration - the "what if" I will never have - keeps me happy in the status quo. I suppose a girl can dream.
Last night I was abandoned at sea by my mother, my father, my sister, Ethan. None of them heinously, just a quiet dismissal of my presence and worth, leaving me alone to plunge myself off the freighter into the waves and strike out for land. I did catch up with the group eventually (apparently I have a fantastic sidestroke) and led it into shore where I found a friend waiting for me. A friend who greeted me with talk of going to dinner (Amy's, for crab), who slid over on the white marble step and put a welcoming arm out, took my hand. And I wondered to myself if this was allowed. We stood to go, and that was the end of it. It is not always the same person, it is not always the same situation but my unconscious finds ways to explore all the aspects of my life - sometimes in the context of present circumstances and sometimes not. In the bright grey light of the morning these concerns may seem trivial to most but I have a long history with these night-time adventures. There was a summer in high school I remember where every night my parents tried to kill me, or I had to kill them. Variations on a theme. The recurring mummy dream of my childhood - every time I had a fever. When I met death, when Ethan was assassinated, when I was pregnant, when I miscarried, the secret agent series. If I wake up with no new memories I feel as if something is missing. Sometimes I wake up truly terrified or exhilarated. When Ethan was assassinated, killed as we slept by a sniper, what woke me up were my tears, just as real in life, and it took several minutes of serious reasoning (it was just a dream, it's all fine) to calm myself down. They are more real to me than I should allow them to be. So I worry about this hand-holding, dinner dates, of people I know and of strangers; if it makes me a liar, a betrayer, less or more in real life. It is possible to exert some control, with practice, although my only real contribution is being able to fly when chased and I can never fly quite high enough to get my ankles out of reach. Imperfect skill. If I practiced more, perhaps I would be able to turn away in all the dreams, to say no to say what would Ethan say? and yet part of me wonders if this vicarious exploration - the "what if" I will never have - keeps me happy in the status quo. I suppose a girl can dream.
posted by trophywife at 8:14 AM
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