I woke myself with a cry. Deep gasping breaths and tears pooled in my eyes; I was awake but kept my eyes closed. My pillow was damp but not in the usual, only-one-side-from-deep-sleep-drooling way. Instead, either side of my face was met with cool wet spots where tears had streamed and cooled under the ceiling fan's Medium breeze.
I lay motionless as thoughts and sensations rolled over me like fog mingling with tide at sunrise. Still groggy, I couldn't decide if I was underwater nor if the snatching of such deep and audible breaths was entirely necessary. Perhaps subconscious me was leaning into this thing a bit much. As a person who frequently denies myself freedom of expression, especially that of crying in front of others, I cannot deny I am disturbed by this subconscious self- mutiny. I wake to find you guys not only crying, but dramatically so? And you're going to give her permission to hyperventilate like that? C'mon Brain! This is not us. A tiny mental post-it note to consider calling my counselor friend gets tacked to the mental mirror over the sink... the dripping, crying, pull-yourself-together sink.
Vestiges of the dream hover over the fog. They roll in and out throughout the day.
I'd had ‘Charleston’ in an embrace and it was a rather violent dance we were engaged in. Thrashing might be a better word. My distinct impression is that it was a do-or-die necessity, that I had charged him so as to take the lead of his barreling anger. I feel as if I was running interference, but also shoving an answer key in his face. I do not like the answers I finally realized I knew. They are too simple for anyone to die over, even to cry over.
Some of the memories lift throughout the day; the guiding narrative has sifted out leaving only clumps of vivid images in the bottom of my sieve. Arrange all those chunky bits, what does it spell? Yes, she was there. And fading to the background is certainly not realistic, not for her. But I can't hold on to a thing that is determined to fly off. I must assess that which I am left holding. And in the dream, I was holding on to him, tightly, as to restrain him, violently dancing him about to show I knew his playbook. Successfully? That remains to be seen.
I know this much, it was "that" kind of dream. The day is almost over and it has lingered with me all day, convincing me it is made of different stuff than all those ordinary dreams that can't even last through the first cup of joe. The kind I have sometimes that are significant in real life a little later on. I believe omen is too strong a word, for as I have mentioned, only a vague sense of 'Uh-oh' remains. But, oh that uh-oh! Who knows how ugly it will be. I feel it will be unlike any of the other storms we've weathered in the past two decades. I am unnerved and writing this to hypothesize that I believe there may be violence. I do not hope for it, indeed I fear it. But I am curious over past dreams that seemed to hold warning. Dreams that were un-shootable messengers.
Making a note now is, perhaps, equivalent to a parlor magician's trick of jotting down all the possible answers to his inquiry and tucking them in various pockets, then offering the coordinates of the correct answer with the illusion that it is the only scrap of paper tucked about his body. I could be wrong and nothing of note will occur. This-I hate the word premonition- will have been the dream's fault and can easily be unpublished. Only a small interaction may occur, but I could then point and say "I knew it." Or something really bad will occur and.... and that's just the thing... what use is it to me really? I'm not being ungrateful. I am thankful for the opportunity to steel my nerves and knees against the incoming storm surge. But, as with all times past, a hazy dream of confirmation does little in the way of instruction. Expect attack, perhaps.
If I were a general at war, these dreams would be a carrier pigeon with opposing messages on each leg:
Left Leg: "The Enemy Approaches"
Right Leg: "The Enemy Retreats"
Nice to know pigeon, but what should I do?
One conclusion I have definitely reached- perhaps twice today- is that you cannot proactively shoot someone because of a dream you had. People won't understand.
Another is to be ready. Such an open-ended ready has required a lengthy and eclectic list: moving away for the month of August, faking my death, learning to punch. I have a fair supply of matches, though I always feel better whenever I buy another box more. I think of the Appalachian Trail and that grandma lady who hiked it in a shower curtain... I've got family in the hills, I could survive. They'd let me bring the kids and stay awhile. I've walked this forsaken island before, toting one of 'em on my hip and the other two on either hand. I've got a fourth child now, and a cat, but the other three have grown enough to help. Everything is gonna be just fine.
I busy myself with the easy scenarios, not yet ready to consider the toughest one of all: staying put and standing my ground, letting them talk to me. Just the thought of attending that pageant once more takes my breath away.
Here's to hoping that's the only thing that does.
~~~
I am not afraid to die.
It is the heat that radiates from their hatred threatening to undo me.
It is so hot, those sweltering lines melt my face, blur my vision
and make me unable to hide my smile.
