If you know me well–heck, if you know me at all– you likely know that I am prone to strange dreams. R-E-A-L-L-Y strange dreams. I’ve posted one or two of them here.
Last night’s amalgamation of dreams was, to put it lightly, disturbing. I’ve been processing them all day and I think I’m ready to share.
I don’t know which came first–the space shuttle or my mother’s affair. What I do remember is this…
I found out (after doing some pretty intense detective work) that my mother was having an affair with her cardiologist. I knew he’d put her up to it–he was, after all, quite the sleaze ball–but I still held her accountable. I had evidence that could prove they’d done it (and when I say ‘done it’ I mean as in to ‘do it’) and I’d seen them (but please don’t make me go there). I confronted my ol’ ma and she denied everything. So, of course, I told my father, who went nutty. Then there was a mad search through several closets. I think we were all racing to find something. I found an assortment of silk-wrapped boxes, a bunch of stuff my father had brought back from Thailand. Inside the boxes were more boxes and inside those were more boxes (and so on and so forth). Eventually I found the Confederate cash my grandfather had counterfeited. It was just enough to put on a big ceremony–an elaborate event in which I would bring my parents together for their breaking up.
Instead, my mother–dressed in robes that were a bit more billowy than your run of the mill kimono– twirled and danced, quite seductively, mind you, until my father made his grand appearance. He, too, was dressed in robes and had a hula-hoop made of daiseys around his waist. Together they twirled, my mother and father, until I was certain they’d forgotten my mother’s affair, my father’s anger and me.
And now, dream sequence number two…
I’m in a store of some kind, or perhaps an airport–briefly. My brother and I, along with several strangers, are pressed up against a wall of windows. I can see the space shuttle taking off in the distance and I grab my brother’s attention. The shuttle moves upward, slowly, veers left. Then right. It’s in a sort of upwards corkscrew and we all know something is wrong. Someone mentions the Columbia. We curse and hope it won’t happen again. The shuttle rights itself, then sets off on a course parallel to the earth. We are its target. We press our faces tighter to the glass and watch as its giant nose gets larger and larger. In an instant, I feel the tip of the shuttle’s nose touch my face and I say aloud:
“I once loved life.”
And then, the inevitable explosion.
I wake up in a fit of weirdness, floundering for reality, thinking to myself and once even saying aloud– I did once love life.
Welcome, friends, to my world.