In My Dream I Am A Hero

I've been having a lot of very strange, powerful dreams lately.

This afternoon, during an attempt at a nap, I had one that really overwhelmed me.

I was waiting at an intersection, somewhere, to cross the street, and I noticed that there were a lot of women with baby strollers there, waiting as well. In real life, this would probably have annoyed me but in the dream I squatted down to interact with the kids. Often in my weirder dreams there is an element of meta-awareness, not that I am conscious I am dreaming, but that I am simultaneously viewing and living a script that has already been written, like I am walking through a movie that I've already seen. So at this point in the dream, that awareness kicked in and I knew what going to happen. There was deep vibration that only the kids and I were aware of, and I knew, from my meta-state, that it was something evil and powerful on a level that should have had us all petrified. The children were scared but I was almost more curious, like the first few seconds of the first earthquake one ever experiences, before the abject fear sets in. The images on one of the kids' coloring books began changing and that was when I began to become afraid, though all I expected to happen next was that the children's eyes would start to change, to turn white, and the adults would notice and start screaming and it would be over. But that isn't what happened, because my meta-knowledge in dreams is actually always wrong. A figure appeared out of nowhere and snatched one of the children and began running, and I don't remember thinking that I should pursue, but I did. Then there was a moment of unusual meta, in which this was actually a movie, and one unseen person said to another that the next reel was missing, and they had a backup but it was unprocessed, and told the other person that he should run it through some campy "old movie" filters, like artificial scratching and desaturation, and I said, while watching myself running towards the dark figure with the stolen infant, that no, despite the fact that this is an old movie, it's held up really well so don't do that. And then I was just running, and I looked back and saw others running as well, but I'd lost sight of the kidnapper, and I was losing hope, running into an unfamiliar park. Then quite suddenly, my brother appeared, holding the baby, triumphant, as if he'd intercepted the bad guy, but it did occur to me to wonder, perhaps he had been the bad guy in the first place? I only wondered for a second and took the baby, warm, into my arms, and turned to return him to his mother. She was not far behind me, a beautiful young woman, and I didn't notice that it might be odd that she didn't seem out of breath from all the sprinting she must have been doing to catch up with me, instead focusing on the naked despair on her face, watching it transform through stages of disbelief and joy, as I handed her her child, as I handed her a miracle. My own arms suddenly empty, I began to cry, and all the other players vanished, and it was just me, crying quite hysterically. There was a final meta-moment in which I thought, "It's difficult for me to cry like this --"

And I woke up. Really crying. My eyes were not open but I was struck by the sound of it, the sound of me crying. It's the second time in recent weeks that this has happened, that crying in a dream has woken me up, but the other dream was much more obvious in why it would have reduced me to tears. This one, not so obvious. Is it because of what I did, or what I didn't do, what I have done, or what I have not yet done? The question remains.

Moments of Separation

Dec 5. I'm on the train. You were supposed to be here with me and I'm angry and hurt. I think it's time to let go, to let go. I need to use the bathroom, but the one in my car has a sign that says "Bathroom broken," with an arrow and handwritten text at the bottom, "next bathroom, four cars." I bring my bag, evacuate my seat, and follow the arrow, through car after car, barely holding my balance as I make my way to my destination. When I arrive, the bathroom is occupied, so I wait. I put my hands in my pockets and realize my gloves are missing. I must have left them on my seat and I panic. You gave me those gloves, and I'm sure they're replaceable, you said you bought them on the street, but I am not ready to let them go. When I make it back to my original seat, the gloves are still there, waiting for me, and I am probably more relieved than I should be.

I try to sleep. In bed, I breathe deeply and try to become calm. Why am I this way? My body relaxes, or wants to, but my brain won't stop, won't stop, won't stop.

Dec 6. I'm in Pathmark. I don't even realize I have a ritual of texting you from there, until I am not allowed to. My stomach gurgles, and hurts, and the pain moves, predictably, to my chest, to my heart. The register is broken in the checkout aisle I've chosen, and I wait, and I wait. I keep looking at my phone and it betrays me.

Dec 11. I'm in a stranger's bed, trying to rest, pretending to rest. The man next to me is sleeping, and the man sleeping next to me is not you, but he has his arm around me as he snores, and he holds me tight like he knows me, but he never will. I squeeze his hand like I've known him for more than six hours, and stare at the window. There's nothing to see but I stare anyway. I wonder how I got here, and I wonder if you'd be upset if you knew I was here, but I think on some level this is what you want. I won't get what I want, but for a moment, the stranger gives me what I need.

Dec 17. It's been over a week with no communication and two weeks since I've seen you. I've taken vague solace in that my roommate has been going through a similar withdrawal, but he just got a call from his other, and as we wait for the subway to Manhattan, he beams, so pleased that the silence is broken, and I want to be happy for him but I'm a little jealous, and I see my own situation thrown into sharper relief, and I want to cry. Now I'm really going through this alone. Maybe you'd remind me that we're all alone.

Dec 18. I rush for the train, heading upstate again, and I remember, the last time I rushed for this train, I was coming from meeting you for dinner, the last time I saw you. And I remember making this same trip, this same weekend last year, and that you were with me, and that we were together, and I was oblivious of the storm, the fierce winds that would tear us apart over and over. We watched the snow accumulating from the train and maybe you'd known what was coming but I didn't. There's no snow now, no storm, only an eerie calm.

It's the silence that gets to me. I understand that we can't continue the way we have. I grasped that part quickly, but the silence bothers me. It bellows around me, echoing and intensifying.

On the train I see a woman taking photos through the windows, and of course I think of you. Later, when I get up to line up for the exit, I find a lens cap on the floor, and I look for the photographer, but she's gone. I put it in my pocket. She's gone.

Day Two.

When we last talked, it was snowing, and the realization comes to me like that, that first snow, swirling around me and settling, then swirling some more and settling again. I will not be seeing you again soon, or even talking to you, and when I do, it will be different. The time we had together, fraught as it was with difficulty, is gone, like the snow that vanishes as quickly as it came.

This feels like punishment. I know it isn't meant to be, I know that, but I also know what I feel. On some level I feel like I'm being punished for being the person that I actually am and not the person you wanted me to be. I've been rejected for this same reason many times before, and it's almost a compliment to see that I always lose out based on one aspect of who I am, not for any of the other things I think might be wrong with me, but as far as compliments go, well, it's not the best one I've ever gotten. I know you're doing this because you need to, or think you need to. That's what I know, not what I feel.

It's probably harder for you, I think, to have to go through this as the party who initiated the separation. I imagine you are tempted to call me up and just go back to the way things were, but you stop yourself because you think this is the best way. The reality is, I have no idea what's going through your head. There's a lot about you that I never saw, or never understood. My ego wants you to be suffering, missing me, but every other part of me supports you in this decision, every other part of me just hopes you're happy.

I address this to you but perversely, hope that you'll never read it.

I'm at that most difficult moment, at the beginning of a separation, when it seems impossible. How will I make it through another day without any contact from you? But I will. Of course I will. At this moment, however, as I sit and look out the window, I wish it was snowing again, wish the snow would come and cover everything, erasing the world. I would go out into it and let it fall over me again, inverting me, erasing me too. But there is no snow, and there is no you, there is only me. The rest will pass, but I remain.

Dogs and Rabbit

Talking with my roommate tonight about near-death experiences, or experiences where we've confronted the possibility of death anyway, I remember a surreal moment from my childhood.

I was in second grade, seven years old, in the early months of my time at a new school. I can't remember why I was arriving late that day, or why the person who was with me was there, but everything else is clear.

My school -- and this is something probably not a lot of people can say -- was next to a graveyard. We couldn't see the graveyard, really, as a large hedge enclosed it, but we knew it was there. The school was part of a larger campus that included a college, a defunct high school, and a convent, and the graveyard was for the nuns.

It was fall, I think, early fall, and I was arriving late with a kid named Todd who I barely knew. Todd didn't ride the same bus as I did, so I really can't think why we'd be two stragglers making our way towards the special door on the side of the building reserved for the first and second-graders, but we were. As we walked, our path was suddenly blocked by three wild dogs, who growled and took attack stances. I knew not to run, somehow, and somehow, my instinct was to slowly raise my duffel bag to my protect my throat. I may have suggested to Todd that he do the same.

The stand off probably only lasted a second, or two. My mind must have raced, though I can't remember anything else that I might have thought, though I'm certain that it never actually occurred to me that I could die. I don't think death was in my vocabulary, but fear certainly was, as we waited for the dogs to make their move or let us pass.

Suddenly, out from under the hedge, appeared a brown rabbit, small. It doesn't even look real, I remember thinking, as if it was not a rabbit at all, but a mechnical toy being controlled remotely. It made a few perfect hops and then disappeared again under the hedge. The dogs, distracted by its movement, turned and ran after it, forgetting all about Todd and me.

We made our way inside quickly and never spoke of it again.

It seems so unreal but I know it wasn't a dream, as much as I can know anything.

New / Old

I was writing a blog, on and off, for a few years, when just a few weeks ago I decided to repurpose it as a photo blog. A good idea, of sorts, and I've been posting much more frequently, but I quickly realized that I was missing having a place to post my other outlets: fiction, poetry, political ramblings, and over-shared snapshots from my tortured brain. So I decided to move all the old posts from my original blog to a new one, and it took me about two seconds to settle on a new name. "Notes from Underwater" was the name of my personal website from 1995 - 2001, the first website I ever created, so while in some ways I've become a totally different person than the twenty-three year old who first came up with the name, I'm still that same guy and I still have some of the same struggles. So here I am again.

only shadow

so now i am the shadow, cast
along facades, across the skin
of the earth, tossed over faces,
all these faces,

and so now i see, pulling away
constructs, the invention of the
rippling, fragile skin of civility,
and your heart

beats with hate like fists on the door,
the cuckold of your polysyllabic
charms, beats with hate like seconds
slipping

you burst with contempt for anything
that is not you, essential virus, aching
to spread and become, to become
quiet

be quiet or i'll hear you

beating at the backs of your eyes
in this dream, i wait, for you to dissipate

but i am not like you, not of you, and
i am not anything, just a shadow, a forget,
and you will only smile, baring teeth.

--
unedited. 10.14.10.

An absurd analogy

Suppose, in California, enough signatures are gathered to put up a proposition saying that some guy named Bob can't wear a particular hawaiian shirt any more. Most people either don't know Bob, or do know him and think that the shirt is garish. Bob votes against it, because he likes his shirt, it's comfortable and reminds him of a fun vacation, but he has trouble even convincing his friends to vote his way. So the vote goes heavily in favor of this prop. Now it's California law, Bob can't wear that shirt any more, even though wearing it didn't harm anyone, and Bob is left wondering, why did the people get to vote on what shirt I wear?

Well, the people have spoken, and that's that. Even though most of them don't know Bob, wouldn't even recognize him if they rode a bus with him, they voted on his rights and now it's the law.

Yes, I realize this is ridiculous as far as analogies go. It's ridiculous for (at least) two reasons:

1. Californians don't get to vote on other people's fashion choices, although perhaps they should, because that would probably be considered too frivolous.

2. Homosexuality, unlike shirt selection, is not a choice that gets made every morning.