— tapioca world tour

Of, pertaining to, or suggestive of dreams; dreamy.

Last night I had a strange strange dream. It didn’t make enough sense for me to summarize it fully, but I’ll say this much:

There was a party at a house. I was in mud in a stream outside in the darkness, away from the house. I dropped my watch and tried to find it in the mud. There was an ominous feeling, as if if I stayed there too long someone might come and snatch me. Inside, the party waned. People fell asleep. Ry was there, and it was evident he was dying. He kept making jokes even as he lay on a table, immobile, and then the nighttime table became the morning sea, then back into a table. Suddenly a bunch of us were playing a game on paper where we had to guess/predict what shapes should come next in a sequence (clam, sandwich, star…). I was appalled that we were sitting there, letting Ry die, but he was making jokes even still and playing the game with us. I tried to keep my eyes open, watching him, as long as possible. The next morning, everyone woke up and left Ry dead on the table. “He’s got fish swimming around his head,” someone said. This didn’t seem such an illogical notion. I finally looked up when everyone was gone, only to find Ry staring at me, blinking calmly. “You’re not dead!” I screamed. “You’re still alive!” He didn’t say anything, but he smiled.

Weird.

Last night I had a repeat of a dream I’d had some months ago.

I dreampt I was back in Newburyport. It was 1991 again and I had to babysit for A. and W. at 5p. But I wasn’t 13 anymore — I was 27, as if I’d gone back in time, and the kids were 5 and 7 again. I was hiding in the bushes outside the house, looking up at A. and W., who had climbed a tree. I wasn’t sure if I should let them see me. I knew they’d recognize me, and recognize the fact that I was not the actual me they knew, but the me from the future. I heard their mom inside; she was in a bad mood, still dealing with the separation from her husband. I caught W.’s eye in the tree and I knew she knew who I was. I got up and walked into the house, I think I talked to their mom first but I forget what was said.

Then I talked to the kids. I explained that lots of things were going to happen in the next fourteen years — that their lives would be filled with some really hard times, but things would always get better. I thought of their parents’ divorce, their mom’s next boyfriend, their breakup, then her future husband. I thought of A.’s drunk driving in high school, his car accident after that, his academic trouble in college, his best friend’s impending suicide. I started to cry when I thought of this last one. I couldn’t tell them all of this, but I think somehow they knew I was trying to warn them of something, and in fact I might have been communicating all of this silently. We were supposed to go to their soccer game at the park, and I knew I’d see Jeremy there — A.’s wonderful, gorgeous and brilliant friend who, at 19, would become too sad to stay alive. Then I thought of his wonderful little sister, who would trade her best-friendship with W. for popularity in high school until they virtually became strangers. I thought of how she would look at her brother’s funeral, her face buried in her knees. Now we were all crying. It was terrible.

Why did I have to come back and warn them about the future? I just felt there was a need to tell them that there would always be hard times ahead, but they’d get through them and be fine. That’s what happens to all of us. That’s what life is.

The only really cool part was the sensory aspect of the dream — I could see and feel everything as if it really were 1991 again. W.’s short white-blond hair, how small she was then; her brother’s tendency to really cry when he got angry and stop speaking when he got sad; the way the sidewalk cracked on Orange Street; the bushes in front of their old house; even the tiny white pebbles from the fishbowl which we threw onto their gravel driveway when the fish died — those white pebbles stayed there for years. In the dream I noticed them again, checking to make sure they were still there, spread out in a small circle, and feeling relieved that some omens still exist, that my memory isn’t fictional: that we really lived there then, that we really looked like that and ran around and played in the street, not thinking about such trifles as the future, so mundane and unknown and irrelevant.

It just kind of bothers me that I’ve had nearly the same dream twice. Makes me want to scoop up W., now 19, and together go visit her brother in Vermont. I don’t know why.

I slept straight from 6.30p last night to 8a this morning. That’s nearly 14 hours. I decided to do it ahead of time — I could feel the exhaustion burning in the back of my throat. And sometimes, in lieu of a vacation or a weekend away, this is all I can do to escape.

Needless to say, I had a long, weird and extended dream. Let me tell you about it:

I died, somehow. Mom died too, and J., and N., and other N., and other friends, and lots more Americans I didn’t know. We found ourselves in a half-world between life and death, where we were cognizant of having bodies but also cognizant of no longer living in the human world. We were in an institution of some sort. It was controlled by Iraqis; I guess they’d won the war, and a lot more than that. We had to file into a large hall, do some manual labor, like jail, and wait around talking. One day I realized some people were disappearing. It was because their purgatorial time was over, and they’d fizz out into Actual Death. I realized this jail-like institution full of other just-dead friends was like an orphanage for lost souls or something [this is all despite the fact that I don't believe in any of this: multiple souls, heaven or hell, purgatory, even death] — but anyway —

Three girls tried to escape. They failed, and were executed. That’s when I understood everything was political. We were POWs, but half-dead POWs. While marching single file into a room, I noticed N. across the way. She had cut all her hair off. “That’s smart,” I thought. “She did that so she wouldn’t have to worry about it getting long and out of control.” [Insert footnote here about my previously recurring dreams regarding hair growing uncontrollably and me trying to chop it off.] Then I realized my hair was long and I hadn’t brushed it in longer than I could remember. Also about that time, I realized Mom was gone. She had fizzled out to the realm of Actual Death, and I started to get really scared. I didn’t want to be in a POW purgatorial deathcamp, but I didn’t want to be alone in the universe, either.

Our guards started getting stricter. I didn’t like how there was political tension, or that Iraqi-US relations were worse than ever. A female guard tried to herald me down a stairwell with a group of others, but I was scared. I grabbed a chocolate bon-bon with strawberry cream (from where?) and handed it to her as a gift. She smiled, thanked me, took the chocolate, and let me go. I ran and hid. Suddenly it was night. I was at a gated swimming pool, hiding in the shadows behind lawn chairs. I could see male guards up above, on the roof with guns.

That’s about all I remember, but the main feeling was an incredible loneliness, or a fear of it. Not of the “today I’m bored and lonely” variety, but in the larger cosmic sense of being alone. Even in the dream, I said to myself: “Wake up! You’re scared of death and you won’t even admit it. I’m going to have to deal with this when I come out of this dream…”

I feel like I’ve gotten stuck in an existential void and the only way out is through metaphysical action. Word.

Found last night:
“LOST FRIEND: PHIL M.
Saw you last weekend on Somerville Ave. We should totally hang out. Call me. Anna M.”

Dear Anna M.,

I just wanted to publically acknowledge and applaud your unabashed and creative attempt to reconnect with someone without using the internet. Seriously, posting a flyer on Somerville Ave.? That takes balls. Most ladies don’t have balls. Not like yours, anyway. I wish more women would take the bull by the horns like this. If “Phil” doesn’t call you, let me set you up with other guys who will value your assertiveness.

Sincerely,
A. in Porter

********And in completely unrelated news,

I had a dream last night that Bush appointed the chic who works at my favorite coffeeshop to be the new Supreme Court Justice. “Wow,” I thought. “That’s a progressive and interesting move — she’s a woman, a Democrat, and gay. The tides must really be turning in the administration!”

And then I woke up and heard about John Roberts. I guess one can dream, and that’s it.

Been listening to Modest Mouse’s “Gravity rides everything” and Mana’s “No voy a ser tu esclavo” on repeat like a shamelessly lame eighth grade girl. Had an anxiety dream about gender roles in video production last night. I fought off comments from male crew members that I should be a makeup artist, or an actress, or something less technical. “No!” I yelled. “I wanna shoot! I’m gonna shoot video!” Right, I don’t have any hangups about this topic or anything…

Last night we ate dinner at this place called the Liberty Bar. Part of its appeal is that it’s an old house that’s leaning sideways, literally about to fall over. The food was amazing, and the waiter was funny. Afterwards we drove around downtown San Antonio and J. showed me the church where she’s to be married in a few months. She’s 25 with a good job and a great guy and a smart plan, a very pretty engagement ring and alot of other mid-20s friends in Texas who are engaged. Made me think about how urban, northeastern life is so different, at least in terms of advocating individualism, more personal agendas, less traditionally domestic expectations for life. It’s neither good nor bad, it’s just different — way different — from Texas, where the highways are wide and the air conditioning is always on and people much younger than me are buying houses and having children. Whoa! I feel an urge to run away to Europe coming on…

It was a weird dream night last night: first, J. woke up at 3a from a scary dream screaming, “Oh God no! Get away! Ahhhhh!” which, por supuesto, was a bit terrifying. I busted into her room to fight off the bad guys, but they were only in her head.

Then I went to sleep and dreampt that there was this group of people I either worked with or went to university with, and there was a comic book that was hugely popular, the text of which was based on pieces of fictional dialogue that had been submitted by children to narrate the story. Anyway, the story told of a vortex, or another world — much like Narnia — and I for some reason had acquired a copy of the draft of the next book, which I brought to a pool and showed all my coworkers. As they were eagerly reading it, someone tattoo’d things on either of my arms. I didn’t really realize this was happening until it was over: they’d tatto’d a vented window on one upper arm and a door on the other. “You have to have a way to get in as well as get out,” was the explanation when I asked. They were referring to the other world in the story. I looked in the mirror and freaked out because the tattoos were large and not that well done, and I looked like a huge punk with them. “How can I ever be taken seriously as a professional now?” I thought. “I already look 14, I already have a nosering and wear weird clothes — now with this ink all over me I’m really doomed.”

And then I slept past noon and finally woke up.
Had a long conversation late last night with a dude I haven’t met. We compared notes on Neruda and politics. It was refreshing.

And now it’s time to eat a yogurt parfait and swim in the GORGEOUS, HUGE POOL in J.’s apartment complex, then in a few hours work out in the GORGEOUS, HUGE GYM that’s also in J.’s apartment complex. Aint got much to complain about, yeehaw.

I had this awful dream last night inspired by the insect-biting incident a few weeks ago. I dreampt I went to A.’s house in the morning, she had just had a big party and people were still awake and walking around. JJ from Brooklyn was there, too. I was talking to him about how I was going to move in a few days later. When A. left the room, he started complaining about these giant welt-like bites on his legs. “Ew!” I said. “Where did you get those?” “Here,” he said. “I mean, everybody gets bitten in this apartment. I think it’s the cat’s fleas or, I dunno, just something that bites. Ask A. about it.”

A. came back in the room. I confronted her about the biting insects. She finally relented, admitted it was a problem and there was nothing she could do to get rid of them. “Listen,” I told her. “If there’s one thing I absolutely CANNOT live with, it’s sleeping in a place with any type of bugs, especially bugs that bite.” “Well, I’m sorry,” she said. And added a few minutes later: “Actually I’ve decided I just want to live alone. I don’t even want a roommate. I’m sorry.” Damn, I thought. What now? I phoned Ryan really quickly to see if he still had a room available for me. He wasn’t there so I left a message, crossing my fingers. I was homeless again.

And THEN….
I went outside and tried walking down the street to my office, when suddenly the sky went dark and cloudy and, looking up, I could see the long spinning tube of a tornado coming down towards Cambridge. “Oh my God!” In an instant, the air became opaque with greyness and mist; I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face, or anything in front of my face for that matter. People began running into buildings and basements. I thought no one was left on the street so I started yelling — “HEEEEELP!”

Finally, I felt a hand on my shoulder through the greyness. I heard a guy’s voice. The person led the way in front of me, and I followed, or maybe I led the way and he followed. I just remember waving my arms like a walking stick so I wouldn’t crash into anyone.

And then, just like that, just when the winds had kicked up and I thought for sure we’d be swallowed alive, the clouds broke and the sun came out. It all happened instantly. There was Prospect Street, as if nothing had happened at all. I don’t remember what happened to the guy. It’s possible I looked up to discover he was Brent, my ex-boyfriend of 2002-3, and gasped; or it’s possible the guy was just gone. It was a dream, my recollections are vague and hazy. I just remember thinking: “My God, what just happened? Did that really happen? Which is the reality?”

It’s kind of like the Steve Tannen song I’ve had stuck in my head for two days: “You know what? Just forget it/ Name something and I regret it/ The sun sets like surrender/ And I guess I misremember that whole time…

It was the sweetest fever dream/ You probably don’t know what I mean…”