to hell with me, just let it burn

I dreamed this morning that there was someone else in my bed with me. I woke up quietly, slipped to the foot of the bed, brushed my alarm off, and then crept around the room, getting dressed as silently as possible in the still, quiet dark. I dreamed the details of clothing, the smooth sound of carefully opened wooden drawers, the brief blindness of pulling a dress on over my head. I could feel that he was still asleep, though I knew if he was awake he would be watching and I liked that, too. I chose earrings he had made for me and over the knee high socks with a pattern of flowers that I had worn for our last anniversary. I sat at my desk and wrote him a little note to find later, “good luck with the promotion. i love you. x” then I left it by his keys. I knew he would get up later, read the note, smile, then bike to the library to work. I kissed him before I left, nose deep in the crown of his head. I wanted to crawl back in with him, but there was a focused satisfaction in padding around so quietly, getting ready for work and knowing he was still sweetly warm in my sheets.

When I woke for real, I felt like I had traveled through time and space. Same room, different universe, worse place.

It was a memory of a time with Jon that never was, a time-line where he didn’t commit suicide.

beautiful creature almost died

I sleep on the bus flat on my back like a tipped statue of buddha, crossed legs along the wall, knees pointed vaguely toward heaven, my hands demurely folded together, tucked in the warm, ragged edges of my sleeves. Awkward, possibly, but it’s comfortable.

My dreams last night were all of an old friend, the two of us living in a city we’ve never been to, walking through a community garden together, visiting his tent-like home on the side of a river, entertaining at a wedding somewhere on a bridge, everything underlaid with memories of his old kitchen, the music he made for us while I cooked dinner. If they was anything, they were dreams of missed chances, a universe where never were became might have did, became could have been, became not history changed, but future history made.

eating practically nothing but chocolate and words, a debt

365 day one hundred & two: new tomorrow

From a letter I wrote to Juan, “I wish I could mail myself to you in a great cardboard box, foolishly mark myself a gift and sleep until you found me in your kitchen. Oh look, I would say, I’m real after all. See my problems? I will give them to you like ripened apples for you to chew. They will turn sweet in travel. I thought once that if my life refused to improve, I would just begin walking, not look back, and find my way to where you live. Life did improve, though. It feels alright now, like a place to live, at least until the next thing happens.”

Edward Lorenz, the founder of Chaos Theory, died Wednesday of cancer.

My eyes slip across the street, noting where sand collected in what used to be rain puddles. I think if this moment could be collected, I have friends who I would like to send it to, who might understand the feeling of weight my blood carries in my body. Everything is heavy, even while curled on a couch, resting my head on a pile of silk pillows, my dreams full of choreographed shouting, difficult and lonely. A sheathed short sword in my hand, taken from a shelf, held in my hand, jabbed in the air for emphasis. If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it my way, thick with mythology, mired in darkness, as pregnant with promise that only mystery can be. The tip of the black bamboo case held at his throat, keeping him still, an implied threat. Any minute I could drop it, any second, I could put it down, and wait for his hands on me. A pass, forensic, you are healed, lightning coming down layer by layer, impressed upon the landscape like a gravestone rubbing, rain falling without regret, reminding the grass to be green.

Behind my eyes, I rewind, reposition him, the stairs, the way I might reposition a tea-cup for a photograph. I attempt to find a configuration that has nothing to do with frustration or anger. I rewind, reposition, I suggest lines to the scene as if to an actor. My body lies perfectly still, except for a frown, one tiny crease. Why can’t I be dreaming of cat strange eyes? I am sent to the river. Washed of glory, he walks down the stairs again. I again gesture, upset, incontrovertible. It is a loop, queerly criminal, taken out of time as if it were stolen. My footsteps are silent, but his are not. There is no wall where I want one.

Above all, I require grace. I said it out loud in the shower the next days, the words like soap bubbles, clean, beautiful, a renewed realization of what keeps me clear.

Painful Dreaming

I woke up crying today to cold and fog. When I look out the window, it seems like my eyes have been fixed by some miracle. Everything is blurry so it looks clear to me. Faded. Gray.

I had been waiting. I was by the water, with it to my left. There were hills in front of me, and buildings on the hill. Old stairs led up along the bright green grass from where I sat. Large and Ivy covered, the main building looked like it belonged to parliment. Bill was sailing, and I had been waiting for a long time, warm, in the wind. I had begun to imagine hearing his laughter, as I looked around for the boat coming in.

Cheerfully, I gave up, and decided to go on to other things for the day, meet back with him later. I started up the stairs, away from the water. When even with the building, I walked on the grass, towards stairs that would bring me to the top of the next tier. The grass was vivid – green. Bright sticky summer colours. The stairs were old, cracked cement with lions at the foot. I put a swing in my bag as I walked. Cheerfully, like a child. Comforting familiarity drifted from every step of the way.

At the top of the stairs were people, mostly sitting in rows, with a path through the middle, beginning at the stairs. There were many and they were just sitting, enjoying the view of the water, and the wind. The sun was shining on these rows of happy people, and as I passed one, I saw it was Bill. He perhaps caught me out of the corner of his eye. His long hair and his red clothing caught at my heart with a snag. How long had he been back and not come to get me? He had obviously forgotten, as he was in easy conversation with someone, and not troubled at all though he knew I had been waiting for him. In a fit of pique, I decided to continue walking, to pay no mind and ignore him. Just about then, my swinging bag got away from me. In my surge of emotion, I had been swinging the bag harder, and it flew from my hand – a pale parabolic arc through the air. It hit next to a man who looked quite surprised, but otherwise unconcerned. Embarrassedly running to it, I picked it up and turned.

Pain, hurt. The woman he had been talking to was a dancer. She was up, moving with him. He was smiling, enthralled. As she moved, he came up behind her and held her, his eyes closed and thier heads came together. He loved her. I died.