Wednesday, March 24, 2010

Fiction Braindump 3/24/2010 @ 0355

In my dreams it is always the same; places I know. Not all are familar as my boyhood home, some are as vague as the doc we stood on before boarding the great cruise ship bound for mexico. In the dream today we are at the Preston rodeo and it is summer. The stadium is filled but none of the people have faces, at least none that are dicernable. Each one I look at is indistinguishable, as if I am looking too closely at a Vah Gogh painting and each layer and swoop marking the lines in their faces.

In the dream you have just excused yourself to the bathroom, yet I feel the panic building. Dreams have that way about them; time skewed, reality warped. Have you just stood up or have I been sitting here for hours while you were away?

The children are nowhere to be seen. I smell popcorn, and my cheek is still sticky where the littlest one touched me; his hands smearing gooey caramel on my rough face. He always has sticky fingers, that one.

These dreams are disturbing for the great swooping motions of sociality. One moment we are together and the next it is as if the stadium is quiet; the stands empty save for wrappers and stale popcorn, the lights out and a cricket chirping in the juxtaposition of stillness. The constant contradiction of nature in a filled and then emptied venue holds me. I am stayed by the change, the animus of the place lost with the absence of people.

It's akin to the way a worn pair of jeans must feel when missing the legs that filled them for years after being cast off. If jeans and empty benches are like cast shells on the beach; washed up, empty, mere husks of what they were when life was in them.

My dreams continue along a familiar plane as I stand to search for you, flashing to places we have been; the old apartment, the movie theater where we stood and walked out of chicago to the snickering of the couple in the row behind us at our conservative audacity, in the cab of our long gone Jeep.

My call is the cry of a shore bird and yours the quiet whisper of the sea against the hull of a boat; and I am gone, the air, the salt spray, gone. Pelagic wandering albatross searching for a spar to rest on.

-Jay

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