I'm Thankful for the Bad Dreams

Tuesday, December 02, 2008 | comments (3)
My hands are dry and cracked and bruised. When I bend the index finger of my right hand, sometimes the knuckle splits and bleeds. I think this is the way my hands should be. They are more interesting this way. They remind me that they've done things. And that they have purpose. And during morning walks, I sometimes keep my gloves in my pocket and wrap the leash around my bare hand and let my skin go numb in the bitter air to help the process along.

Right now, Honey is asleep beside me. Sometimes she barks at the things in her dreams. I wonder what these things are, and if they have names like "Daddy" and "Kong," or if her dreams are filled with monsters and ominous knocks on doors and garage doors opening. When Honey's not asleep, she's frighteningly awake. And when it's cold, she prays to a god called "The Space-Heater." She says one Hail Mary and three Our Fathers. She also farts.

My chest burns from Sambuca intake. Then it subsides. Then I wait. And I swallow again. And it burns some more. Sometimes, on a Saturday night, this is the cycle of things.

There is usually a call I do not want to make. Usually, I make it anyway.

Last week, C gave me two of the best birthday presents I've ever received. I watched one of them Friday night and it made me glad to be alive. I will listen to WNYC through the other present this week. And it will be good. Pretty much as good as it gets.

I used to figure life was something I was working towards. That it was full of good intention and determination and grand purpose. The thing about that—the thing about believing in a life's purpose—is you have to accept the fact that maybe it already happened. And you missed it.

When I go to sleep, I hope that I will dream. Usually, I do not. When I do, the dreams are usually bad. I'm thankful anyway.

I'm never too sure what a particular day will bring. But I'm always quite sure it won't bring anything resembling wonder, or awe, or any other thing I used to feel before thirty. Maybe I've forgotten how to be a kid. Maybe I need to stop making friends with the people on the radio. Or maybe I just spend too much time looking at my hands.

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Comments

God what a beautiful post.

I believe in the paradox that every life is pretty much the same as every other life, i.e. nothing special, yet simultaneously life is always full of wonder, surprise and awe.

You might be in a phase in which awe is a little harder to access than it used to be. But you'll get back into the flow. I know you will because you have a beautiful heart and mind.

If dog dreams are parallel to human dreams, my guess is that when Honey barks in her sleep, she's dreaming that she has to pee, but no one will open the door for her.

Sending warmth to your frozen hands and wishes for sweet, sweet dreams.

Posted by Reya Mellicker on Dec 02, 2008 at 3:01:47 PM
i feel this way about doors... i hold my breath a little every time i open a door..even if its just in my apt.. cause..you can never be completely sure..what you'll find when you open it...
i so try to be thankful for whatever it is i find..
xoxo

Posted by suicide_blond on Dec 02, 2008 at 5:30:50 PM
Reya: Did you read the bit about farts? You might be on to something, only wrong bodily function.

sb: I feel this way about doors in your apartment, as well. In fact, I'm breaking out in a cold sweat just thinking about it.

Posted by rothko on Dec 02, 2008 at 6:08:25 PM
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