Tag Archives: dreams

December 26, 2011

A Little Place Called Home

By welcometoflavorcountry

In spite of all he had dealt with recently, he found himself talking with no one, facing his own fears of solitude by just not shutting up.

“I COULD go to bed, but I’m just not tired,” he said. His roommates were both gone and he had to confront the concerns he had about spending too much time alone. In his head he was prone to extreme thinking of dire consequences with his response being somewhat typical to Homer Simpson’s response to his wife when left to fend for himself. (“Of course, none of this would have happened if you had been here to keep me from acting stupid.”)

He often wondered what life would be like living alone, without any consequences of his malfunctioning brain. He knew that upstairs it was just a nesting ground for mice and other small rodent creatures, with their own little habitrail that wound its way through his cranium. It was a pleasant experience for some other life form, but not so much for himself. Their squeaks and squawks a language that disturbed him and set him on edge.

So he continued to mumble to himself and try and debate what was better: staying awake and attempting to accomplish things or going to sleep and being forced to wake up the next morning and address another day. These decisions that came so easily and without any sort of thought to most were debated heavily in his mind. He might decide upon other things at a spur of the moment but the routine events often caused him the most consternation. He laid out the options and then the pros and cons of each, only to realize once he was done with one section that there were things he had missed in previous pros or cons that might be worth noting.

After surfing through the same websites for the third time, he decided it was time to shut things down and go to bed where, although sleep may not come quickly, at least he could find some time to ruminate on ideas of what to do next with his life and his tomorrow – the things that often brought relaxation. He didn’t know how to shut those thoughts off, though, and so he dealt with them as best as he could. He focused on them and wrung them through his mind until he was so tired of thinking of them they would be banished for at least a few minutes.

Once in bed, just one sheet over him, he tried out the various positions of the bed as though testing the mattress for the first time: stomach, left side, right side, back – he listened to the rhythm of the ceiling fan and the white noise made by the box fan as it blew warm air out through the window. It would be one of these two noises (or a combination of both) that drew him to sleep and kept him distracted from the other noises he heard that would normally keep him on edge.

Although sleep came slowly, he eventually found his slumber, wherein awaited a life as a foster parent to three puppies, living with a guy from a writing class, and the tale of an incredibly shrinking dog and the electronic gravestone that displayed information in both Mandarin, Cantonese and English. If any of this was supposed to make sense, he wasn’t sure, and his interest in visiting a Jungian therapist in order to achieve some clarity for the tremendously outrageous unconscious thoughts was quite low.

Therefore he woke up the next morning, ate breakfast, and made his way to work, and having exchanged pleasantries with his co-workers went back to living in his own head at his desk, even though people were embedded around him. It was times like this when, left to himself, he wondered whose responsibility it was to keep him from thinking asinine things. He did his best to focus on his breathing and the responsibilities at hand and not so much the scurrying thoughts in his mind.

He wondered how he could get anyone to understand what he was saying or thinking or feeling. His life was filled with nights of quiet desperation, things reminiscent of a rich poem with psychoanalysis. These things made the moment but weren’t easily accessible to those who did not share the same home as he and the mice he kept upstairs. They burrowed and foraged for food and nestled into a bedding of cedar chips and Kleenex replete in the upper part of his skull – a nice place for them to call home.

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August 5, 2011

Looking for a ladder to climb

By welcometoflavorcountry

I thought I’d finished dreaming of her weeks ago but she cropped up in my head last night. My now ex-girlfriend called and asked me to come over. I didn’t want to but I still care too much so I made my way to the large stucco apartment building where she lived. I climbed three flights of outdoor stairs to come to an enormous room with ridiculously high vaulted ceilings. It was like a gymnasium but with bunk beds stacked three high. The space between each level was exaggerated so that the top bunk was likely 30 feet in the air. I craned my neck up to the top and could make out the frame of her computer. She was laying on her back, watching TV shows on the screen although I couldn’t make out which one.

“Hey!” I yelled up to her. “What’s up?”

She twisted her neck to the left and down and said, “I can’t come down there. I broke my ankle!”

“I’m sorry!” I replied. I wondered how she could climb down from her perch with a broken ankle. Perhaps she had an elaborate pulley system comprised that allowed her to descend to the floor. Or she was using a colostomy bag and catheter to deal with her waste. Or maybe she had a new boyfriend who took care of her like I would if we were still going out.

No, that was unlikely. Our break-up had been too recent. Although that hadn’t kept me from looking online at a dating site. Every time I did so, I ended up being simultaneously disappointed at the options of people as well as having a wave of emotion coming over me, the closest equivalent to a male friend pulling me aside, placing his hand on my shoulder and saying, “Dude, you’re not ready.”

“I can’t hang out with you I’m afraid. Sorry!” she yelled down to me, looking back at the computer screen.

I wondered why she had called me over. Did she miss me or did she just need to see me to assure herself she had made the right decision?

“Okay,” I said to her, not quite mumbling but not yelling either.

I made my way to the rear entrance, confused by the entire experience. What just happened? She was as confusing in my dream as she had been in my real life.

I went outside and down the aqua blue plaster stairs. Two other men in their late twenties emerged from some unknown location and I recognized one of them as a friend from elementary and middle school that I hadn’t seen since I graduated from high school. As of late I had been trying to find him online, although if I did, I knew I was not the type to actually reach out and make a connection. I was just curious.

But here he was and he didn’t recognize me and I didn’t make an effort to tell him who I was and how I still remembered all the times as gangly pre-teens we played basketball and tackle football in his front yard. And how I thought back to these days fondly and missed that simple level of connection with others.

There was another fellow there as well and I didn’t recognize him as any one particular individual but rather as an amalgamation of various other friends from that elementary and middle school time period. The two men were friendly enough and talked to me as we descended the staircases on our way down to the ground level. I tried to ride the handrail down between the second and first floors but it was rough and the friction didn’t allow for much movement. I scooted my ass along every few feet like a dog dragging its posterior along the carpet. But minus the anal gland condition.

At street level we started moving in the same direction, making small talk. These two young men were friends and had plans together and once again I felt left out and alone. We made our way to the industrial area surrounding the apartment building and toward a train station. The ex-friends of mine were going on a trip, getting ready to make memories and establish a deeper connection. I, on the other hand, was going to trudge around the empty factories and side streets, past lots of land that were no doubt saturated with chemicals from the long-standing pollutants that society had been ignorant of for so long.

I said goodbye to them as they entered the decrepit station and I started walking down the street to the right at the corner of Tokyo and Japan streets.

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July 11, 2011

Bad Dreams

By welcometoflavorcountry

I keep having those bad dreams. The ones where I’m alone and I’ll never recover. Where tragedy strikes and I can’t escape it. Or I have everything to do and no time in which to do it. I’d like to think I could escape it all and just live somewhere without any hassles or commitments. I don’t pretend to understand what it all means, though. I don’t pretend about much at all.

I thought about what the dreams meant and what I might be going through. It hit me when I woke up. When I got up 45 minutes before my alarm, my bladder full and all my thoughts focused on that and nothing else. Urination drives me from under my sheets, as it is wont to do every night. But I go back to bed and squeeze dry every moment of sleep I can get my hands on. I don’t want to ever wake up. Not for the bathroom or for anything.

I’m looking forward to the day when I don’t wake up. For that moment that is my last. No more bad dreams. I will envy no one and never wake up for anything or anyone. No more feelings, no more thoughts. No more worries or digressions. I won’t feel silly for talking about the things that no one else cares about. I won’t think how to act around my awkward peers before we lose our sobriety or on the subway when people are calling women cunts for talking on the phone in Spanish (you blush, but this happened).

These thoughts of non-existence scare so many people, but not me. Not me. I feel comfort in knowing what I’m getting myself into. I don’t want much else. I may love my partner; I may love my family; I may love my friends but I can’t escape the feeling of finality that comes with knowing that there is a moment out there waiting for me when my thoughts will cease and I will have no more cares or worries.

For many years I haven’t been able to comprehend why people would be scared of death and why they wouldn’t want it. Failing to leave their mark is one thing, especially if you haven’t passed along anything to the next generation. That provides a sense of direction and purpose the likes of which cannot be matched, or so I am told.

But that’s something I will never know. I got myself fixed a few years back and haven’t regretted it. I would be a horrible father. I wouldn’t make for a much better husband. I’m too selfish and too interested in writing or thinking or contemplating my existence. I always need more time to surf the Internet for random information or to stare out the window. I want to take 30 minute showers where I sit on the bathtub floor and think about thinking.

So I am willing to forego my interest in having a sense of purpose (or so I’m told happens with tending the growth of other human beings) in order not to scar some child for life. Maybe I’ll get a dog instead. I think I could handle that. It’s still some responsibility but the kind I think I could handle. Hopefully I wouldn’t scar it for its life that exists at seven times the rate of mine. I wish mine moved that fast. I wish mine consisted of walks and sleeping and playing with a kind, loving owner. No need to question, no need to doubt. Just a person I could trust, who would lead me into paths of grace and love. I would never know anything else. Give me a sure-footed, gentle master and I will follow him anywhere. That would be the life. Some dogs are so lucky. Lucky dogs.

As time goes on I find myself with some more reassurance of my abilities to be a decent human being but it’s slow in coming. So I won’t find that direction like so many others do. I’m starting to understand why people have children, though. But I’m failing to comprehend (and perhaps never will) the reasons why their mortality isn’t something the likes of which they choose to embrace.

“Come on!” I want to exclaim to all those who approach their mortality with trepidation. “We don’t know what will come next! Isn’t that exciting!” I never say this in conversations but don’t have to. I can envision the blank looks I would receive at my anticipation of life (or the lack thereof) that is waiting for us.

“It’s the last great mystery! We all like mystery tales, right?” More blank looks. I can imagine that would this dialogue ever actually occur in real life, by this point I would be animated and excited, moving my body and gesturing wildly with my hands.

“Isn’t anybody in with me on this? Anyone?” The continual blank look, which has now lasted for seconds that seem to have become hours and it makes me wonder if I’m speaking to variations of Lot’s wife. I pass my hand over their eyes. Nothing. Zombies. I’m living with zombies. Non-brain eating zombies, but dead souls nonetheless. Things should be so much better than this. People should be excited about their non-existence. Everyone should be like me.

Lately I’ve been thinking of leaving my mark in other ways. I’d like to achieve some fame with my writing, however menial. I’d like to leave that to others and have them appreciate the stories I tell, the words I express. Can you understand? Will you relate? It’s nice to not feel as though we’re alone. I want to devote all my time to that practice of helping others with my words. Perhaps you’ll know what it’s like. If I can ever find some success or at the very least if these words don’t get edited out of my work. Maybe I’ll edit myself out of my life entirely. Like some sort of Dickian short story, first appearing in pulp format in 1966. Who knew it would get famous? Who knew I’d be famous?

I run the risk of not trying hard enough. I run the risk of not being able to formulate ideas and not having the drive to get those ideas to go anywhere. I’m always coming up to things too late in life. Just a little behind, my maturity still waiting to peak.

I see myself like a garbage truck, chugging along the interstate, the rear has been left open and I’m discarding trash every mile – ideas that didn’t work, things I thought might give me direction without any real conclusion. I utilized them in the hopes of getting me somewhere and then smashed them up with all the ideas I had for success and now am discarding them. The youth group, the Bible studies, the chapels and church services, the pressure to share the Good News and the awkwardness that was attending a Christian college: my late teens and early twenties. Dragged that along for too many years and finally dumped it in Seattle. The record label, the band manager, the music critic, the online zine, the booking agent, the life in music: my early twenties. Done with that, left that somewhere in Indiana. The masters degree in library science, the masters degree in American Studies, the conferences, the thesis, the temptation to apply for PhD programs, the one place that I felt some sense of purpose although in no concrete form, the lack of a future, the impending death of academia: my late twenties. Got rid of that, too. Threw it out in Massachusetts, circa 2010.

But I’m looking forward to some rest. Some real rest. The kind that trumps when you get a solid 12 hours of sleep and wake up to a sunny morning. The kind that gets rid of all the bad dreams. The sort that makes me happy to be alive. And the best part is I will never be able to appreciate it. The best thing in the world. Better than raising children, being famous and having the opportunity to share with others all the things I’ve learned. No more fear, anxiety, tears or smiles. Just a chance to change in some way and to see what comes next. And no more waking up anxious. No more bad dreams.

2 comments   |  tags: | posted in Non-fiction

April 4, 2011

Bisquick North Dakota

By welcometoflavorcountry

Originally from issue #20, March 2010.

Last night I had the most horrible dream. I dreamt that I was supposed to take the Amtrak train from Upland, Indiana, to my hometown of Goshen. Except I fell asleep on the train ride back home and next thing I know, I was on a bus somewhere in the middle of nowhere. I look over at the cowboy next to me.

“Where are we?” I asked groggily, noticing his Wrangler shirt and tight denim jeans with the accompanying cowboy hat and boots.

“Bisquick. Bisquick, North Dakota,” the man replies courteously with a slight twang in his voice.

Now, I’ve never been to North Dakota, but I’m pretty sure there’s no Bisquick. There’s a Bismarck, but no Bisquick. Anyway, beyond this oddity, it so happened that this bus I was on was heading to Seattle via the same train route that the Amtrak train takes from Chicago to Seattle. But I was on a bus. I didn’t want to be on a bus. I had to get back home and go to work. I was already using up a few vacation days to go to L.A. later that month and so I sure as hell wasn’t going to spend a few more on a bus with cowboys and single mothers with whiny children and suckling infants. So I got off at Bisquick.

See, my roommate lived there. Except he wasn’t any real roommate I’ve had in real life. He was a composite of some guy I knew from a nearby university from when I was at college as well as a totally new personality I just created. My roommate’s father was a private investigator. Why Bisquick, North Dakota needed a P.I. I couldn’t tell you. But they had one. Perhaps they had more than one. In a fictitious town there’s no saying what the crime rate is like.

I thought I would spend the night with my roommate and catch the bus the next day that would be heading back to Chicago. I spent the night in some hotel instead. Why my roommate wouldn’t put me up is unclear. The hotel bed had stains, dirty sheets and bad springs. The bathroom was tiny and every time I flushed the toilet, the sump pump (which was located in the bathroom) would back up, and spurt dirty water and shit all over the floor in small puddles, which would then recede into a drain. Yet the overwhelming sensation in my dream, more than the stink of sewage, was the sense of depression I encountered. It rears its ugly head even in my dreams. Even in Bisquick, North Dakota.

Later on, I had another dream. I dreamt I was looking for Snake, the stereotyped criminal from the Simpsons. I sought him in order to drag race. As I searched for him along the county roads surrounding my parents’ house, I saw two squirrels dash across the road and I knew I ran over one of them. I heard his bones crack and break. I heard myself moan, “No!” but I knew what had been done. I glanced back and saw him barely twitching, no doubt seconds from his end. His friend had made it across the road unscathed, and ducked into the brush along the road.

How do animals that are in relationships explain to other animals a loss amongst their kind? Would the squirrel that escaped bring the dead squirrel’s friends and family back to the scene of the crime? Or would he communicate with them via his own squirrel language: a series of chirps and blurps lamenting the passing of a brave and loved member of the squirrel community?

Or perhaps the squirrel that died was the only friend of the squirrel that lived. Maybe that squirrel that lived got depressed over the death of his friend and sunk into a state of irreversible melancholy. Without the love and support of other squirrels, it committed suicide one day by mimicking the form by which his friend had passed away: death by car. Or, perhaps they were lovers. And I was responsible for tearing their deep squirrel love for one another apart. Yet there’s the possibility that they might just be goddamn squirrels. And that’s all.

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