I’ve been dreaming about my high school friend, my first boyfriends. Donald Trump.
None of them saved me, but I’m sleeping better. I should be writing the dreams down since they’ve been interesting and I already forgot the most fascinating one which occurred a week ago or so.
My mother arrived in my dreams a while back. She didn’t answer my question (WHO told her my son would be born with Down Syndrome the day before he was born?), but she was comforting me. Mom had an oddly comforting way about her even though she never really gave uplifting peptalks.
Dreams used to fascinate me since the manifestation of them in sleep seemed to intersect with the “hopes and dreams” variety of some nondescript future which in my younger days, no matter how dire my present circumstances, still held the fascination of mystery and at least perceived Time. Instead, the dreams have become even more pertinent and poignant–nearly an adolescent angst to them — since the hopes and dreams/desires variety have been suspended, perhaps indefinitely. Future paused if not erased.
One hopes, that like some cultures believe, Native Americans come to mind –dreams are portals through which one wanders about in Time and maybe some other dimension, Twilight Zone like–, the sleeping variety more reality than our daily misdirected waste of time.
Like they think we all have time to hover– fritter it all away, faceless, anonymous. But riskless.
The “hopes for the future” variety withering like raisins in the hot sun.
Today at some point, I’ll have another steak, maybe a tenderloin or ribeye, since I’ll likely skip the Swiss steak I make for my dad. No tomato sauce for me. I’ll sip some dark brew. Perhaps bacon and eggs. Or not. Maybe just lots of good coffee. A few health related phone calls, yoga’s journey into strength.
And then the work on my photos for my memoir.
And happy Tuesday.