my legs are shaking my my fingers are in the rhythm of this typing machine
albeit so close to shaking because of the small iPhone keyboard, because of what I've just seen.
I should've known walking around the seminary would feel like the quiet indifference of a cemetery. Last time there wasn't one, it was a muddy lot with freshly unearthed tree stubs, and aerated holes for grad growth, it was a stone with my grandpas name on it, and there were soldiers making noise, bird-calling to his service, bird-calling to the suffering still alive veterans. three or four shots, I lost my gut and felt dizzy. or maybe it was weak.
I should've know that in that lot across from the church, my my sneakers doused in the god oxygen vibrating from the steeple shaped buildings around the seminary campus, should've known it could take up my scent, they could follow, and it, religion could too. I remember being embarrassed that I did not know the Lord's Prayer. It was freshman year, first week of school, me forcing myself to learn it, and unlearn my antithesis, my middle of school years at 12 and 13 that God did not exist for me. Not out of angst, or anger, out of misuse and mourning. I still know the prayer if I decide to reach, and end of freshman year my friend J was mourning for herself cutting open new wounds so that scars could form over uglier scars, like when a negative times a negative gives you the product of a positive. my friend R knew J the same way I did, and for even less years than it took me, so R and I alone in this school, together from our previous one, where preteen became teen, and everyone looked into adulthood with high heels on faux graduation day. R and I told this priest, this chaplain, this father. And ended our year troubled over his final words, to come to someone if there is anything else. I hate the words "I'll be here." because they are also "I'll follow." the way his eyes did every service forward, the way they did senior year before I left. I knew he knew I was afraid of him, of men. so I stared back hard one day during chapel, almost screaming the Lord's Prayer, but it was more of a beg, and when I used the bathroom I cried from holding it in so long. (the urine and the scare)
Today I saw him in the backyard of my backyard. A fence may have changed a look, my mind knows it was him, but I don't. it's Easter so he would've been at church, but the baggy pants and grey beard convinced me too. why? I always felt him staring, men staring, wanting the product to be hurt, their pleasure, their product as positive. Does this speak to my fear of men in general, zeroing in on a kind person, or so kind from the evidence of secondhand peer accounts, using he, and so and those types of words, intonation always upward bound. I'm hiding by writing this, as there are things my mind has left to do, file cabinets are still open, I forgot about him for almost two years, and my legs are shaking because what if that wasn't him?
it also because he hasn't shown up in a while...not the aforementioned but the he from the bus, from my mind, the archives of that kid with blond hair who I tried smiling at, the chances of seeing him have been slim, but won't be tomorrow (see: bus). And the chances his showed up in my dream last night is more probable, also the fact that I needed him to. You see there was some crushing, not by both parties, but in the dream there were:
at a funeral
woman and woman and woman are sisters to the last (mother)
a man is there dead
a man is there speaking
a man (the father, the husband) is there disrupting, he is playing the sounds and playing the recorder, and he passes out as everyone but the women plays the fool.
take him to the hospital
there is a waiting line
it is an outdoor courtyard
with some concrete and stone, built in stones.
the doctor that is at a line before the doors (no desk) is busy with others.
the line is long and he (the guy with blonde hair) comes out and gets the others in order and take care of us, takes care of me.
don't know where everyone goes, but it is him and I.
him wearing blue, kind eyes and almost invisible to me, my eyes stuck on the mouth the hands, the words "get the spray from the drugstore for me" are said
I move to the store, but just like buying Benadryl you have to have an ID or something
a man my dads age and height and color but actually has life
checks me out as if I'm his life daughter
the guy the doctor the man who's blonde in blue has his hands crossed and in his pockets and is leisurely and is waiting for my shaking for me to pass him the spray
he is like the sous chef Doctor
and walks me down the hall, and I cannot see myself
but his eyes, his mouth, his hands are saying "could you tell me a story or something it's been such a drab/slow/bad day." I try to tell him no and I tell him yes but fail with details
he makes something up for me, my heart is beating and I am still fast asleep
I wouldn't have had this dream if my neighbors dog hadn't been keeping me up
if my brain hadn't archived this guys image--under important.
I do a lot of loving this way, but never in dreams at night in dreams from the day, forced fantasies.
he made me smile at the scared moment, beyond the mourning at the funeral.
he held my hand without touching it, and kissed my lips without hesitation, or regret, my heart is smiling if you could see it, I woke up telling the dream to myself again, holding his hand inside the blue doctors shirt (nurse scrubs) inside the blonde arm hair matching the head hairs.
I cried this Easter Sunday for him, and now that I know who the blonde in blue is, I definitely am feeling like the latter color, because in dreams I fall in love, in life I wake up to the coincidence and force myself into reality, into the almost coming up feelings, almost coming up fear, almost coming up manifesting as sickness, to retch, to be sick, and to get rid of the narrative.
this easter Sunday i'm not sad, but i'm understanding what it means to be in the doghouse. my bones are weak, my bones are buried, my hands are over my eyes, my left ear is lifted, and i feel the need to fall over on to all of it, all of that trouble.
I will too george, i will too. (also if you know of this series, if it is great, and dream-like, and kept you (me) jumping in front of the t.v. many a day in '98, I understand why.)
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