I'm packed into a murmuring crowd of people somewhere, perhaps a bar queue. Someone cops a lingering feel/grope of my ass. It is an arousing experience. I turn to find myself alone in a cavernous room, staring at my reflection in a mirror.

22 January 2011

In my dream I am lying in bed in a huge and sprawling house of many floors and many rooms, with wide gardens beyond.  From here I can see throughout the house as if I am walking through these rooms in a movie.  It is my family home and yet I am also a visitor.

My father is drunk.  I know this without seeing him or hearing a sound.  I know he is drunk and I am fearful that he might discover me alone in my bed.  In flash I decide to hide, under the bed under a blanket, squeezed up tight like a ball.  But the bed is narrow, a single bed, and it stands out in the middle of the room.

My father when he arrives, as I knew he must, is able to poke around underneath the bed and find me there without any effort at all.  It is impossible for me to hide.  My father crawls under the bed and sprawls out on top of me, a suffocating dead weight.

‘Where is my mother,’ I say?  ‘Where are the others, my sisters and brothers?’

He does not answer but breathes alcohol soaked fumes all over my face.  His smell revolts me and his weight crushes down on me, but I can do nothing.

I cannot get out from underneath him.



Dream 28 January 2011

To use the toilet you needed a key.  The lid was otherwise locked.  I knew the right person to ask and managed to get hold of one.  Into the toilet I delivered a lump of flesh like substance, rather like the after-birth but without a blood supply, pale pink and jellied with strips of white fat.  I wondered at its size, amazed that I could lose so much without even noticing its passing until I had looked down and saw it there in the toilet bowl.

I asked a friend about it as we walked along a Collins Street type boulevard.  She was nonplussed, so I decided I must be, too.  But still it troubled me.

Then I was in the dentist’s waiting room with my husband.  The dentist arrived but told us that given he was now 77 years old he must retire.  He offered the name of an alternative dentist in Blackburn.
           ‘Must we travel so far? I asked.
The dentist did not welcome objections.  He had noticed the list of names of friends, family and colleagues and proceeded to discuss our telephone list with my husband.  We kept the list on the bench near the telephone.
           ‘We know so many people in common,’ the dentist said.  He scrolled down the list with his index finger.

I worried he might discover his own sister E’s name towards the end of the list.  E was my old boss from so many years ago, now dead, but in my dream she was still alive.

E appeared to me then and I made a point of showing her my written description of her work on my referral list where I had talked about her as a good practitioner, but this was not how I actually saw her.
 

Evil as he was, I thanked him, knowing full well we would still have to contend with his vicious dogs before we reached the gate. I opened the front door and he watched us go, sitting on his throne. It was an antiseptic room. He had no hair. His skin was smooth. The dogs sniffed the ground. They began to growl. I addressed the most menacing one: “Nice puppy,” and he smiled as we eyed the gate. Another: “Hello, puppy,” with the same result. But the third made an awful sound deep in its throat. I whispered to my wife that we should continue to move ahead as slowly as we could — one sudden move, I said, and the dog would spring. All the while, I waited for him to bite my leg, wondering what it would feel like when his teeth penetrated the cloth and met the bone. But all he did was growl. The man — where had I seen him before? With my son, it was, after we’d escaped an empty factory with grain on the floor. I’d wrestled a rusted grate from its hinges and we crawled through a narrow chute until we came to a river. The water was low. We could have crossed it by stepping on the exposed rocks scattered everywhere. We came to a bend, then turned around. Where the chute had been was now a wild narrow canyon. “Flash flood,” I said. And we heard the sound.

Prologue and Dream
My sister and I are in the middle of an unbelievable fiasco/nightmare
– our recently deceased mother’s car was towed – the car that we’ve
been using to go back & forth from the city to where my mother lived,
to empty out the apt. (and her cremated remains are in a box in the
trunk). We were trying to leave the city for her place last nite, so
my sister went to the parking space: no car, so she called the city
towing place, closed til this a.m., & why was the car towed? The space
was good til today. But, outstanding unpaid tickets from the
summertime, when my mother was going into and coming out of the
hospital, that my sister (J) was fighting (w/no response from the
city). So J goes down to the marshall's office this morning, they ask
to see her license -- it's missing from where it always is in her
wallet, so she calls me at her apt. and I search around a little, but
my sister is a hoarder. This is a small 1 bdrm apt. with clothing,
papers, bags of papers, legal papers, stacks of this 'n' that -- I
have no idea where my underwear or socks are 'cuz there's no place to
put my stuff, it gets moved or covered by the day's debris, etc. etc.
so I wash each out every nite to put it on the next day. But back to
the license.
I don't find it -- I dump out her bag, but I don't see it. Then I go
back to "bed" (the floor) & fall into an amazing major motion picture
of a dream, about the lost license, I can see the photo of my sister
with short hair and dark lipstick, about my feelings towards my mother
& her death, about items & objects & all sorts of people and then
there's even a spider that's off-white & kind of reptilian that digs
its claws(!) into my hand & I run out to an alley screaming with pain
so some guy picks it off my hand w/great effort and there are sort of
venomous stalagmites (tites?) -- 5 of them, rising painfully from the
palm of my hand and J's in the dream & I'm rifling through her bag,
emptying it, looking for her license so we can take the car already &
get out of this place  ... & that's the half of it. There are rows of
people sitting on benches or clustered in small groups talking or
watching whatever personal dramas are suddenly played out. Two friends
from London are sitting in a corner and they suddenly see me after
nearly a year since they moved and they're so surprised that I’m
there. Where is “there”? It’s a waiting room. There are big plate
glass windows that barely separate inside from outside. The images
slide away. There’s more, but as I write, I forget.

The "fidelity" of the dream is unusual, beginning like a Byzantine painting, slightly animated. The Emperor of Italy is holding court. The Emperor of Italy is Mussolini and the court is being given a presentation by two Futurists, one of whom is the Emperor's cousin, "Mussolini." The two Futurists give a presentation of their manifesto, which begins as speech but "degenerates" into a mixture of sound poetry and popular music. The Emperor, who was initially excited about the performance becomes offended and declares it unsuitable. The children of the court at this point become enthralled with the Futurists and counter-protest, rushing past the Emperor to get closer to the Futurists. A "Sheriff-of-Nottingham"-type figure emerges (the fidelity of the dream now more "Saturday morning cartoon"), holding a sign that says "Respect Representation" and slowly begins spinning the sign around. The sign spinning becomes an enlarged phonographic record, and moments later, a compact disc, but ruby in color and three-or more- dimensions. The figure warns of what will come next if the sign continues spinning.

The tram was about to take off but it hesitated for a final customer, a young man who must have appeared in the driver’s rear vision mirror.  This gave me enough time to catch up.  I tapped on the glass door, which had already closed, to let me in.  The door opened and I proceeded to drag myself on board.  My bags were heavy; all three of them and my legs felt leaden after my sprint to the tram stop.  I could not make myself climb the three steps and I feared the doors would close again before I had the chance to get in.  I heaved myself upwards, with every effort of my will.
           ‘Get on,’ another young man said.  He had just arrived behind me and was keen that the tram should not go without him.
           ‘Push me in,’ I said.  ‘Just push’.  I did not care how it looked.  I needed to get onto the tram.  I needed to get to the airport.  I needed to get a flight home because later that afternoon I planned to travel yet again and this time overseas.

In my dream I had visited Varuna, the Writer’s House in the Blue Mountains.  I had stayed there for a few days, long enough to visit the physiotherapist in Katoomba for my knee, and long enough to make arrangements with a barrister to deal with a legal dispute hanging over my head.  Long enough to deal with the plumber.  They were all there in the Writer’s House in the Blue Mountains where I had been staying, even though the work they were embarking upon involved activities in Melbourne, my home.

At one stage I stood in the workshop of one of my husband’s acquaintances and although I had left my husband at home in Melbourne, here he was beside me in the workshop in the Blue Mountains admiring the man’s machinery and tools.  The man had collected years of bric-a-brac around his workshop.  The shelves were full of porcelain figurines and children’s mechanical toys that beeped and wheeled when you pressed their buttons.  Toys from Japan, figurines from other lands and high up on the walls hanging on a hook, an old potty or pissoir as it might once have been called.
           ‘Those are valuable,’ I said to man.
           ‘How valuable?’
           ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘They might fetch about $70.00.’  Even as I said this I realise $70.00 is not a great deal of money, especially as we were concerned about many thousands of dollars debt.  And more bills to come with the plumber and the barrister.
         I went to visit Jim Murdoch a fellow blogger who in my dream took the place of Peter Bishop from Varuna.  We chatted amiably until loud voices interrupted us.  A large group of mature age students crammed into Jim’s back yard where he and I had been talking.
        They had come for their lesson.  I had hoped to talk longer and more meaningfully but we had no time now, so I patted Jim on the arm and took my leave.
       As I walked up the hill to the main street in Katoomba across the grassy slope of a hill I noticed in its centre what looked to be a sheet of glass, which was in fact a deep pool of water that had formed overnight in the rain.
           I was not the only one amazed at this collection of water, which had seemingly developed out of nowhere overnight.  I thought of the floods elsewhere and hurried on. At the main road I saw my tram and ran to catch it.

Last night I dreamed it was night and there was a knock at my front door and it was a skinny man dressed like Santa sort of with suspenders and a fedora and he handed me a tiny piece of paper like a fortune cookie fortune and asked if I was Rebecca and I said who are you and he said he was a bill collector so I slammed the door in his face. When I turned around I noticed my Christmas tree was full of burnt old frying pans and I knew my mother had shoved them in there. And damn now I can't remember the rest of the dream.

Winter
I am sitting next to a friend, showing her texts from my boyfriend, who is far away. He is making words with his cell phone, sending them, they don't make sense. We're laughing, there's a picture, it's great.

Spring
We're all together, some of us, at a show in Brooklyn. I am buzzed and feel small on a big leather sofa. I am not thinking, just listening to the happy busy sounds of friends deep in excited conversation. Music. Processors/samplers/projects/everything, everything. I don't remember which band it was, just being there.

Summer
I am in a cornfield in Indiana deep into night. Up from corn sprouts wind turbines, above them stars, below them fireflies. The night is full of insect song and I fall in love with everything.

Fall
In Marin the grapevines are pinned with these sparkling sheets of paper. The hills roll golden and shining. Modest Mouse is on the stereo, on us through fog into city unreal and bending.

Winter
We light fires on the porch, wait for something to happen. It does.

Dream 3 January 2011

In my dream I am back in analysis but not with my previous analyst.  My husband and I both see the same analyst one after the other in her rooms, a shop front dwelling a few kilometres up the hill from where we live.

This new analyst is friendly enough and I like her.  I am conscious as I lie down on her couch of a long history of past discussions with my previous analyst but I try not to let them over swamp the present.  In the current session I try to break up my thoughts on anger.  I tell my analyst about a recent incident when I cannot work out whether I is me ho is angry or whether it is the person I am with who is angry.  I pause and then remember how I saw my mother in the street that morning.  I tell her as much and she sighs exasperated.  I should have known it was time to finish and not launched into a new topic.  I fee hurt and affronted.  She should have warned me or at least tole me thsat we had to finish.  How was I to know.  I could have gone on for hours yet.

Now it is my husband’s turn.  He lies down on the couch and just as I did before him he begins to talk about his experience, which for him includes his thoughts about his previous analyst.  It does not seem odd in this dream that we are both present for each other’s analysis.  It is rather like the way I sat in on his session when we both visited the eye doctor, as if we have no secrets from one another.

I am intrigued to hear my husband talk about the difficulties his previous analyst had in expressing himself artistically.  Just as this man had been stuck in his painting so too my husband now feels stuck in his artistic pursuits.

I leave the session room and detour through the toilets to collect our daughter who has asked that I drive her home.  As I walk through my analysts room to collect my keys she speaks over my husband to me.

‘You go from your analysis into driving your children.’  I realise I am angry with her now.
‘That is my life,’ I say.  Even as I realise this is not entirely true.  I spend a great deal of my life these days writing.  I am not simply in analysis and ferrying my children places but I am angry with my analyst for dismissing me and therefore I feel sorry for myself.

In my dream there are tradesmen working on my house.  The front veranda has been uprooted and it is hard to get o the door.  One of the tradesmen becomes so tired he needs to go for a sleep and I help someone visiting to find him a spare bed.  I tell him he must pile up the pillows.  They are soft and soggy and although there are several of them, unless he piles one on the other he will not have a good sleep.

I find myself cleaning out the toilet.  The toilet brush had fallen in and I worry about soiling my hands.

Dream 7 January, 2011

In my dream a young man takes my hand.  He has the olive skin of someone born in the Mediterranean and seems awkward and uncertain as though he has never had a girlfriend before and does not know what to do.  We walk together to a building filled with small offices.  We climb rough wooden stairs.  We do not speak, but I feel safe enough, confident that he will not hurt me.  He is too gauche, too clumsy in his manner to want to hurt anyone.

We enter an office on the third floor and take our seats to watch the last session where an older man, whose arms are covered in tattoos massages another.  It might seem erotic if it were not so contrived.   Eventually my Mediterranean man steps forward for his turn.  He hands over money in twenty-dollar notes and takes off his clothes.  He starts to masturbate his penis.  Its orb swells to the size of a fist.  I had thought that under instructions from the man conducting the sessions I must gaze encouragingly into my young man’s eyes but there is no need for this.

My young man is intent on pleasuring himself and is oblivious to me.  Later after time is up, he tucks his deflated penis back into his trousers.  We go to a shop where I buy him a present, a set of eggcups hand painted with bunny rabbits.  It is a deceit, I fear.  I am trying to give an impression of approval, but already I despise this man and it will not be long before I drop him.

I was having a party, and lots of friends were there.  I remember specifically Edwin and Sharon being there.  I had told everyone that I would have lots to eat at the party and that there would be dancing.  Unfortunately there was no food in the cupboards and I tried to call out for some pizzas, but I realized I didn't know my own address and it wasn't in my cell phone.  Then I tried to put on some dance music, but Gary had taken most of the music and all I had left were a few assorted cassette tapes and a full set of Jerry Lewis DVDs. 

I didn't dream of poets.

I was at a beautiful house that was newly renovated. Dark painted walls with starbursts or swirls. A family that didn't appreciate what they had were living there, but the house was for sale and I wanted it. It was my dream home, but it seemed like it would cost way more than I could afford. The home was two buildings with a courtyard that I instantly loved. An old man who lived in the home was swimming in a wave pool. Then he was either washed or pulled away. He died. I tried to figure out how I could own this house. There were rooms that I could rent out to boarders although I wasn't sure if I wanted to do that. Maybe I could write more? Or write something that people would want to read and pay for.

I stood in front of a house surrounded by woods. I talked to a woman about my car. I told her it was running well, but it was time for an oil change and 10k check up. She gave me something that I thought was for my car, but she explained it would be for Gideon when he's old enough to have a car of his own. Then I saw my friend with his young daughter. He looked different, like he was in disguise. There were other people and families of differing backgrounds, some snapping pictures. I wondered what my new neighbors would think of all these different people living in the same house. My friend and I discussed all the amusement park rides around us. I said the old-fashioned style reminded me of Kennywood. I told my friend that there was a time when Kennywood was the biggest amusement park in the country and the Thunderbolt was the highest roller coaster. I looked up and saw that they changed the cars on the Thunderbolt. It now looked like an Amtrak train--completely enclosed. The ride didn't even look fun anymore. Too safe.