midnight ruckus

Full moon sneaks into town and steals my sleep.

My spirit animals chase each other around my studio and through my half waking, and I'm not really sure what that means.

Wolf.

Fox.

Hart.

Whale?

Falcon.

Swan.

The fox is only joking, half the time.
The fox is only joking half the time.

Full moon sneaks into town and steals my sleep. Makes me sound crazy and redundant. Makes me vibrate, blood humming. Makes me speculate in the silver dark. Makes the animals restless.

A thief, and a gifted one at that.

Suddenly bored, it seems the desultory race has dissolved into a game of the-floor-is-hot-lava. Deer on the table, fox on the fridge, wolf on the ottoman. Swan in the bathtub, falcon on the bookcase. Whale has a distinct advantage. Did you ever see Life of Pi? Beautiful. They stare, in the animal way, which is to say none of them are looking at me directly and hence I've never felt so keenly observed in all my life. I feel near feral myself. Achingly alert.

Love: It will kill you and save you, both.

I am not high. I swear. It's only the moon, dragging me out of my bed, toward the sky.

The animals flicker, then collapse like stars.

soggy quilts and jackals

Jumped ship, escaping. Fuck this shit, I'm out. Swept away in a deep, deceptive current, struck and stuck against sloping rocks. Thick blankets, useless now, soaked and cold and burdensome and onerously heavy, dragged out painstakingly and laid flat to dry. Night falling. Small fire, no food. Unexpected, unwelcome, unhelpful company. Will not be hushed. What will find us in the night if she will not hush? Jackals. Pitch black ones, ears perked. Slow and steady and menacing and coming straight for us through the dusk. There's a shotgun at hand, but it's old and empty, and cocking and firing for show of strength produces only the faintest click, a sound so inconsequential as to be simultaneously insulting and intensely embarrassing. Strike out feebly with the blunt end. Give the alpha a mild headache, at best. Prepare to have your face eaten.

Or maybe just wake up.

John Lennon

When I'm dreaming it feels like the most real thing. Until I wake up, and awake feels like the most real thing instead. And if there is another state, after or outside of awake, maybe it's the realest thing yet. Like the first time I ever fainted, and I seemed to see events playing out from a long way off, speeding up and speeding up until I rushed into the present again, into my body and what was happening to it, into pain in my arms where my friends were gripping them to keep me from slipping further away, to keep my body from slipping as far as my mind had gone. I laughed, because they were gripping my arms so tight, as if that could keep me here. As if I were tangible.

I'd only gone for a minute. But I'd gone to where no one could reach me, and it was huge and narrow and pitch black and bright and full of colors and unutterably, ineffably real.

It was more real than my fingertips on a clacking keyboard and skinny dark letters appearing on a flat white screen in an attempt to make you see. It was more real than tick tick tick and imaginary measurements of time, more real than faith or science, more real than pain. And it made me laugh, that they wanted me back. I didn't particularly want to come back, although there was something, something important to do, and I was forgetting. I was already forgetting.


Afternoon ramblings sparked by this John Lennon quote.

the weaker sex

I woke up at 5:00am from a horrible nightmare. Blinking in the half-light of early morning, I wished fervently that S was lying next to me, so I could simply grab onto him and feel grounded again. But I was at home, and alone, and had to find my own way back to reality. I rolled onto my stomach and opened the shutters above my bed, trying to remember to take deep breaths, and watched sunrise slide across the front yard, the sidewalk, the roses.

Don't be afraid of shadows. It only means a light is shining somewhere. Don't be afraid of shadows. It only means a light is shining somewhere. Don't be afraid of shadows. It only means a light is shining somewhere. Don't be afraid of shadows...

This was not as comforting as I hoped.

A whole murder of crows descended upon the neighbor's evergreen, their grating voices drowning out the cheerful robins that perch in the cherry tree outside my window, and I found I was deeply irritated by their brazenness. But they don't know or care what I think -- which only brings me back to the root of all my horrors. That innocent and lovely can be so quickly overpowered by selfish and loud.

----------

I am getting ready to move into my own place, with no roommates. And I'm scared. I wasn't before, but after the dream I had, I am now. The world is still not safe for women, not anywhere, no matter how liberated or equal anyone tries to say we are. It breaks my heart.

Sometimes I think I don't need to be scared, and other times I wonder if I am not scared enough. In my dream, I came home to find my apartment ransacked, and was then beaten and assaulted by the intruder. My brain was unfortunately able to supply many grisly details from memory.

I should not be so foolish as to think that there is a cap on Bad Things. There isn't one. There's no scorekeeper, no limit. I just don't know if I can survive another Bad Thing. I think one more attack would break me. And while there's no reason to think it will happen again, there's no reason to think it won't, either. I don't want fear to rule my life, but after all that's happened to me I have no excuse for naiveté.

I feel safe with S, every minute we're together. When I stay at his house, not only is he there to protect me, I also have the dubious reassurance of knowing that the gun he taught me to use is lying heavy and formidable in the nightstand drawer. I always hated the thought of shooting someone, even non-fatally, regardless of the circumstances. But today, for the first time, it crossed my mind that maybe I could do it. Because if it came down to it, and it could only be them or me -- I'd choose me.

I can't afford to be broken. Not after I've come so far.

found

Here is a nice little patch of grassy hillside with a birdhouse posted near the treeline that I have run or walked or rolled or been chased (playfully) across at least four times... in my dreams.



On Friday my aunt suggested we walk around the reservoir because it was a gorgeous day and because we like to walk and because the reservoir is lovely and it was a shame that I had never been there before. And when we came over this rise I had to stop for a moment, and take a picture, because it has been one of my safest places, and now I know where to find it whenever I like.

seen/unseen

Been having very strange dreams again of late. Set in real places that I have never set foot in before in my waking life. Full of people I love and hate, cyclical conversations and revealing scenarios reminiscent of the past, leaving me angry or confused or both.

Here is where one of them happened. It's an amazing church-turned-bookstore in the Netherlands that I'd never seen or heard of except for when I dreamed it a few weeks ago--and then again when I startled myself by accidentally stumbling across this photo of it on the internet yesterday:



I knew the Davenport Hotel too, years before I ever visited it. Knew where to find the grand ballroom, a particular portrait, the stairs to the rooftop, a place behind a potted tree where I had hidden in a dream. I've recognized intersections, a new friend's back yard, the view from an apartment I was visiting for the first time. I sometimes wonder if every place I ever thought I had imagined really is out there somewhere.

No point to this post, really, except that it's on my mind.
And my shoulder is hurting again. Badly.

In my dream, he has a red coat.

In my dream, he has a red coat. A red coat, and a striped scarf, and tiny black mittens and tall green boots.

I lift him out of his car seat, and he cheers and wraps his arms around my neck. He is big enough to walk, but I love the smell of him, love the way he rests his cheek ever so briefly on my shoulder, love how his hand wanders into my hair, despite the mittens. And so I carry him. Because I can.

It is cold here. Our breath leaves us as wispy white ghosts, making us giggle. We whisper together excitedly as we walk up to the apartment, and knock, and wait to be let in. My brother whips open the door and we are welcomed with that enveloping enthusiasm that never ceases to startle and amaze and comfort me. My brother is all enthusiasm, all quick movement and noise and taking up space and I absolutely adore him for it. Noah hides his face, feigning shyness--but we all know better. Soon enough he is laughing and playing and running around with R, and they are ridiculously cute together, and it is good, it is so, so good, and we are happy.

We are so ridiculously happy.

----------

Sometimes I wonder if this is happening, right now, in some alternate universe. I hope it is happening. I hope it happens again and again and again. I hope there is a place where my baby is alive. Live, baby! Live, my darling. Live and be happy. Play with your cousin and grow and live and be happy.

And you too, other me. I hope you can live, and be happy. Just like in my dreams.

real

Sometimes I like to pretend that I know you. That you call me up just because. That you are proud, as I am, of the things I've accomplished.

I like to pretend that when I was small, and so often sick, you would test my forehead with a kiss, that you would read me stories and make a pot of soup from scratch, just for me, your presence and your undivided attention coaxing me back to some semblance of health. It's all I ever needed, to get well: the smell of soup, and knowing someone cared. It's still what I need. It's still what I never receive, except for the one time, and then not from you.

I like to pretend our house was always clean and dry and full of light. That it smelled nice, that you smelled nice. That you smiled more often than frowned. That you loved me. That you loved anything at all.

My mind is strong. Even I can say that, and with confidence. I didn't just erase the bad things, as they happened; I made up new and better things to take their place. Not much better, but a little better. Rational, nearly palatable. Just this side of horrifying. Bearable, you know? Bearable, I thought. But I don't think that, anymore. I think I know exactly how Peeta feels when he says, "Real, or not real?" Dreading the answer, either way, for neither memory is a welcome one.

I wish you were real, and not a story I made up to keep my heart from breaking. I wish I knew I'd have a chance to make my stories true for someone else.

raw

My consciousness streams like comets, like meteors. Streams like rivers running madly, racing to the sea. It could be like this all the time; this free flow of thoughts. This sea of ideas. But I am surrounded by sluices and dams, all meticulously handmade... I'm terrified of drowning, you see.

A seamless transition.

That's what we all hope for, isn't it. But does it ever really happen? Is it even possible? I don't know. I think it might be a thing we made up.

I feel like every change I've ever made has been wrenching, like ripping off a band aid--only not done and over then, quickly, like they say it will be, but awful and messy and the sting doesn't fade, it just gets overwritten eventually, maybe, by a new kind of sting that isn't any better, just different.

It is so abrupt, this wide world. Blatant. Blatantly kind; blatantly cruel. Lacking in subtleties.

Oh, subtlety.

How I long for quiet details, rather than this vast, raw experience I've had. Raw like meat. Raw like bones exposed. Raw like animals in the winter in the wild, cold, ravening, merciless. Harsh.

Weeks, months, years. My baby is dead, dead! And it guts me still, in the same beautiful, haunting way it always has and always will, except that my breaths get bigger, now, instead of smaller, and I am so excruciatingly alive I can hardly stand it. I want to cry and sing. Laugh and scream. Shake my fist at the falling sky. Dance. Dance. Dance.

I am alive.

Last night I dreamed I was pregnant, heavily so, and happy. Near the end of the dream, I thought my water broke, but I wasn't sure, because I'd never felt it before. It made me sad, in the dream. I didn't know what to do next, and I was so sad. I felt like less than the other mothers, the ones who had done this before. I felt that I should know.

I was still sad, when I woke up, still unsure.

There is indescribable pain radiating outward from behind my right shoulder blade, as if there were a massive hook through and through my flesh. (It's happened before, right there, though I couldn't tell you why.) I've been almost totally incapacitated for two whole days. Disheartening. I try to breathe into it, but it's deep deep down and it's boiling lava hot and it hurts-hurts-hurts-hurts-hurts, and I'd rather just lie as still as I can, and pretend it's not there.

Story of my life.

Oh god, it hurts. All of it hurts.

But I am fierce, and clever, and strong, and no one has completely gotten the best of me yet.

no doubt about it

I will definitely be bringing my future family to Australia for Christmas at least once; if only so that I can (in good conscience) have the unique pleasure of throwing my children into the Pacific ocean on Christmas Day.

very faint, and far away

Late at night on Christmas Eve, she carried us to our high bedroom, and darkened the room, and opened the window, and held us awed in the freezing stillness, saying--and we could hear the edge of tears in her voice--"Do you hear them? Do you hear the bells, the little bells, on Santa's sleigh?" We marveled and drowsed, smelling the piercingly cold night and the sweetness of Mother's warm neck, hearing in her voice so much pent emotion, feeling the familiar strength in the crook of her arms, and looking out over the silent streetlights and the chilled stars over the rooftops of the town. "Very faint, and far away--can you hear them coming?" And we could hear them coming, very faint and far away, the bells on the flying sleigh.

--Annie Dillard, An American Childhood

These are the kind of memories I want to give my own children, someday.
Merry Christmas, everyone.

trepidation

I didn't think Christmas was going to bother me much. I know some people have been dreading it for months already, while I was still feeling pretty okay. Christmas? Piece of cake. I have a lot to be excited about. But I am starting to feel a few new twinges of grief as well, and it kind of sucks.

I miss my babies, in the dull, aching way which I have learned precedes the hole-in-my-chest, can't-remember-how-to-breathe kind of way. When it happens, it is like stepping distractedly into the street, experiencing a sudden sense of unease, and then glancing up to find myself face to face with a city bus. I am not looking forward to this feeling, and am trying to figure out a way to prevent it, if I can. But I'm not really sure that I can.

I really want some kind of gift this year that acknowledges that I'm a mom, though I don't know if anyone will think to give me one. And I want to buy presents for my kiddos. I know it's crazy, but it is a kind of crazy that I'm okay with. I will buy them stuff if I want to. Even though they will never use it, I hope that someday, a child of mine will. I like to think of these items as hand-me-downs. It makes me happy to think that a little brother or little sister will have a few things that were passed down to them; that's how it should be, in a family. Things that were gathered with hope, and infused with love. Things with a little bit of history, even if not as much as I would have liked.

I wish I could wrap up the gifts though, and that they would be torn open on Christmas morning by eager little hands. Lissie would have been old enough to really get it this year, and I can just imagine her noisy excitement and her generous spirit and contagious joy. After it was all over, I would have put sticky red and green bows on Noah's fuzzy little head, and taken pictures of them together, still in their jammies, amongst the piles of shredded wrapping paper.

Oh. Oh, my heart.

bad dream

I had a dream the other morning, which set an unpleasant precedent for my day. I have been trying to avoid remembering the details, honestly, but I think now perhaps I will try to get them out... Even though doing so will likely steal most of my words away.


It started with me walking up to my grandparents' house on Glenning St. It was still painted red. I knew my mother and sister were inside, and I was coming to meet them and my grandma for some stupid girls only get-together; but I did not expect to see, outside in the driveway, the crocodile, covered in grease, working on an old car. My stomach dropped. He did not even look up, and I hurried past, into the house. Once inside, I was furious. I went up to the room where my sister and mother and grandmother were hanging out, and they acted like they were glad to see me for about 5 seconds, and then completely ignored me.

As I was sitting there, bored and resentful, I could hear the crocodile clanking around outside and I got so angry, finally I couldn't contain myself any longer. I went up to my grandma and said, "Why is he here? How can you still let him come around? Do I have to remind you that he is a child molester? A CHILD MOLESTER!! You know what he did. You know. So WHY is he HERE?"

As I was speaking, my voice rose and rose, in hopes that he would be able to hear me outside the window, and my grandmother's body became very tense. She was smiling so hard that it looked like a death-grimace, frozen on her face, and her eyes got very big and then crossed and then slid into eachother in a really disturbing way, and her hands were clasped so tightly in her lap that they began to melt and fuse into one another. When I finished my short tirade she said, in a reproachful voice, "What do you want me to do?"

"Don't let him come around!" I answered, exasperated.

"I can't do that," she said, frowning now, her hands still melted together.

"Then you won't see me anymore," I said. And I walked out of the room, and out of that house, forever.

----------

I walked for a long time, until I was in some part of a city I didn't recognize. It was kind of post-apocolyptic. There were tumbled down buildings, great slabs of concrete sticking up at odd angles, patches of scraggly grass... and no people. I was very relieved to have found this place. It was as if I had been looking for it all along, and only knew it once I had arrived. I walked around a particular slab of jutting concrete and made my way up broken stairs and twisted paths to a sheltered place, high up. There I lay down what I had been carrying.

It was a body, a woman's body, in a long and flowy white dress. She was clean, and pretty -- and dead; or as good as dead. She was not overweight, but she was heavy, and my arms and back were very tired from carrying her. I was relieved when I was able to lay her there. I did not feel afraid, or even sad; I was just doing what I needed to do. I stood looking at her for a few minutes, as if to be sure she would be okay; then I turned around and climbed back down the way I had come, and walked all the way around the structure, and came to the steep incline of a huge dirt mound. I walked slowly and painstakingly up the mound, and arrived back where I had started, at the base of the concrete slab. I sighed.

I went up the broken stairs again, checked on the body, climbed back down, walked around the building, and arrived at the dirt mound once more. This time, the dirt had some grass growing on it, here and there.

I did this loop over and over again. Each time I arrived at the hill, it had a little more vegetation on it. Eventually there were even tall flowers growing, and the only dirt left was the path I had worn as I walked up over and over. I had the sense of a lot of time passing, as if every time I came around that corner, I was pushing time forward ahead of me, and somehow causing the grass and flowers to grow through sheer force of will. It gave me energy, to think that, and each time I made the loop now, I got a little faster. But just when I was feeling comfortable in this pattern, feeling that I had figured it out, I got to the sheltered place and found that the body I had been keeping vigil with was gone. Gone. I stared at the empty place for awhile, and then staggered back down to finish the loop. Even though I knew deep in my heart that she was gone forever, I didn't know what else to do. When I arrived at the hill this time, other people had appeared, walking on the path and sitting among the flowers, talking and laughing even as sudden clouds roiled virulently overhead. When I got to the top of the hill, my mother was standing there, waiting. She had found me.

"You'll have to come with us, now," she said.

----------

Then I was in a car with my mother and my sister. My sister was driving (but on the right-hand side of the car, which was odd), and my mom and I were in the back. And my mom would not shut up. Every word she said was causing me physical pain, like handfuls of rocks being flung at me. She kept talking and talking, and I kept interrupting her to say, "Could you please stop? Just stop. Just stop talking." But she would not take a hint. And after a while I finally screamed, almost crying, "SHUT UP! SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP. STOP TALKING. PLEASE, PLEASE, STOP TALKING!"

And she looked all sad and pathetic, like I'd hurt her feelings; but it shut her up all right. Except my sister was staring at us now, instead of driving, and when I asked her to turn around and please watch the road, she just got defiant and did this slow-blink thing at me that she used to do when she was little and I had to take care of her all the time. It meant: I hear you, and you know it, but I'm still not going to do what you said. So I got pissed then and climbed into the front of the car, where there was a second steering wheel and pedals and everything. I thought, Fine, I'll drive. It's probably the only way I'm ever actually going to get home anyway.

We were coming up on an intersection, and I almost couldn't stop the car in time, but thankfully it was a deserted country road and there was no one else around anyway. "You have got to get these brakes checked," I said to my mom, even though I knew she wasn't listening, because she was too busy being offended. (Ironically, I remembered even in my dream that my parents' cars always had 'brake problems'.)

I took a minute to adjust the mirrors before I started driving again. The rearview mirror had been pointed squarely at my mother; it was grey and very dirty, but I still moved it so I could see out the back window as best I could. My side-mirror was fairly easy to fix. Then I tried to move the one on my sister's side (which was partly shattered), but it wouldn't go where I wanted it, and I thought she was touching it and getting in my way, so I yelled at her and she yelled back and then she put her hands in the air to prove she wasn't touching it. I tried again to adjust it but every time I got it in a place where I could see pretty well, it snapped right back to its original position. So I decided it was just broken, and not her fault after all, and I apologized and left it at that. Then I started driving again.

After putting on an air of injured innocence for quite awhile (which my sister and I simply ignored), my mom suddenly opened her door and jumped out of the car, in an attempt to get us to freak out and feel sorry for her. I could see her out the rearview mirror, sitting in the middle of the road, waiting expectantly for us to stop the car and and turn around and come back for her. We didn't, though.

My sister got kind of upset, but I just muttered "Good riddance," and kept on driving.



So. It wasn't graphic or anything (for me, anyway) but I woke up very unhappy and angry, for a lot of reasons, and my whole body hurt for the rest of the day. Since I don't often remember my dreams in such detail, I figured I better record it. So I did.

PS: Goodness, Karolyn... Have you ever heard anything like it?!

co-sleeping

Lying in bed, I imagined I could feel Ailis lying with me, the warm weight of her body stretched down the length of my back, one little arm flung carelessly over my shoulder, her sticky-sweet hand hanging in my face; and I curled myself around the place where No-No should have been sprawled, with a faint frown on his face, sleeping the sleep of the just...

And I thought about the miracle of breath, moving in and out of lungs, of blood running swift and sure through veins. I thought about the rise and fall of a seven-month-old's round little belly, and of glossy curls brushed back from a two-and-a-half year old's smiling face. I thought about the work that was begun in me, but never finished, like a length of knitting that came undone. All of the vast potential that was present and waiting inside of them, needlessly and wastefully lost, like an acorn planted, rooted, and then too quickly dug back up. The potential for greatness, for annoying habits, for creativity. The potential for courage, and rebelliousness, and love.

----------

As I thought these things about my children I held myself very still, so as not to disturb their imagined forms beside me. And for a long time I could not sleep. But it was a sacrifice, of sorts. It was discomfort for their sake. It was an opportunity to parent -- even if it was all in my head. And for this one night, it was enough.

all hallows

As I was driving home last night I saw rows of glowing jack-o-lanterns on neighbors' front porches, and lots of extra cars parked outside. It made me wonder, suddenly, what exactly was happening in those houses, what their Halloween parties might be like. (I've never actually been to one.) It also made me think, for the first time, that I might really like to host an annual Halloween party, when I have my own place and, later on, a family.

I could totally see it. It would be like an early New Year's Eve -- which for the most part is what the holiday originally was. I would decorate with pumpkins and plenty of candles, and I would invite everyone to come over with their kids in the evening, after they were done trick-or-treating. We could go through the loot together, and then eat lots of candy and cookies and caramel apples and popcorn. There would be mulled wine for the grownups, and hot cider for the kids. I would have an ofrenda set up for my babies, and each person or family could also honor, if they wished, someone dear to them who had died.

The children would fall asleep eventually, sprawled in front of "It's The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown" ...but we would be sure to stay up until midnight at least, playing games and talking, as the last day of October slid gently into November 1st -- Día de los Angelitos, Day of the Innocents, All Souls' Day. A day not for fear, but for remembrance, hope, and prayer.

I find it soothing just to imagine this, this blend of rituals and traditions, made personal and new. The thought of the fact of death being readily and gracefully accepted into the life I am building brings me an unexpected sense of peace.


----------



I don't know that the veil is really thinner at this time of year, my loves;
but if it is, say you'll snuggle up close to me tonight?

inexpressible

I wanted to put a quote here. A poem, a song. Something. I've been searching and searching. But nothing is working. And I find I am trying to describe something that I'm not sure can even be described in someone else's words, or maybe in any words at all:



I am trying to tell you what you mean to me


What it means that you were here


What it means that I'm your mother -- your mother


Not someone else's


Not anyone else's but yours


----------


What I picture in my mind, as I'm thinking about this, is the ocean, the wild breakers of the South Pacific ocean, at night. And I see so many stars overhead, unfamiliar, and very bright, the moon a shining silver splinter, and the waves foaming right at my feet, washing beguilingly over my toes, and then sliding away again. The air is warm, and the water is cold, and I stand there for a long time, with my head back and my arms outstretched, as if I could embrace the whole world, or gather the essence of you back together between the palms of my two reaching hands, gather you back from where you have disappeared into the heart of the universe. I can feel the whole of the earth missing you with me. Wondering with me, where have you gone, where are you now? Every rock and tree and flower, all the sand beneath my feet, all the whales, and the lions, and the mice, and the bees. We notice, we remember, we pause.

We look up.

And this string of moments is like a string of perfect pearls, or like a string of notes in a perfect melody, our solemn, silent song of acknowledgement, and memory... for you are a part of this story, this poem, this Place. You are part of us, and it -- and me. And we remember you.


----------


So this is it, baby. This is it.


If I had a picture of what I'm trying to say, this would be it.

Havana

I dreamed I was packing -- getting ready to move, as I often do -- and I was very depressed. I was depressed because a few months earlier, I'd had another baby that died.

So I'm packing, alone, and I lift up a box and come across these two photos, lying on the floor. One is of my baby, being born, from my own perspective. The other is of the same baby, and me; a self-portrait. And I start to cry, remembering what happened that day.

I remember I was all alone when my baby was born, in the same shabby house where I am in the dream. I delivered him myself. But he was dead, and there was no one else around, and so I took these two photos to remember him by, to prove to myself and everyone else that he was really here, that I wasn't crazy or faking it.

But the picture of us together is bizarre, and makes me feel very strange. I realize, as I'm looking at it, that the baby has a huge smile on his face; he is lying on my chest, wrapped in a blanket, grinning away. His tiny face is so sweet and vibrant, right there next to mine; and yet I look crushed and bedraggled and desperately sad. And I slowly realize how weird this is, how he's so happy and I'm so sad. And I begin to feel a little frightened.

Then a friend of mine walks in and sees me crying, and asks me what's wrong, so I show her the photos. She says, "Oh. Oh, honey; your baby didn't die. We came, and we tried to tell you, but you were so upset. You didn't understand. But she's fine, I promise. She's here, and she's beautiful, and her name is Havana."

And that just floors me, for so many reasons, and I sit and gape at my friend, and all I can think is, "WHAT?!" because I believed my baby was dead, and also that it was a boy, and how could I be so very wrong, and what else was I wrong about, and what might I have forgotten -- and why on earth was my daughter named after a city in Cuba?! And where was she anyway, because I needed to see her immediately, this miracle baby who'd been alive all along.

symbiotic destruction

My father was a crocodile. My mother was a plover. And I was a baby in a basket, that didn't quite make it down the Nile.

missing

As a mother, your worst fear is that harm will come to your child, or that they will die. Both of my children are gone; but in a way that sounds strange even to me, there is some small comfort in knowing that nothing else can happen to them. The worst is done, and over.

So when I am sad, I am sad mostly for myself. There are so many things I would have liked to show them; so many songs to sing, so many stories to read. So many new foods to try, and cultures to explore; so many kind, lovely people to meet, all around the world. And I am missing out on sticky kisses, too, and a warm little hand slipped into mine, the rise and fall of a round tummy on the blanket beside me, under a shady tree, and the daily trills and shouts and whispers of "I love you, Mommy."

I love you, baby, and I'm thinking of you...
I would have liked the chance to show you what is Good in this place.

so, I had this dream

And it's another one that I've had in the past, but this time it ended differently than it ever has before.

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It starts in the house on Glenning Street. I am in this house with a few other people, people I know, who I am fond of and connected to in some form or other. [When I am awake, I don't recognize their faces, but in my dream I know each and every one of them.] We are all at the house, doing nothing in particular, when suddenly THERE IS A T-REX OUTSIDE, OMG!!

And we are freaking out. We're thinking, Shit! The T-rex is coming for us, what do we do? and we are crawling around, trying to get all the blinds shut so he can't see in. As we do this, I notice that there are more people in the house than I had realized, mostly women and girls, but a few boys too; some of them really frightened, and some of them more bemused.

I'm one of the bemused ones. I think to myself, Gosh, dinosaurs are really scary! I'm glad they're not around so much anymore, and this doesn't happen all the time. Because in the back of my mind I know it is not a typical occurrance, to have a T-rex after you, storming around your neighborhood in the broad daylight of real life, and I figure the situation will eventually be resolved, if we can only survive this craziness a little longer.

I run downstairs to help close the blinds over the sliding doors, and that's when I see a crowd of people outside, with cameras and video equipment, snapping pictures and recording the T-rex for the evening news... And I'm like, WTF? The T-rex isn't even bothering with them; it wants someone in this house! [Later it occurs to me, heartbreakingly, that the people outside of the house don't care at all about the people trapped inside of it; that's not what the story is about. They only care about the spectacle of the dinosaur.]

Anyway, I suspect that I know who it is in the house that the T-rex is after: a young woman, gifted and pretty, even charming at times -- but aggravatingly irresponsible. So I go looking for her. I look down in the den but when I go down there the T-rex's arms burst through the basement door (defying physics and all forms of logic) and I think SHIT! and run away, back upstairs, to my old room where I find the girl I was looking for.

She is there with her husband, (who is very nice, by the way) and they are trying to get the blinds shut but it is tricky business because the T-rex is eyeballing that particular window with great interest, and they don't want to be noticed. Their baby is there too, in a carrier in the middle of the room, in plain sight, and I think, Great. That's just great. Way to take care of the baby. And I yell at them -- "He's only after one person; someone in here. Do you have anything to do with this?" and she says, "Shit!" and I say, "I KNEW IT!" and they are still trying to get the blinds closed, but I know that since she acknowledged knowing why the T-rex was there, she will also take care of making sure it goes away. So I take the baby, and I go hide for a little while in a small room by the stairs, in the center of the house, where there are no windows, cause I know that's the safest place.

The girl attracts the dinosaur's attention with a plastic babydoll, and when it roars at her she throws the doll into its mouth, and the T-rex is satisfied and goes away. But while this is happening, I am in the room with the real baby, and I think she is the cutest, sweetest baby I have ever seen. The stress of earlier events melts away, and I am having a wonderful time, singing to the baby, and she is singing back to me and it is freaking adorable. I want to show her mama, but I realize suddenly that her mama left, she's gone, and I don't know where... The crisis is over, and it's suddenly quiet, and everyone else has gone. It's just me and the baby, a brand new baby girl, who's name is Avari.

And I am a little bewildered by the silence, so different from before, but I know I will just have to take Avari with me to a new place, and I will take care of her, and we will be safe, now, and we don't really need all those extra people anymore, though it was nice to have them around when we did.

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So. There's a lot there, but I haven't got the energy to unpack it all for you, except to say that I suspect everyone inside the house was Me. Make of that what you will.

When I've had this dream before, it always ended with me being ambushed, grabbed from the den by a Tyrannasaurus Rex and hauled down to the basement where I was, presumably, promptly devoured. So this was a refreshing change; I woke up a little confused, but not frightened.

And I looked up the name Avari, which I'd never heard before. It means: "Of the Heavens, From the Sky."