I woke up today, and when I opened my eyes I told myself I would get up, no matter what time it was.
It was 2:31… and now it’s 4:42. I think I officially got out of bed at 3:46.
And I have no idea why I constantly check and track the time when apparently, as reflected by the way I’m constantly late, don’t care about it at all.
I did take melatonin last night.
And I slept well, I needed it, and I had many, rich, long dreams.
Which I quickly began to unravel. I would have gotten them down if I had gotten up when I told myself to. But instead, I woke up again at 3:46, double blinked until 3:51 when the boy texted me.
Part of my dream was about him, but not all of it and not even most of it. I don’t know if even the most important part was.
I’d better dive in now.
I was in a house. The house, I do believe, was a mix of my very good friend’s old lake house, but it was much bigger, and it also had elements that I can connect to two other men I have enjoyed fucking. (I once again have to go back to work, it’s certain now). Basically, it was a light wood theme, new in such a way that I love, before there’s any hint of yellow in the stain. Somehow, my friend managed to keep her house looking that new the entire 10 years I saw her live there.I’m remembering the place and nothing else.
I’m mad at myself for losing such a narrative, so I’m purposely stopping to deal with that emotion today.
Even though the boy asked me about the dream I had about him, I know he likes to hear that I had a dream about him.
Let me get back to that part then, because for some reason now that’s all I can remember, except water pouring in from one of the vaulted skylights in between the large bathroom of the wood house where I had been talking to one of my “mean girl” friends from middle school, although, perhaps because it’s been so long, I subbed in a few features from this chick I know around the corner from me.
It’s so funny that I can be so specific, and yet I am 100% (I wrote it and I’m keeping it, but let’s say 99.8% like the plan b pill) certain that anyone named on this page would read it and have no idea they were reading what I, had written about them.
Even if I named them specifically. God, why do white people have such boring names. I said it and I do not regret that.
I think that’s the primary reason that I would really consider marrying my side dude, I could really get down with that kind of power alliance. If only I weren’t so fundamentally broken, and if only he didn’t see that so clearly. Everyone else I can hide from.
Of course, even at the mention of things I don’t want to talk about I’m back to flipping through song lists. I can write a page in 3 songs, but for some reason once I hit certain subjects so do my fingers.
And rather than get back to the topic I scrolled back, read everything over, and corrected a typo before I caught myself. I’ve got to just keep my fingers moving.
I got hired for a gig to write a “reflective” piece, and this dude is asking if I can do it… my man, you have no idea lol. 500 words is nothing. I do have work to do, but I wanted to get this scrap of a dream down. I suppose it’s not such a bad thing to tether to other people, because honestly, if the boy hadn’t asked me what my dream about him was about, and if I didn’t have a boy texting me when I woke up that I could tell about my dreams, would I ever even bother?
The boy and I were in a room, presumably in the lakehouse, but it was actually built like my old room. Architecture had a lot of skylights and cutouts in the 80’s, a “modern” angled house in a woodland setting is just a cobweb collector omg what a horrific idea.
Anyway, the boy and I were in bed, naked. It was clearly my old bed from childhood. We were naked, but I don’t think we were having sex. Which is not unusual for me, but I get the feeling he wears clothes even when no one is watching which to me just sounds like a more expensive laundry bill for no reason.
On the other side of the dormer cutout and bench (yes, the 80’s) there was a book case, which, I’m trying to remember if I had when I was a kid. On top were black tupperwear flats such as the ones that come from high quality restaurant takeout, as well as a giant white styrofoam cooler the likes of which Omaha Steaks are delivered in. I believe the tupperwares were supposed to be in the cooler, but I had pulled them out.I hate wasting a good footnote
I’m beginning to remember what led up to that scene, but let’s start here… so confusing when a narrative stretched two ways, but I have untangled enough rope in my life to learn to find one end, either one, and make that the beginning.
The boy and I talked about rope last night. He has no idea what he’s in for. I should text my clients, I miss them.
Frankly, openly, honestly, and maybe just this once, civilian sex bores the fuck out of me. I can see why sex lives die in marriage, because regular people have terrible, boring sex, and the minute one can possibly find a reasonable excuse to bail on that, why wouldn’t one?
Maybe I’ll change my mind tomorrow, but I’d probably just change it back again the next day.
I’ve been trying to work on a more pure stream of consciousness style of writing here, as one would observer were there an observer. However, I see that I really have a wandering mind. There’s a lot that I automatically edit even to myself when I think.
Writing allows me to say more than I could when I talk, as I type faster than I talk. At least on a regular, full sized, mechanical keyboard, which I realize is becoming obsolete.
Last call for dreams… the boy wants to know and I’m struggling to care.
In the tupperwares, rather shallow for the purpose, were 3 growing lats of mushrooms. 2 were the classic kind, but one was different. They had thick spongy yellow stalks and meat, really finely meshed gills, but the top color was a cosmos blue and purple gradient, with speckles of garnet red gathering in concentration up to the outer edge, with just enough tiny white dots to know they were there and somehow lining the circumference. Upon waking reflection which I hope hasn’t wrecked everything (and I almost scrolled back again), It looked like the standard pictures of the darker versions of the milky way.
I remember knowing that these were safe, but unsure. I had gotten this knowledge from My ex.
The other two, it looked like they had been ignored for a few days. Apparently we had ignored them for fucking, and the caps were open and spores were everywhere. The small ones were mushy – no one had picked them.
I remember us examining them, naked, sitting on the old beige carpet that my childhood bedroom had, being both pleased and disappointed.
I’m not going to work the narrative backward right now because I’m on my second to last sip of coffee, but in the room I had just come from, in the same house, was a crib, and while I can’t remember there being a baby in it, I think it was for a baby and I don’t know who’s it was.I don’t know what I’m going to tell him, I usually rewrite something abstract and more interesting afterwards when I tell people about the dreams I had. Something that more accurately describes and flatters their feature in it. Because I am a good friend.
I remember that one particular friend, who I now can remember how I described in the past to create a point of reference, was also in the dream.
I really do think I like her and I should text her.
I can’t even pretend to fall in love with people I actually care about, it’s mean.