Waiting is the hardest part.

I stupidly had a cigarette this morning with a full cup of coffee. I considered skipping this exercise today. I’ve skipped my physical exercise as well, and now my back hurts. When will I learn.

But I did have dreams last night.

I was riding a motorcycle. Only just now does it occur to me that that is weird. It was a small bike, I’m not going to try and guess the model.

I was riding on the Mass Pike, presumably going home from Boston. I was just beating rush hour, but the traffic slowed as it always does – was it 3 o clock? I pulled over onto the left shoulder, presumably to smoke a cigarette, when another bike pulled up almost next to me, presumably to do the same. The man was decidedly average looking, though I remember what he looked like clearly. He looked familiar, but an amalgam (I didn’t even know I knew that word) of what my hick acquaintances from my past all look like. Mouse brown hair, thin, dark sunglasses, maybe a trace of facial hair. Whatever. I don’t remember saying anything to him, but I pulled off the exit.

I was in my town, but it didn’t feel like I lived there anymore. I don’t know how, but I got to my old house. Inside, there were some people I knew, but only one that I now remember – My big Black friend who rented my other house from me, who had also previously lived in the town I was now in.

It was decorated beautifully (I remember thinking that I didn’t think the new owners had such taste) and I was in the back room in some kind of impromptu art therapy session.

I still hadn’t smoked that cigarette, even though other people were lighting up around me. Inside, which I never do.

I don’t know why, but on my paper I was drawing penises. Not just penises, but thick, veiney penises. So gross and vulgar. There was a man, I believe I met him before based on what happened next, the pathology professor of Harvard, and he looked interested in that aloof and judgmental way that therapists do.

I got up and left the room, presumably to smoke.

I went into the living room – I recognize the layout as the first apartment that I lived in in that house. There were two large wingbacks by the window wall, and an armchair in the center where the divider wall between the kitchen and dining room were. I sat in the armchair, and we had a brief discussion about what was going on in town. My big black friend remarked about how much he loved it here, and I complimented their new decor. I didn’t ask about how much the rent was up to now, but I feel like I wanted to.

I did say something like “Well, I remember that when I lived here, I would be home by now… but I guess I have to go and get back on the Pike” insinuating that I lived much further West now. By an hour, because the next exit West is an hour away (The boy and I were talking about moving back out there).

I scooched the chair back for some reason, and hit one of the tiny tables that was next to the doorway into the kitchen (I know where it was, I wonder if I will remember the layout of my old apartment as clearly when I reread this in a few months). and knocked off a stone pitcher that was on it. At first it was caught by the back of the chair, but when I turned around to try and grab it the chair moved forward and it fell to the ground, breaking. It broke along the fissure into 4 pieces, in such away that I was hoping it could be glued back, but I couldn’t figure out how the pieces connected.

The pitcher was broken. The therapist looked at me with the same disapproving gaze that he had on when I was scrawling penises on the paper in the back bedroom.

I’d like to note that I’ve seen this pitcher before, I believe in an antique shop, and when I do find it again, I will buy it for $70 or less. Or more. It was a cherry marble, but milky translucent. I was going to do the floors in the house that my big Black friend rented a cherry marble, until my Mother informed me that marble exploded when it caught fire, which was excellent advice to heed as the house did eventually catch fire.

I’m doing more inline editing today than I believe I usually do. I’m approaching all of my words with more hesitation than I usually do. I have a strange feeling in my stomach. My back has been bothering me, and my eyes are bothering me. My health is not good today, I will tackle that problem after I’m done writing, but for some reason I don’t feel it’s necessary to skip this today.

I broke the pitcher. The Therapist, who reminds me of a professor that I did not have in school, and who wanted to photograph me naked and masturbating, had said something to me that was said to him, and was quite powerful.

Everything ends up broken sometime, by someone. Eventually. Don’t feel bad if it happens to be you. It had to be someone. Eventually.

The it we were referring to was a Ming Dynasty teacup, so old, which he had dropped. The point was that he should consider himself lucky to have even held it before it was broken, it was so old. We should all be so lucky that it hadn’t broken hundreds of years ago, not sad that it broke now. He was alluding to relationships, and infidelity, and breaking hearts. I should see how this man is doing now. I remember what brought it up – a piece of antique pottery that I had fashioned into a pendant. I should see if I still have that.

He had wanted to photograph me making love to a man, but not him. At the time I was dating my boyfriend, who I would not ask, but I realize that I would do this with the boy. I have to explore that feeling further.

There were things I wanted to write about besides dreams, but I just remembered another fragment that I want to explore.

I believe this fading segment happened earlier in the night, which would explain how I ended up on the Pike in the first place.

I was up in a loft above the main entrance of a warehouse building that was split into mixed use studios and offices, as is trendy to do these days and has been quite trendy to do for some time.

I’m not sure who I was with. I believe my college ex, and maybe my brother. People could in actuality see us, but no one ever looks up.

Across from us was the apartment or office (I don’t know which) of my brother’s assistant. We called to him as he walked in, and he looked up. We asked about rent, and it was quite expensive for the type of space it was. We exchanged words about the tiresome, nagging evil of gentrification and exactly how West Indians, classified by island, are the horsemen of the apocalypse when it comes to rising rent.

This is true and deserves an essay, which I will never write as sociology is not my discipline, but if anyone ever sees this and wants to talk maybe I will because I’d like to. Not sure if I should write this in my physical notebook to return to later.

I saw a clip on the internet somewhere, an interview between Trevor Noah and Chris Rock, where he explained that he takes 7 hours of therapy a week, because he can. Suddenly, I didn’t feel weird about the extensive amounts of work I put into developing myself.

I have the means, and I’m worth it.

Chris Rock. I agree.

There was more in my dreams. I feel like I’m going to spill overtime today, and I’m not sure I should be spending that much time here. But, I feel in the bottom of my stomach, at the pit and up behind to under my diaphragm in a springy C shape against the lower part of my spine, that I’m going to, so here we go. I have the means and I’m worth it.

I dreamed of boats, of a property that I owned, the property that my brother owned, the property that my friend used to own, on a dirt road behind a town that could have been anywhere, on an old road behind the main road that everyone knows, that everyone uses to get to two places that are somewhere, bypassing all of the cool stuff that only the older locals remember. All the lakes, rivers, old drinking spots, beached cars from the 60’s, the hollowed out ice cream truck that looks like it’s been there since the 40’s , the abandoned zoo with the art deco stone carvings to denote which exotic animal was in which cage.

In writing this it occurs to me that this could have been anywhere, but that is where the dream began. This is where I always am. I want everyone to know that.

But it could have been anywhere.

Hick Life.

Maybe I don’t need that extra cup of coffee to finish. There’s still coffee in my cup, but it is cold. Everything feels like it’s off kilter today, out of rhythm, I can’t quite settle in why.

I think I love this boy. I don’t want this, and I know it. But I know I do, I just don’t want to want it. It’s going to be hard.

Full stop. Apparently I’m in denial.

There’s more coffee than I thought.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.