This boy is dead

I woke up at a good time today, my favorite time to wake up. 12:34

I had dreams last night, and despite them being significant to the point where I wanted to get up and write them down, I went out and smoked half a cigarrette before coming here, and now my coffee is one third done.

The back of my mind wandered into thinking about what the cigarette query would bring up in the search on this site, and I subconsciously misspelled cigarette. I’m keeping it.

Fragments of dreams, the last first.

We were sitting in a therapist’s office. I was warm and plush, with warm jeweltone velvet furniture, sun pouring in through brown dusty curtains, shelves filled with books. The setup was the same as my boyfriend’s living room.

I was there with a man who was friends with my former NH friends1, sitting next to him on the burgundy velvet couch, and my friend’s son2 was sitting in a deep princess high wingback. The office was shadowy, I could barely see him, but I recognized his long, lanky legs and pale cadaver like skin.

The therapist was there, a non-descript white haired white man. I don’t recall him saying anything of importance.

We were waiting for someone, a blonde woman, or at least I imagine she was blonde. The boy said that she was coming, and that we all just had to look around, maybe she was already in the room.

It was at that moment it occurred to me that the woman was dead as well.

1. I don’t know this man so well, despite drinking heavily with him at a trillion occasions at the lakehouse. He’s a musician, and quite attractive. Unfortunately, he is friends with my ex, and my friend’s ex. I remember on the last day that they were there, he showed up with a truck (a nice truck) to help them move. My ex did not. 2. This boy is dead.

I have to call my NH friend today. I missed her call the other day when I was talking with my academic friend, and unfortunately my waking hours don’t coincide so easily with hers.

She wants me to move in with her. I really like living alone, and (I paused for coffee and song tags) she has some destructive habits that I do not want to live with. Smoking in the house, for one. Drinking excessively and screaming, for another. Not that I don’t party, but we just don’t party the same.

Additionally, there are some very good reasons why I can’t live in the same state as my brother.

Back to my dreams, though they are fading.

We were at the lakehouse, on the back deck with the dock that no one ever used. Down the stairs at the landing, My friend was getting ready for a party.

Of course, her husband, unnoficially ex husband, showed up with several dudes to “help” – middle aged white men of various looks and types1, who actually did nothing but drink Coors lite2 and recline in the sun.

There was another woman there, as there always is somehow, even though I barely learn their names either3. And, as always, we went in and out of the house trying to split our time between helping My friend get ready for the party (she was angrily alone inside, trying to do the work that her husband was utterly not interested in) and going outside to not be thoroughly alienated from the men, because we didn’t want to appear like we were being set to work while they got to sit back and do nothing, even though that’s the way it was. Always4.

It occurred to me that this was a Halloween party.

I remember one woman I barely know, but vaguely do (My friend’s wife, who I first met at a Halloween party wearing a blonde wig and now I’m surprised every time I see her and she’s not blonde) or maybe someone who reminds me of her as the dream gets sewn in with my waking axiom, went swimming off the dock.

1. I couldn’t pick them out individually, but they were just the standard group of NH river hicks. I don’t think I’ll ever be the type of person who can think that they all don’t all look alike, but gathered in a group they were specifically NH, as a gathering of hicks has a distinctive quality from area to area. Individually, who gives a fuck. There are several elements on the periodic table, particularly those with smaller electric charges, that have unique group qualities like that. 2. Actually we’re hick enough to drink Woodchuck Cider, because a stomach can fit more cider than beer. 3. Ah, the beauty of being Black. They didn’t even take the time to know me, either. 4. This is the way it always is, and I realize now how backwards this culture (I had to struggle with what to call it, as I realize how broadly it spans – past hick life, and now I think of my current boy, who is clearly only doing the bare fucking minimum in the wooing process)

Footnotes kind of break my rhythm while writing, as does the word rhythm because I’m always afraid I’ll misspell it. My coffee is cold at this point – I really only have 20 minutes from the time I pour the cup, and standing outside with it doesn’t help I’m sure.

Maybe it’s for the best, I have plenty of things to do today.

There’s a message from my ex waiting, I’m sure it’s angry and incoherent.

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