So, exams have officially started as of yesterday; I don't have one until tomorrow, owing to the fact that the periods having exams have been EOC classes (and neither my third nor fifth period class is an EOC course).
I think that I'll go ahead and explain a thought that's been stewing within me ever since I had the dream involving my walk on the train tracks in a barren landscape. In the dream, one of my teachers elaborated on these depressing stories from his childhood, and pointed out landmarks in the sea of weeds around us to indicate where his phantoms resided (the example I remember being the collapsed fence which once surrounded a swimming pool where he suffered the torment of his peers). Through this entire walk, however, we all marched along these interminable train tracks which disappeared in a miniscule dot in the distance, the mating of the sky and the earth in the horizon. The place was hung in an eternal veil of twilight, the subtle darkness that begins to cloak the world when the sun is just about to set completely, the hour of the crickets' awakening and barbecue smells.
Well, in any case, I think that the concept of a traveling train is a good one to visualize one's consciousness in relation to Past, Present, and Future. Obviously, in the dream, we were all experiencing my teacher's past; no train traveled on the tracks, and we walked in a place which was not only traveled once before, but was also disheveled and unkempt. There were signs around (like the fence) which led one to believe that the area was certainly inhabited at one point, but was no longer, and for all intents and purposes, the Past was a wasteland - in that one could not walk its road twice and reap different crops from it; one walked it once (or rather rode through it in the train) and traveled back many times alone to view it in the distorted scope of one's memory, which keeps things alive, but only with the connotation and added commentary of the "rememberer."
Though we didn't travel to the future in my dream, I have conjured an image to go along with the rest of the metaphor. Imagine passing like a ghost, the very embodiment of a soul, out beyond the boundaries of your train compartment, out to the distance where the gold fringe of the horizon provokes curious eyes to wonder what might wait beyond. I imagine the tracks splitting in a numerous amount of ways - all to places founded in our imagination upon that skill of ours, insight - which, as Dr. Findeis explained to us, is our ability to predict how to act in completely new experiences, or in this case, merely our ability to predict what these new experiences might be - all places the train might potentially go. But while we are on the train, ours is not the mind of the conductor, who is sitting at the head of the train with his own destination in mind, which may differ from the one that we have predicted. Ahead, our minds dwell in cities, never lingering long enough to establish that our destination is a certainty, wandering from road to road, never certain - and all of the towns are ghost towns themselves, decorated with a thin wisp of bluish haze to indicate the boundaries of our imagination. And imagine, for a moment, a pleasant land of this bluish haze - a paradise of your own creation, a hope or dream for the best - how curious to think that often we are in this paradise when the train, filled now with its zombie bodies transported elsewhere, passes us all on the road chosen of the conductor. And now, not only are we not in the present, but we are also no longer in the potential future - we're in the past which never occured in the first place - in shock, we zoom back to the train rattling through the roads of the present, leaving our fantasies desolate in some corner of our brains.
The train, we have established, is the present. How often are we wary of it, I wonder, the vessel which carries us irrestibly onward? How wary are we of it, between us nostalgic ones and those who dwell on soon-to-be-fruitless fantasies? We wander the halls of the compartments and acknowledge our brothers when we are conscious of our surroundings, waving to them in each open-doored compartment - sometimes, it is as though they shut that compartment door, and those that walk into our lives seem to disappear like a shadow from it once more. But they are always there, the live ones - just sometimes beyond barriers that human cowardice prevents us from transcending. Permanent departure occurs when the train stops and that faceless conductor weaves his way through the zombie crowd and beckons to a certain passenger; "Your stop, Madam," he says, and leads her bewildered from her compartment. We catch a glimpse of her through the window; she is pale as Death himself, walking with the footsteps of the timid beside the tracks, shielding her eyes from the brightness of the gold-fringed horizon. Then we never see her again. Now that I think about it, this dream can be eerily compared with a certain poem of Carl Sandburg's, entitled "Limited"
The computer won't let me copy and paste the poem for my readers' benefit, but I strongly encourage you to follow this link and see what I mean: www.americanpoets.com/poets/carlsandburg/12681.
Since I've rambled so long on this topic, let me finish by saying that my grandmother left for Florida today, and my Aunt Karen and Jeremy left yesterday. It is always so sad when everyone leaves : ( I'm going to join my mom and baby Kalyn out in the living room, where they are watching one of the "Scary Movie" movies.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Sunday, May 9, 2010
False Alarm. . .Not
So, this will be a short post, but I thought that I'd clarify that the "false alarm" that my mom had last Sunday was not a false alarm. In fact, she went into labor that very night, after the doctor verified that her had indeed been broken. She had Kalyn Abigail at 1:55 the next day.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Confirmation Weekend
This weekend, after waiting for what seemed like an eternity, I finally went through the motions of being confirmed in First Presbyterian Church. It was even more special than originally anticipated, due to the fact that my mother was able to come as well (she hasn't had her baby yet).
It started yesterday around 4:00 as I was preparing for the night. I attired myself in my black dress with the gray half-sweater over top of it. My nice black shoes were at my mom's house, and so I called her to ask if she could bring them over at some point, as well as to ask her if she would be participating in the night's festivities with us. She eventually agreed, and she said that she would bring over the shoes just as soon as she was done walking and feeding all of the dogs. Meanwhile, my grandparents were apparently on their way to Winston-Salem, though my dad and I had almost given up hope on being able to take them with us to the church that night, as they hadn't arrived yet. However, at around 4:50, I saw their new red car pull up in the driveway from the window in my bedroom, and I could hear my grandfather's loud, exuberant voice as he carried his luggage from the car. I ran downstairs barefoot to meet them at the back door, wearing my dress. After greeting them, I showed them the dress that we bought for me to be baptized in the next day when the official confirmation would occur in front of the entire church congregation. About five minutes after my grandparents' arrival, my mom entered, carrying the shoes. I put them on as my grandparents showed my mother some things that they had gathered for the baby, and soon after, we piled into my grandfather's car and drove to the church. My family was led into the main room of the worship center, while I headed upstairs to meet the rest of my confirmation class in the small room that we were instructed to wait in. It was an oddly-shaped room, empty but for a dozen straight-backed chairs lined against one wall and a window looking out onto Building B and the Sanctuary. I could see people pouring into our building from the parking lot, and I paced around the room, tense: we were expected to deliver a speech that night on "who Jesus is to us," and I clutched the notebook I had written my outline of sorts in, reviewing everything I had written - I was nervous because earlier that day, I had tried to do a practice-run of it with my dad, and I stuttered terribly and could not think of logical transitions between ideas. I greeted the cool seventh-grade girls whom I hung out with at the last retreat, Emma, Anna, and Emily, complimenting their dresses. They held either notebooks or notecards. Soon, after an immeasurable amount of time spent waiting for Molly, Lisa, or Bo to instruct us in some way, we were organized into a line based on alphabetical order of last name; I, of course, was last in line, behind a petite little girl named Megan. As we were standing there, Molly gave us the "run-down" of what was about to occur, assuring us that there was no need to worry, and that perfection was not expected in the least. Then, we marched down the stairs and into the right side of the main room of the worship center - I had left my purse up in the "waiting-room" to be retrieved after this initial part of the ceremony - and we walked up the steps onto the stage, sitting in the chairs which were organized in a straight line before a purple curtain (the color of which Emma mentioned shortly before our descent), facing the audience, who fell suddenly silent with our entry. Molly and Harry Daniel delivered a short introduction and the former began to question each student, "Who is Jesus Christ to you?" or "Please describe your faith for us." Each student went about answering these questions in different ways, some referencing the collages that we created on our last retreat, others speaking from written word, others simply improvising. There were moments, seated on the very end of the row, when I would be overcome with anxiety, and my hands would sweat as I clasped them in my lap; but then there were other times when one of the students would say something humorous, the audience would laugh, and the mood and tension would lighten significantly. I gazed to my right as the students standing up to speak came closer and closer to where I sat. Soon, Megan stood up beside me, read through her three note cards, sat down, and passed the microphone to me.
I eased myself from my chair and began, "When considering the Trinity, Jesus seems to be the most merciful 'part' of God, when you take his great sacrifice for us into consideration. . ." and on and on. A few things that I mentioned were of event, like the Harper Lee quote that I used to reference those Christians who cling to the idea of paradise as opposed to utilizing their time on Earth to be doing good. I also referenced the sermon at Prodigals community on Gethsemane, my poem which I wrote in response to that, and a remark that a fellow classmate had made about Jesus showing his crucifixion scar to his disciples, a remark made to the effect that our identities will be retained when we pass from this life to the next one that everyone is so caught up in. Despite my nervousness and swaying (my mom told me afterward that I was rocking), it did not fare as badly as it could have, and I sat down with a vague air of triumphance. Following all of the speeches, we stacked our chairs and took a few confirmation pictures, with and without mentors, before heading off to dinner in the fellowship hall. During that time, I was encountered by a few people who complimented my speech, including some whom I'd never met, and I was very flattered. One man approached me and said, "You were right on the money, girl; don't stop there. You're on an assignment now. An assignment."
When I ran into Linda, I gave her the thank-you note that I had written for her earlier that day, and over dinner, she presented me with a gift that ended up being the "Jesus Storybook Bible," for which I was very grateful. After waiting in the long line outside of the fellowship hall, we received our plates of food and went to sit at our assigned table, which we shared with Pastor Harry Daniel and Mrs. Daniel. Both shook my hand and congratulated me on my speech, and Grandpa engaged Mr. Daniel in conversation soon after. My dad and I told Mrs. Daniel that we're huge fans of Mr. Daniel's sermons. Dinner passed in a vaguely pleasant way, watching everyone converse with each other, together, which I never get to see. Then, the Daniels stood up, preparing to leave. I had been debating the entire night whether I should ask Mr. Daniel to baptize me the following morning, given that he is my favorite pastor and that his sermons have meant the most to me in this whole process. After hovering for a moment in indecision, I dropped my purse on my chair and nearly ran out of the dining hall after them. I found him waiting outside of the bathroom for his wife. I asked him if he would baptize me the next morning, worried initially that he would be weirded-out, but he seemed to be flattered, and he told me that it would "be a privilege" to baptize me, and even embraced me. I walked back to our table, rather stunned by my success.
After dinner, we walked over to the Sanctuary, where each student was presented a Bible and some flowers, some to keep as souvenirs, and a single flower which we were supposed to give to someone the next day. I gave mine to Linda following this part of the ceremony, thanking her for everything that she had done. Then we all departed.
The next morning, I woke at 8:30, showered, and dressed in my confirmation outfit: a white dress with black sash and lining, decorated with embroidered sunflowers. I wore a white headband to match, and ate some of my grandmother's famous scrambled eggs for breakfast as I waited for my dad to get in the shower. Once we had arrived at the church, I wandered over to the fellowship hall, where a man in charge of a Guatemalan missionary was presenting a powerpoint. At 10:30, we were released, and I hurried over to the Sanctuary, where our class would first be presented. We sat in designated rows on the left side of the room, and Ms. Moyer (who still seems to be pregnant) played some weird French songs on the organ as a prelude, along with a pretty piano piece with bell accompaniment. Our class lined up at the front of the room, was presented to the Sanctuary, and departed for the Worship Center, where we would spend the remainder of the 11:00 service.
We were introduced here in the same way; we all walked up onto the stage in alphabetical order, but before the actual introduction took place, the three of us who were to be baptized stepped forward onto a rug that was set up, and we knelt before the two pastors who would in charge of the baptism. I was baptized first, and Mr. Daniel dipped his hand in the jug of water before placing it on my head and moving on to the next person. Courtney's brother, Chris, was baptized last, by Mr. Horne. After this, the introduction, and a prayer of the mentors and parents over the confirmands, we were all seated in our designated seats, and Mr. Daniel presented a sermon on the three components of a Christian's moral compass that should always be kept in mind in one's faith. After the service, my grandparents, my dad, and I had lunch at the Olive Garden, bringing home our leftovers.
In other news, Saoirse came over to hang out today, and we posed for photographs at my dad's friend Jennifer's restaurant, Mozelle's (this was for advertisement purposes; we were supposed to sit in front of desert plates and pretend like we were having a grand time). My mom had a false alarm today with the baby, and so she should be sent home at any time now.
It started yesterday around 4:00 as I was preparing for the night. I attired myself in my black dress with the gray half-sweater over top of it. My nice black shoes were at my mom's house, and so I called her to ask if she could bring them over at some point, as well as to ask her if she would be participating in the night's festivities with us. She eventually agreed, and she said that she would bring over the shoes just as soon as she was done walking and feeding all of the dogs. Meanwhile, my grandparents were apparently on their way to Winston-Salem, though my dad and I had almost given up hope on being able to take them with us to the church that night, as they hadn't arrived yet. However, at around 4:50, I saw their new red car pull up in the driveway from the window in my bedroom, and I could hear my grandfather's loud, exuberant voice as he carried his luggage from the car. I ran downstairs barefoot to meet them at the back door, wearing my dress. After greeting them, I showed them the dress that we bought for me to be baptized in the next day when the official confirmation would occur in front of the entire church congregation. About five minutes after my grandparents' arrival, my mom entered, carrying the shoes. I put them on as my grandparents showed my mother some things that they had gathered for the baby, and soon after, we piled into my grandfather's car and drove to the church. My family was led into the main room of the worship center, while I headed upstairs to meet the rest of my confirmation class in the small room that we were instructed to wait in. It was an oddly-shaped room, empty but for a dozen straight-backed chairs lined against one wall and a window looking out onto Building B and the Sanctuary. I could see people pouring into our building from the parking lot, and I paced around the room, tense: we were expected to deliver a speech that night on "who Jesus is to us," and I clutched the notebook I had written my outline of sorts in, reviewing everything I had written - I was nervous because earlier that day, I had tried to do a practice-run of it with my dad, and I stuttered terribly and could not think of logical transitions between ideas. I greeted the cool seventh-grade girls whom I hung out with at the last retreat, Emma, Anna, and Emily, complimenting their dresses. They held either notebooks or notecards. Soon, after an immeasurable amount of time spent waiting for Molly, Lisa, or Bo to instruct us in some way, we were organized into a line based on alphabetical order of last name; I, of course, was last in line, behind a petite little girl named Megan. As we were standing there, Molly gave us the "run-down" of what was about to occur, assuring us that there was no need to worry, and that perfection was not expected in the least. Then, we marched down the stairs and into the right side of the main room of the worship center - I had left my purse up in the "waiting-room" to be retrieved after this initial part of the ceremony - and we walked up the steps onto the stage, sitting in the chairs which were organized in a straight line before a purple curtain (the color of which Emma mentioned shortly before our descent), facing the audience, who fell suddenly silent with our entry. Molly and Harry Daniel delivered a short introduction and the former began to question each student, "Who is Jesus Christ to you?" or "Please describe your faith for us." Each student went about answering these questions in different ways, some referencing the collages that we created on our last retreat, others speaking from written word, others simply improvising. There were moments, seated on the very end of the row, when I would be overcome with anxiety, and my hands would sweat as I clasped them in my lap; but then there were other times when one of the students would say something humorous, the audience would laugh, and the mood and tension would lighten significantly. I gazed to my right as the students standing up to speak came closer and closer to where I sat. Soon, Megan stood up beside me, read through her three note cards, sat down, and passed the microphone to me.
I eased myself from my chair and began, "When considering the Trinity, Jesus seems to be the most merciful 'part' of God, when you take his great sacrifice for us into consideration. . ." and on and on. A few things that I mentioned were of event, like the Harper Lee quote that I used to reference those Christians who cling to the idea of paradise as opposed to utilizing their time on Earth to be doing good. I also referenced the sermon at Prodigals community on Gethsemane, my poem which I wrote in response to that, and a remark that a fellow classmate had made about Jesus showing his crucifixion scar to his disciples, a remark made to the effect that our identities will be retained when we pass from this life to the next one that everyone is so caught up in. Despite my nervousness and swaying (my mom told me afterward that I was rocking), it did not fare as badly as it could have, and I sat down with a vague air of triumphance. Following all of the speeches, we stacked our chairs and took a few confirmation pictures, with and without mentors, before heading off to dinner in the fellowship hall. During that time, I was encountered by a few people who complimented my speech, including some whom I'd never met, and I was very flattered. One man approached me and said, "You were right on the money, girl; don't stop there. You're on an assignment now. An assignment."
When I ran into Linda, I gave her the thank-you note that I had written for her earlier that day, and over dinner, she presented me with a gift that ended up being the "Jesus Storybook Bible," for which I was very grateful. After waiting in the long line outside of the fellowship hall, we received our plates of food and went to sit at our assigned table, which we shared with Pastor Harry Daniel and Mrs. Daniel. Both shook my hand and congratulated me on my speech, and Grandpa engaged Mr. Daniel in conversation soon after. My dad and I told Mrs. Daniel that we're huge fans of Mr. Daniel's sermons. Dinner passed in a vaguely pleasant way, watching everyone converse with each other, together, which I never get to see. Then, the Daniels stood up, preparing to leave. I had been debating the entire night whether I should ask Mr. Daniel to baptize me the following morning, given that he is my favorite pastor and that his sermons have meant the most to me in this whole process. After hovering for a moment in indecision, I dropped my purse on my chair and nearly ran out of the dining hall after them. I found him waiting outside of the bathroom for his wife. I asked him if he would baptize me the next morning, worried initially that he would be weirded-out, but he seemed to be flattered, and he told me that it would "be a privilege" to baptize me, and even embraced me. I walked back to our table, rather stunned by my success.
After dinner, we walked over to the Sanctuary, where each student was presented a Bible and some flowers, some to keep as souvenirs, and a single flower which we were supposed to give to someone the next day. I gave mine to Linda following this part of the ceremony, thanking her for everything that she had done. Then we all departed.
The next morning, I woke at 8:30, showered, and dressed in my confirmation outfit: a white dress with black sash and lining, decorated with embroidered sunflowers. I wore a white headband to match, and ate some of my grandmother's famous scrambled eggs for breakfast as I waited for my dad to get in the shower. Once we had arrived at the church, I wandered over to the fellowship hall, where a man in charge of a Guatemalan missionary was presenting a powerpoint. At 10:30, we were released, and I hurried over to the Sanctuary, where our class would first be presented. We sat in designated rows on the left side of the room, and Ms. Moyer (who still seems to be pregnant) played some weird French songs on the organ as a prelude, along with a pretty piano piece with bell accompaniment. Our class lined up at the front of the room, was presented to the Sanctuary, and departed for the Worship Center, where we would spend the remainder of the 11:00 service.
We were introduced here in the same way; we all walked up onto the stage in alphabetical order, but before the actual introduction took place, the three of us who were to be baptized stepped forward onto a rug that was set up, and we knelt before the two pastors who would in charge of the baptism. I was baptized first, and Mr. Daniel dipped his hand in the jug of water before placing it on my head and moving on to the next person. Courtney's brother, Chris, was baptized last, by Mr. Horne. After this, the introduction, and a prayer of the mentors and parents over the confirmands, we were all seated in our designated seats, and Mr. Daniel presented a sermon on the three components of a Christian's moral compass that should always be kept in mind in one's faith. After the service, my grandparents, my dad, and I had lunch at the Olive Garden, bringing home our leftovers.
In other news, Saoirse came over to hang out today, and we posed for photographs at my dad's friend Jennifer's restaurant, Mozelle's (this was for advertisement purposes; we were supposed to sit in front of desert plates and pretend like we were having a grand time). My mom had a false alarm today with the baby, and so she should be sent home at any time now.
Friday, April 30, 2010
The Nature of Insanity, a Nagging Dream, and a "Tri-dream"
So, today is Friday, almost Saturday, as my dad, his friend Jennifer, her two boys - Evan and Smith -, and I just came back from a Martina McBride concert. I didn't know who this singer was until tonight, but Jennifer received free tickets from someone - and who can pass up a free concert? We ended up leaving after Ms. McBride's first song, due to Smith's exhaustion. Both of Jennifer's boys are really cool - Evan reminds me a lot of how I was when I was in elementary school. It was great getting to hear him talk about Whitaker's urban legends and the tendency of obnoxious kids to pop their chip bags in the cafeteria each day (I remember this). Overall, it was a really fun night - now tacked to it is an inside-joke from the night's events. My dad, who had been eagerly awaiting McBride's appearance on the stage (partially because he found her attractive), was disappointed when she spent the majority of her first song demonstrating her vocal prowess by repeatedly hitting the same super high note, "WAAAHHH!", with intervals of about ten seconds between each instance of this. This irritated him to the extent that, on the way out of the Greensboro coliseum, he made sport of her stage presence, singing, "I'm Martina McBride - WAHHHHHH! - I wear black leather pants - WAHHHHH! - I like to hit the same note over and over again - WAHHHHHH - I -" until we finally convinced him to stop. But all the way back in the car, whenever it got too quiet, either Jennifer, my dad, Evan, or I would suddenly yell, "WAHHHH!"
The other inside joke was a reference to the urban legend that Evan told us about Whitaker. "A fifth-grader," he said mysteriously, "once told me a story about this creepy house in the woods behind Whitaker. Apparently, there were these four girls, and they were playing with a ball or something when one of them dropped it and it went rolling into the woods behind the school. Well, when the girls went to go get it, they saw that it had landed in someone's backyard. One of the girls walked over to pick it up when - suddenly - an arm came out from the back door of the house and pulled her inside!" The story continued in this fashion, with the girl never reappearing and the sinister ending declaring "and that's why no one ever goes into that forest." My dad, finding this story amusing, began to end all rambling stories that anyone would tell from that point on with the conclusion of - "and then an arm came out and grabbed them, and pulled them inside!" Even trivial stories were treated the same way; for example, I was talking about one of my trumpet lessons, on the way back from the concert. I told about how Ms. Rheder had emerged from the office as I was playing and said that I sounded really good for someone just starting - I suppose I was trying to make a point about Ms. Rheder being a nice lady or something along those lines - when my dad interrupted and said, "and then an arm came out of the office and pulled her inside!" and we were all thoroughly amused.
Moving on, from inside jokes to the nature of insanity, which we were discussing just the other day. I was provoked by dreams (on which I'll soon elaborate) to state my thesis on self-imposed insanity (a theory which I learned from the psychoanalysis book that Patrick gave me for Valentine's Day last year) at lunch the other day, the theory being this: most "neurotic" or crazy people impose their insanity on themselves. The most relatable thing that I can think of to compare this theory to, having never considered myself clinically insane (at least not to the point where reality mingles with imagination), would be the whole concept of "not being able to get a person out of one's head," particularly if this person is beloved or fancied of the "neurotic." Though said neurotic claims that fancied person is "driving them insane," it is partially their fault because they are the ones thinking about the person and at least some twisted part of themselves wants to think about that other person, in spite of the pain that this causes. I'm sure that this is probably true for other, more serious things as well - one might approach a traumatic past experience with these mixed feelings, similar to the feelings that Harry Potter feels in The Prisoner of Azkaban when he hears the last moments of his parents' life through his encounters with dementors (yes, I know I just made a Harry Potter allusion in reference to psychology) and is saddened, but yet intrigued and even overjoyed by the sounds of his parents', whom he has never heard speak outside of this experience.
So, therein lies the basis for self-imposed "insanity," a theory which did not seem to interest my fellow lunchers, as we soon moved on to another topic.
However, I did find it odd that, a few periods later in Biology class, the topic of insanity was mentioned again by Dr. Findeis. We were discussing, of all things, isolation- or sensory deprivation-tanks (I think the latter is what they were once called), which were instruments utilized by the Soviets at one point to "persuade" captured spies to confess useful information. Prisoners were tossed into a pitch-black, sound-proof tank filled with water at body-temperature and given a snorkel or some means to breathe. Then they were left there for however many hours with no socializing or external stimuli - completely left to their own devices. If the prisoners didn't break down and confess, they almost certainly all crumbled to some odd inward insanity, having been subjected entirely to their own thoughts with, essentially, no physical senses. Spooky. In any case, this would of course be an example of externally-imposed insanity, dealing with the social habits of human beings, and I think that this hypothesis is just as valid as the self-imposed insanity hypothesis. My conclusion is that there are just too many ways for someone to become insane nowadays.
In any case, now to the dreams. One night, I can only recall one portion of my dream, in which I was walking into the cafeteria of my school to dispose of trash from my lunch. At the trash can, I was encountered by some school official whom I vaguely knew but had never spoken to. They engaged me in a conversation about a girl in my French class, instructing me to carry her books on certain days of the week. I left to reluctantly assume my responsibilities, though when I woke up, I wondered about the dream's implications, as I had been wanting to speak to this girl for a while now, though it is difficult because of our mutual "quietness." From what I know of her, she seems like a really nice girl; she's new to the school, and seems to be, as my dad would say, "wicked-smart." I plan on engaging her in conversation at some point, though the trick with talking to any new people involves how to do it without being awkward. But, in any case, enough about that.
The next night I had a series of three disturbing dreams, a "Tri-dream" if you will. This was the dream which really made me begin to question my sanity on a superficial level. The first dream lasted for the majority of the night, though it lacks content and plot. In the dream, my father and I were sitting on the couch, watching this interminable movie starring Johnny Depp, Kathy Bates, and two other famous actors whom I cannot remember at the present time (whether or not such a movie exists is beyond my knowledge). This movie, besides being tedious, was also very depressing, in a way that makes one question the purpose of life. The only part that I can remember about it was that Johnny Depp played a father in the film of a seven-ish-year-old boy and was married to Kathy Bates. The film focused on the imperfections of the relationship, their separation at one point, and the little boy's methods of dealing with this sort of life. My dad remarked at some point in the dream that he had once met Johnny Depp (he hasn't in real life) and that Johnny Depp had said that his role in this movie had been his least favorite to play of all the movies he'd been in. That was the entirety of the first dream.
The second dream was a recurring one which I won't describe in excessive detail for that reason. In the dream, I was with Saoirse and Kiki at Reynolds Auditorium, and we were looking for seats from which we would view the Symphony concert, due to start in about 10 minutes. Unlike what happens in most of these dreams, we were able to find awesome seats about ten rows from the stage, and we took great joy in finding these seats. People filed into the auditorium from both sides, chattering, and the stage was empty at that time. Reluctant as we were to desert our seats, we had to find my father, as he was wandering around outside of the building for no particular reason. We pulled him back into the auditorium, fearing that our seats would be stolen by the time we returned. Luckily for us, they had not, though they had somehow moved since we had left. These seats were now located up on the actual stage, behind a boundary designated by vertical poles with rope hanging between them. We went and sat with the other people on stage, of which there were about 20, waiting for the musicians to emerge. They eventually did, to tumultuous applause from the audience, and took their seats in the arc of chairs just within the roped boundary. I stood, holding the rope and scrutinizing their facial expressions. The thing which bothered me in the dream was that they did not seem responsive at all to the audience - it was almost as though an iron curtain hung between the Symphony and the rest of the people. It was a queer feeling - and then the dream changed.
The third dream was most depressing, and will therefore not be told in much detail. My mother went into labor finally, delivering my baby sister. I rushed to the hospital, too late to see my sister born. My grandmother was there as well, and we sat on either side of my mom's hospital bed. While sitting there, my mother, clothed in her hospital gown, proceeded to tell us that she was terminally-ill, that she had been diagnosed two years previously, and that she had neglected to tell us for those two years. I awoke from the dream asking myself why she would go through with having the baby if she knew that she wasn't going to be around to raise it. I awoke from these dreams feeling deeply saddened by their content and my ability to be so deeply saddened by their content simultaneously. It's a trippy effect, if you think about it. I also dreamt last night, though I don't quite remember what it was about.
In other news, my grandparents should be arriving tomorrow for my confirmation banquet, and my sister will be born any day now, hopefully without complications.
The other inside joke was a reference to the urban legend that Evan told us about Whitaker. "A fifth-grader," he said mysteriously, "once told me a story about this creepy house in the woods behind Whitaker. Apparently, there were these four girls, and they were playing with a ball or something when one of them dropped it and it went rolling into the woods behind the school. Well, when the girls went to go get it, they saw that it had landed in someone's backyard. One of the girls walked over to pick it up when - suddenly - an arm came out from the back door of the house and pulled her inside!" The story continued in this fashion, with the girl never reappearing and the sinister ending declaring "and that's why no one ever goes into that forest." My dad, finding this story amusing, began to end all rambling stories that anyone would tell from that point on with the conclusion of - "and then an arm came out and grabbed them, and pulled them inside!" Even trivial stories were treated the same way; for example, I was talking about one of my trumpet lessons, on the way back from the concert. I told about how Ms. Rheder had emerged from the office as I was playing and said that I sounded really good for someone just starting - I suppose I was trying to make a point about Ms. Rheder being a nice lady or something along those lines - when my dad interrupted and said, "and then an arm came out of the office and pulled her inside!" and we were all thoroughly amused.
Moving on, from inside jokes to the nature of insanity, which we were discussing just the other day. I was provoked by dreams (on which I'll soon elaborate) to state my thesis on self-imposed insanity (a theory which I learned from the psychoanalysis book that Patrick gave me for Valentine's Day last year) at lunch the other day, the theory being this: most "neurotic" or crazy people impose their insanity on themselves. The most relatable thing that I can think of to compare this theory to, having never considered myself clinically insane (at least not to the point where reality mingles with imagination), would be the whole concept of "not being able to get a person out of one's head," particularly if this person is beloved or fancied of the "neurotic." Though said neurotic claims that fancied person is "driving them insane," it is partially their fault because they are the ones thinking about the person and at least some twisted part of themselves wants to think about that other person, in spite of the pain that this causes. I'm sure that this is probably true for other, more serious things as well - one might approach a traumatic past experience with these mixed feelings, similar to the feelings that Harry Potter feels in The Prisoner of Azkaban when he hears the last moments of his parents' life through his encounters with dementors (yes, I know I just made a Harry Potter allusion in reference to psychology) and is saddened, but yet intrigued and even overjoyed by the sounds of his parents', whom he has never heard speak outside of this experience.
So, therein lies the basis for self-imposed "insanity," a theory which did not seem to interest my fellow lunchers, as we soon moved on to another topic.
However, I did find it odd that, a few periods later in Biology class, the topic of insanity was mentioned again by Dr. Findeis. We were discussing, of all things, isolation- or sensory deprivation-tanks (I think the latter is what they were once called), which were instruments utilized by the Soviets at one point to "persuade" captured spies to confess useful information. Prisoners were tossed into a pitch-black, sound-proof tank filled with water at body-temperature and given a snorkel or some means to breathe. Then they were left there for however many hours with no socializing or external stimuli - completely left to their own devices. If the prisoners didn't break down and confess, they almost certainly all crumbled to some odd inward insanity, having been subjected entirely to their own thoughts with, essentially, no physical senses. Spooky. In any case, this would of course be an example of externally-imposed insanity, dealing with the social habits of human beings, and I think that this hypothesis is just as valid as the self-imposed insanity hypothesis. My conclusion is that there are just too many ways for someone to become insane nowadays.
In any case, now to the dreams. One night, I can only recall one portion of my dream, in which I was walking into the cafeteria of my school to dispose of trash from my lunch. At the trash can, I was encountered by some school official whom I vaguely knew but had never spoken to. They engaged me in a conversation about a girl in my French class, instructing me to carry her books on certain days of the week. I left to reluctantly assume my responsibilities, though when I woke up, I wondered about the dream's implications, as I had been wanting to speak to this girl for a while now, though it is difficult because of our mutual "quietness." From what I know of her, she seems like a really nice girl; she's new to the school, and seems to be, as my dad would say, "wicked-smart." I plan on engaging her in conversation at some point, though the trick with talking to any new people involves how to do it without being awkward. But, in any case, enough about that.
The next night I had a series of three disturbing dreams, a "Tri-dream" if you will. This was the dream which really made me begin to question my sanity on a superficial level. The first dream lasted for the majority of the night, though it lacks content and plot. In the dream, my father and I were sitting on the couch, watching this interminable movie starring Johnny Depp, Kathy Bates, and two other famous actors whom I cannot remember at the present time (whether or not such a movie exists is beyond my knowledge). This movie, besides being tedious, was also very depressing, in a way that makes one question the purpose of life. The only part that I can remember about it was that Johnny Depp played a father in the film of a seven-ish-year-old boy and was married to Kathy Bates. The film focused on the imperfections of the relationship, their separation at one point, and the little boy's methods of dealing with this sort of life. My dad remarked at some point in the dream that he had once met Johnny Depp (he hasn't in real life) and that Johnny Depp had said that his role in this movie had been his least favorite to play of all the movies he'd been in. That was the entirety of the first dream.
The second dream was a recurring one which I won't describe in excessive detail for that reason. In the dream, I was with Saoirse and Kiki at Reynolds Auditorium, and we were looking for seats from which we would view the Symphony concert, due to start in about 10 minutes. Unlike what happens in most of these dreams, we were able to find awesome seats about ten rows from the stage, and we took great joy in finding these seats. People filed into the auditorium from both sides, chattering, and the stage was empty at that time. Reluctant as we were to desert our seats, we had to find my father, as he was wandering around outside of the building for no particular reason. We pulled him back into the auditorium, fearing that our seats would be stolen by the time we returned. Luckily for us, they had not, though they had somehow moved since we had left. These seats were now located up on the actual stage, behind a boundary designated by vertical poles with rope hanging between them. We went and sat with the other people on stage, of which there were about 20, waiting for the musicians to emerge. They eventually did, to tumultuous applause from the audience, and took their seats in the arc of chairs just within the roped boundary. I stood, holding the rope and scrutinizing their facial expressions. The thing which bothered me in the dream was that they did not seem responsive at all to the audience - it was almost as though an iron curtain hung between the Symphony and the rest of the people. It was a queer feeling - and then the dream changed.
The third dream was most depressing, and will therefore not be told in much detail. My mother went into labor finally, delivering my baby sister. I rushed to the hospital, too late to see my sister born. My grandmother was there as well, and we sat on either side of my mom's hospital bed. While sitting there, my mother, clothed in her hospital gown, proceeded to tell us that she was terminally-ill, that she had been diagnosed two years previously, and that she had neglected to tell us for those two years. I awoke from the dream asking myself why she would go through with having the baby if she knew that she wasn't going to be around to raise it. I awoke from these dreams feeling deeply saddened by their content and my ability to be so deeply saddened by their content simultaneously. It's a trippy effect, if you think about it. I also dreamt last night, though I don't quite remember what it was about.
In other news, my grandparents should be arriving tomorrow for my confirmation banquet, and my sister will be born any day now, hopefully without complications.
Monday, April 26, 2010
The Big Week, Southern Gothic Lit, and Dreams
So, this week is the week of ultimate suspense leading up to two events which, coincidentally, are due to occur on the same day, Sunday, May 2nd. The most important of these events is, of course, the scheduled date of my sister (I say sister, but we're really not 100% sure due to the uncertain sonograms). Though my mom is due this Sunday, it's very likely, considering the size of the baby at this stage, that she'll go into labor any day now - I keep feverishly checking my cell phone in case I receive a call from my mom saying that she's on her way to the hospital to deliver, in which case I would use any means to travel from my current location to the hospital so that I could be with her. I'm rather hoping that the baby comes early, as the other big event on Sunday is my confirmation, which requires my presence particularly for the baptism. My grandparents will be coming up on Friday in order to witness this event, and I must prepare a speech in response to the prompt, "Who is Jesus to me?" to present to the elders of the church on Saturday night. Going along with confirmation Sunday, this past weekend served as our preparation weekend. The confirmation class went on a retreat (without their mentors) to this obscure little camp in Clemmons. Here, we spent the night, completed our written review, and spoke about our faith with our youth leaders. It went well, and I spent the majority of the night hanging out with these cool seventh grade girls in my class, Emma, Emily, and Anna.
I am super-excited, by the way, because we've started to read my favorite book of all time (let me say that again, of all time): To Kill a Mockingbird. I would give a review of it here and now, but I have the feeling that I've already done this at some point last year, and I wouldn't want to bore my avid readers with a repeated entry. I'll be content to say this: if I were thinking of being an English major, perhaps even on the college professor level, I would want to write my thesis paper on a comparison of this masterpiece with another like it of the Southern Gothic Literature genre: The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, another one which I can recall reviewing with much fervor at some point in the recent past. There are so many things that are similar which one could point out. Of course, there's the obvious inclusion of racial prejudice in isolated Southern towns in the Great Depression - which can be seen through the trial of Tom Robinson as well as in the character and motives of Doctor Copeland. In each book there are extremely autobiographical characters who exemplify the theme of maturity through their change in the novels (Scout and Mick) and whose maturity solidifies around their meditations upon the mysterious, yet arguably most crucial character to the plot (Arthur "Boo" Radley and John Singer). Each book even has a Calpurnia character who is discussed far more than the actual mother in relation to Scout and Mick. I could keep going, but I won't.
Now, a few days ago, I had some more interesting dreams; one thing that I neglected to mention in my last entry is that I've embarked on a mission - to dream lucidly, or in other words, to become conscious of the fact that I am dreaming while dreaming, but to remain asleep. The last part is key, and arguably the most difficult part of the whole process - this is coming from someone who has never accomplished lucid dreaming. But, in any case, the whole point of doing this is the fact that once you have reached the lucid state, you can apparently manipulate your dreams at will, which is pretty awesome. Just think of the possibilities for a moment: you could fly, you could become a cat, you could transform into Glenn Gould, you could bring Carson McCullers back from the dead, you could become the smartest, funniest, most attractive person (of your gender) alive and age twenty-five years and. . .just think of the possibilities. Haha, just kidding about the last part.
Anyways, two nights ago (I think), I had two interesting dreams, neither of which were pleasant. In the first one, I was going to an amusement park with my grandparents and mother. My father was to meet us at the amusement park once he got off of work. The only clear part that I can recall about this dream is traveling to this amusement park by car, my grandparents in the front seats and my mother beside me. The weather outside the window was drab, gray, and smoggy, with polluted-looking smoke draping everything in a melancholy dullness. My mother and my grandfather started to quarrel, and continued in this fashion until we stopped for gasoline at a lonely station by the highway. He stepped out, slamming the door, and grabbed the gas nozzle; my mother, infuriated, exited the car right after him and resumed her verbal attack. Through the cloudy window, I could see her ripe, pregnant stomach thrust forth vehemently as she violently gesticulated. My grandfather dropped the gasoline nozzle and turned to face her, shouting. Suddenly, one pushed the other, with a similar response from the pushed person - but before the argument could escalate to a full brawl, the dream changed. In this next segment of the dream, I was in a bookstore of all places, going through all the motions of some creepy cat-and-mouse type game with a person who was stalking me, whose name I will omit from the entry. I had been wandering around the bookstore when I suddenly heard this person's voice, seeming to come from very close to me - the voice beseeched me to try to locate the person speaking, and conveyed that I was being watched. I'm not sure why I didn't just leave the bookstore, considering that I had a feeling of general foreboding which indicated that I was in danger - yet, I pursued the voice as it continued to speak to me, all the way back to the far corner of the bookstore, where a small hallway curved into the wall behind the bookshelves along the side of the store. Beyond the curve of the hallway, nothing could be seen for the pitch-blackness within. The voice sounded in my ear again, instructing me to enter the hallway and walk just beyond the curve - I was getting ready to be a stupid person and actually do it when I thankfully woke up.
I am super-excited, by the way, because we've started to read my favorite book of all time (let me say that again, of all time): To Kill a Mockingbird. I would give a review of it here and now, but I have the feeling that I've already done this at some point last year, and I wouldn't want to bore my avid readers with a repeated entry. I'll be content to say this: if I were thinking of being an English major, perhaps even on the college professor level, I would want to write my thesis paper on a comparison of this masterpiece with another like it of the Southern Gothic Literature genre: The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, another one which I can recall reviewing with much fervor at some point in the recent past. There are so many things that are similar which one could point out. Of course, there's the obvious inclusion of racial prejudice in isolated Southern towns in the Great Depression - which can be seen through the trial of Tom Robinson as well as in the character and motives of Doctor Copeland. In each book there are extremely autobiographical characters who exemplify the theme of maturity through their change in the novels (Scout and Mick) and whose maturity solidifies around their meditations upon the mysterious, yet arguably most crucial character to the plot (Arthur "Boo" Radley and John Singer). Each book even has a Calpurnia character who is discussed far more than the actual mother in relation to Scout and Mick. I could keep going, but I won't.
Now, a few days ago, I had some more interesting dreams; one thing that I neglected to mention in my last entry is that I've embarked on a mission - to dream lucidly, or in other words, to become conscious of the fact that I am dreaming while dreaming, but to remain asleep. The last part is key, and arguably the most difficult part of the whole process - this is coming from someone who has never accomplished lucid dreaming. But, in any case, the whole point of doing this is the fact that once you have reached the lucid state, you can apparently manipulate your dreams at will, which is pretty awesome. Just think of the possibilities for a moment: you could fly, you could become a cat, you could transform into Glenn Gould, you could bring Carson McCullers back from the dead, you could become the smartest, funniest, most attractive person (of your gender) alive and age twenty-five years and. . .just think of the possibilities. Haha, just kidding about the last part.
Anyways, two nights ago (I think), I had two interesting dreams, neither of which were pleasant. In the first one, I was going to an amusement park with my grandparents and mother. My father was to meet us at the amusement park once he got off of work. The only clear part that I can recall about this dream is traveling to this amusement park by car, my grandparents in the front seats and my mother beside me. The weather outside the window was drab, gray, and smoggy, with polluted-looking smoke draping everything in a melancholy dullness. My mother and my grandfather started to quarrel, and continued in this fashion until we stopped for gasoline at a lonely station by the highway. He stepped out, slamming the door, and grabbed the gas nozzle; my mother, infuriated, exited the car right after him and resumed her verbal attack. Through the cloudy window, I could see her ripe, pregnant stomach thrust forth vehemently as she violently gesticulated. My grandfather dropped the gasoline nozzle and turned to face her, shouting. Suddenly, one pushed the other, with a similar response from the pushed person - but before the argument could escalate to a full brawl, the dream changed. In this next segment of the dream, I was in a bookstore of all places, going through all the motions of some creepy cat-and-mouse type game with a person who was stalking me, whose name I will omit from the entry. I had been wandering around the bookstore when I suddenly heard this person's voice, seeming to come from very close to me - the voice beseeched me to try to locate the person speaking, and conveyed that I was being watched. I'm not sure why I didn't just leave the bookstore, considering that I had a feeling of general foreboding which indicated that I was in danger - yet, I pursued the voice as it continued to speak to me, all the way back to the far corner of the bookstore, where a small hallway curved into the wall behind the bookshelves along the side of the store. Beyond the curve of the hallway, nothing could be seen for the pitch-blackness within. The voice sounded in my ear again, instructing me to enter the hallway and walk just beyond the curve - I was getting ready to be a stupid person and actually do it when I thankfully woke up.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Dream and an Attempt at Lucidity
I come on here, most importantly, to report snippets of quite interesting dreams that I've been experiencing the past three nights or so. Since I haven't gotten a chance to write in a while, a lot of the subtler points of the dreams will be forgotten, which frustrates me. Oh well - I shall have to do the best that I can.
Three nights ago, I can recall that (in the dream) my father and I were on vacation, staying in the house of some friends of ours. I'm fairly certain that we were somewhere in the south, perhaps in Florida, because all of the houses in the vicinity were painted in the characteristic pastels and variations of white. Palm trees also rocked in warm breezes along the sidewalks. I can barely remember this family that we were staying with, except for the fact that we don't know them in real life and that there were a lot of them squeezed into this quaint little house along with my father and me. I felt a certain amount of unease among the members of the family, and I spent a lot of time alone in the dark bedroom given to me which had one window looking out on a small, grassy meadow in the backyard. The yard was bordered on all sides by trees or other houses. In the room, I had a twin bed against the wall, my suitcase at the foot of the bed, and a piano by the window, positioned so that one might play and watch what was going on outside simultaneously. This proved to be good entertainment, for there was almost always someone outside the window, either my dad playing his guitar or members of the family throwing frisbees or balls back and forth. The contrast of the (almost-eerie) brightness and cheerfulness of the world outside of the window compared with the darkness and drabness of the room that I occupied was stark, like a comparison of a living, breathing man to a dead one.
I remember the mother of the house - she was an austere woman in her mid-forties, with a square jaw, beady eyes, and curly, graying-brown hair. She was short and plump, and walked around the house with a certain amount of authority, rapping on everyone's door to call them to the kitchen for breakfast, bustling around with her broom to clean up after the younger children who had knocked glass vases to the ground, and other motherly duties which would, under normal circumstances, put her in the same category as the typical stay-at-home mom. But this woman was different; though I cannot explain it, having not remembered one of the more crucial points of the dream, this woman had a touch of something sinister in her character - which probably explained my decision to spend the majority of our vacation in the darkness of my room (besides the fact that there was a piano in there).
At some point in the dream, I can recall trying to convince my father of this sinister quality in the woman. Of course, my father didn't believe me, and I was chastised for my rudeness. Though I had staged this conversation purposefully just beyond the boundary of trees in the backyard, I assume that we were overheard, because over breakfast the next morning, I had some sort of confrontation with the Frau of the house herself. This is the crucial point of the dream which I cannot quite remember - all I can say for certain is that all of the other people had already left the table and I was called to stay behind, supposedly to help clean up. After this confrontation, I locked myself in the bedroom and would not be called out of it. I must have stayed in there for hours, because at one point when I sat down at the piano to play, I could see that the purplish glow of evening had lit upon the grass outside. The sun had nearly set, and yet, the room that I was in was still somehow darker and gloomier. A barbecue grill had materialized in the middle of the lawn, along with another beautiful grand piano, at which my dad sat. The smell of roasting hot dogs drifted over to me as I paused in my playing to listen - my father was alone (he generally never plays the piano when anyone is around), which was surprising enough in itself because of the sheer number of people in the house who liked to dawdle outdoors at this time of night. His eyes were closed and he began to play the piece that I associate with him, the "Adagio Cantabile" of Beethoven's "Pathetique Sonata." It was here, at this random point in the dream, that I woke up.
The next night, I had another dream in which there seemed to be no resolution. Oddly enough, my father and I were also vacationing in this dream, though I remember that this time we were visiting the coast of North Carolina. We were walking along the beach one night, with the exhaling rush of the waves on our left side, when we encountered three people who greeted us with pleased surprise. One of these was a single mother a little younger (and very different) from the Frau in the previous dream. She was a dark, slender woman, with olive-colored skin and long, straight, black hair which fell to her shoulders. Her eyes were almond-shaped and wide, and she had a loud, joyful voice. Walking on either side of her and clutching each of her hands were her two children, a boy of my age with her dark straight hair and a kind smile, and a young girl with reddish curls and a shy, little-kiddish way of holding herself. She hid behind her mother's leg as the three of them approached us.
The mother greeted us both by name and embraced my father. He recognized her after a few seconds and both engaged in the typical, "It's been too long!" and "How've you been?" routine. I stood awkwardly to the side, trying to remember these people in case I was asked a nostalgic question along those lines. I couldn't place them in my memory.
However, inevitably, the conversation took that nostalgic turn, and my father began reminiscing about a time when we had vacationed to this same beach when I was three, when we had become acquainted with this family (they lived, I gathered, near the beach in a little cottage of sorts). I also inferred from parts of the conversation that the father of the family had passed away or left since that meeting. Soon, the part of the conversation that I dreaded came to pass. The mother turned to me and asked, "Do you remember that, Robyn? It was back when you and Andrew here were about this tall -" she indicated with her hand a point just above her knee, "and we had the barbecue on the beach and -" Suddenly, the expression of recognition halted her in her nostalgia. Gradually at first, and then very suddenly, a vague memory of this family came back to me. I remembered a warm night similar to this one, in which my parents and Andrew's parents had conversed around a barbecue grill and Andrew and I had run in our bare feet over the sand, playing tag and chasing fireflies. We had spent the majority of that day, while the sun was out, wading in the ocean and building sand castles. I was silently amazed at the intactness of this memory which had been forgotten for so many years. I answered the mother, "I do remember that. We ran around on the sand, chasing fireflies." Andrew nodded silently and smiled beside his mother. The rest of the conversation continued in a similar way, until it became very late and we had to part ways.
However, they didn't pass out of the dream completely - after a blank period in which I cannot remember what happened, the boy Andrew returned to my subconscious. It was the day of middle school graduation, and we apparently went to the same middle school (I'm not sure where we were in this dream, if it was near the beach, in Winston-Salem, or somewhere else). We had a festive party on the grounds of the school, and the students, dressed in fine dresses and suits, walked around with glasses of punch, discussing their future high schools; teachers walked around, shaking parents' hands, and musical entertainment was provided by the seventh grade band. I found Andrew sitting near the playground equipment (I don't know why this was at a middle school) with a group of other kids, clutching his punch. I had an odd restless urge in me, and I convinced this group of kids to accompany me to the mall, which was a few blocks away.
We all walked there, and entered the blessedly-air-conditioned building. In the mall (which was five times bigger than the Winston-Salem mall), there were tons of people because it was a Friday. There were also huge floats (I think that's what you call them) that you might see in a parade. These floats were made in the shape of large animals, like lions and elephants, built with wheels beneath them, and being operated by little golf-cart automobiles which were connected to the front of each. A man in each cart drove the floats around to various points in the mall. Little children that were standing nearby gazed at the gigantic animal floats in wonder.
I had, as I said before, an odd, restless urge. I convinced my fellow students to hi-jack these floats with me and to engage in a dangerous game of "bumper cars." We all set out on this mission, running up to each float, jumping in the passenger side of the golf-carts, and knocking each driver from it onto the floor (as cruel as this sounds, none of the drivers were injured because not only were the carts close to the ground, they were also moving at a very slow pace because of the people crowding around them). Once we had entered the carts, we slammed down the accelerators of the carts and zoomed around the mall, with shrieking people running away on all sides. We, of course, weren't trying to frighten the people or hit them - we were just making sport of the parade floats. But the people fled, in any case, and soon we were being followed by little mall patrol-cars. Using a mega-phone, one of the officers addressed us. "You need to exit the floats and leave the mall," he instructed, "before we call the police." Well, being under the influence of what might be called a "power high," none of us complied with this request. Increasing our speed, we thundered around the now nearly-empty mall, banging our decorative animals recklessly against the walls as we went. It was intoxicating.
Then the police arrived; they entered the mall in speedy motorcycles and chased us down to the far end of the main hall, where I expected an exit to be. Instead, we found ourselves in a dead end, blocked not only by a large glass window, but also by a line of mall-patrol people who had been waiting for us there. I was pulled roughly from my cart by a policeman and put in red handcuffs. He led me through a door that I had not noticed which led to the parking lot outside - then, I was thrown into the back of a police car. I watched as, all around, my fellow students were similarly shoved into cars. I woke up.
Three nights ago, I can recall that (in the dream) my father and I were on vacation, staying in the house of some friends of ours. I'm fairly certain that we were somewhere in the south, perhaps in Florida, because all of the houses in the vicinity were painted in the characteristic pastels and variations of white. Palm trees also rocked in warm breezes along the sidewalks. I can barely remember this family that we were staying with, except for the fact that we don't know them in real life and that there were a lot of them squeezed into this quaint little house along with my father and me. I felt a certain amount of unease among the members of the family, and I spent a lot of time alone in the dark bedroom given to me which had one window looking out on a small, grassy meadow in the backyard. The yard was bordered on all sides by trees or other houses. In the room, I had a twin bed against the wall, my suitcase at the foot of the bed, and a piano by the window, positioned so that one might play and watch what was going on outside simultaneously. This proved to be good entertainment, for there was almost always someone outside the window, either my dad playing his guitar or members of the family throwing frisbees or balls back and forth. The contrast of the (almost-eerie) brightness and cheerfulness of the world outside of the window compared with the darkness and drabness of the room that I occupied was stark, like a comparison of a living, breathing man to a dead one.
I remember the mother of the house - she was an austere woman in her mid-forties, with a square jaw, beady eyes, and curly, graying-brown hair. She was short and plump, and walked around the house with a certain amount of authority, rapping on everyone's door to call them to the kitchen for breakfast, bustling around with her broom to clean up after the younger children who had knocked glass vases to the ground, and other motherly duties which would, under normal circumstances, put her in the same category as the typical stay-at-home mom. But this woman was different; though I cannot explain it, having not remembered one of the more crucial points of the dream, this woman had a touch of something sinister in her character - which probably explained my decision to spend the majority of our vacation in the darkness of my room (besides the fact that there was a piano in there).
At some point in the dream, I can recall trying to convince my father of this sinister quality in the woman. Of course, my father didn't believe me, and I was chastised for my rudeness. Though I had staged this conversation purposefully just beyond the boundary of trees in the backyard, I assume that we were overheard, because over breakfast the next morning, I had some sort of confrontation with the Frau of the house herself. This is the crucial point of the dream which I cannot quite remember - all I can say for certain is that all of the other people had already left the table and I was called to stay behind, supposedly to help clean up. After this confrontation, I locked myself in the bedroom and would not be called out of it. I must have stayed in there for hours, because at one point when I sat down at the piano to play, I could see that the purplish glow of evening had lit upon the grass outside. The sun had nearly set, and yet, the room that I was in was still somehow darker and gloomier. A barbecue grill had materialized in the middle of the lawn, along with another beautiful grand piano, at which my dad sat. The smell of roasting hot dogs drifted over to me as I paused in my playing to listen - my father was alone (he generally never plays the piano when anyone is around), which was surprising enough in itself because of the sheer number of people in the house who liked to dawdle outdoors at this time of night. His eyes were closed and he began to play the piece that I associate with him, the "Adagio Cantabile" of Beethoven's "Pathetique Sonata." It was here, at this random point in the dream, that I woke up.
The next night, I had another dream in which there seemed to be no resolution. Oddly enough, my father and I were also vacationing in this dream, though I remember that this time we were visiting the coast of North Carolina. We were walking along the beach one night, with the exhaling rush of the waves on our left side, when we encountered three people who greeted us with pleased surprise. One of these was a single mother a little younger (and very different) from the Frau in the previous dream. She was a dark, slender woman, with olive-colored skin and long, straight, black hair which fell to her shoulders. Her eyes were almond-shaped and wide, and she had a loud, joyful voice. Walking on either side of her and clutching each of her hands were her two children, a boy of my age with her dark straight hair and a kind smile, and a young girl with reddish curls and a shy, little-kiddish way of holding herself. She hid behind her mother's leg as the three of them approached us.
The mother greeted us both by name and embraced my father. He recognized her after a few seconds and both engaged in the typical, "It's been too long!" and "How've you been?" routine. I stood awkwardly to the side, trying to remember these people in case I was asked a nostalgic question along those lines. I couldn't place them in my memory.
However, inevitably, the conversation took that nostalgic turn, and my father began reminiscing about a time when we had vacationed to this same beach when I was three, when we had become acquainted with this family (they lived, I gathered, near the beach in a little cottage of sorts). I also inferred from parts of the conversation that the father of the family had passed away or left since that meeting. Soon, the part of the conversation that I dreaded came to pass. The mother turned to me and asked, "Do you remember that, Robyn? It was back when you and Andrew here were about this tall -" she indicated with her hand a point just above her knee, "and we had the barbecue on the beach and -" Suddenly, the expression of recognition halted her in her nostalgia. Gradually at first, and then very suddenly, a vague memory of this family came back to me. I remembered a warm night similar to this one, in which my parents and Andrew's parents had conversed around a barbecue grill and Andrew and I had run in our bare feet over the sand, playing tag and chasing fireflies. We had spent the majority of that day, while the sun was out, wading in the ocean and building sand castles. I was silently amazed at the intactness of this memory which had been forgotten for so many years. I answered the mother, "I do remember that. We ran around on the sand, chasing fireflies." Andrew nodded silently and smiled beside his mother. The rest of the conversation continued in a similar way, until it became very late and we had to part ways.
However, they didn't pass out of the dream completely - after a blank period in which I cannot remember what happened, the boy Andrew returned to my subconscious. It was the day of middle school graduation, and we apparently went to the same middle school (I'm not sure where we were in this dream, if it was near the beach, in Winston-Salem, or somewhere else). We had a festive party on the grounds of the school, and the students, dressed in fine dresses and suits, walked around with glasses of punch, discussing their future high schools; teachers walked around, shaking parents' hands, and musical entertainment was provided by the seventh grade band. I found Andrew sitting near the playground equipment (I don't know why this was at a middle school) with a group of other kids, clutching his punch. I had an odd restless urge in me, and I convinced this group of kids to accompany me to the mall, which was a few blocks away.
We all walked there, and entered the blessedly-air-conditioned building. In the mall (which was five times bigger than the Winston-Salem mall), there were tons of people because it was a Friday. There were also huge floats (I think that's what you call them) that you might see in a parade. These floats were made in the shape of large animals, like lions and elephants, built with wheels beneath them, and being operated by little golf-cart automobiles which were connected to the front of each. A man in each cart drove the floats around to various points in the mall. Little children that were standing nearby gazed at the gigantic animal floats in wonder.
I had, as I said before, an odd, restless urge. I convinced my fellow students to hi-jack these floats with me and to engage in a dangerous game of "bumper cars." We all set out on this mission, running up to each float, jumping in the passenger side of the golf-carts, and knocking each driver from it onto the floor (as cruel as this sounds, none of the drivers were injured because not only were the carts close to the ground, they were also moving at a very slow pace because of the people crowding around them). Once we had entered the carts, we slammed down the accelerators of the carts and zoomed around the mall, with shrieking people running away on all sides. We, of course, weren't trying to frighten the people or hit them - we were just making sport of the parade floats. But the people fled, in any case, and soon we were being followed by little mall patrol-cars. Using a mega-phone, one of the officers addressed us. "You need to exit the floats and leave the mall," he instructed, "before we call the police." Well, being under the influence of what might be called a "power high," none of us complied with this request. Increasing our speed, we thundered around the now nearly-empty mall, banging our decorative animals recklessly against the walls as we went. It was intoxicating.
Then the police arrived; they entered the mall in speedy motorcycles and chased us down to the far end of the main hall, where I expected an exit to be. Instead, we found ourselves in a dead end, blocked not only by a large glass window, but also by a line of mall-patrol people who had been waiting for us there. I was pulled roughly from my cart by a policeman and put in red handcuffs. He led me through a door that I had not noticed which led to the parking lot outside - then, I was thrown into the back of a police car. I watched as, all around, my fellow students were similarly shoved into cars. I woke up.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Weight
The irony of today is weighing upon me heavily. It is Thursday, April 1st, and so it is April Fool's Day, but it is also the Thursday before Easter, which - historically - is the day before Jesus Christ was crucified. It is the night of the famed Last Supper and the night that Christ stood in the garden of Gethsemane, praying to God to "remove (his) cup of suffering," though only if it were his will. What an odd juxtaposition.
I think that, on that note, I shall go to sleep now, because I am tired.
I think that, on that note, I shall go to sleep now, because I am tired.
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