dreams – Page 21 – Carrie Birde

Safety Uncertain — A Dream

The church hall is thronged — a mass of people sitting on the green-and-ivory tiled floor, all facing the stage at the room’s far end. From the back near the kitchen, my vantage allows me an unobstructed view of restless crowd, allows me to see the one, large man lumber to standing. Slowly he turns, his gaze settling on me. His face breaks into a great, goofy grin as he begins pushing his way through the crowd.

No, no, no. I do not have time for this — for his ridiculous games and bad jokes and awkward conversation. I make my escape before he can reach me. Past the coat rack, out the double doors, down the spill of wide steps into the night. To discourage pursuit, I dash across the street, in search of a place to hide. The night is cool and thick with shadow. As I prowl about, I’m concerned someone will mistake me for a burglar. Dogs in my grandmother’s yard raise an alarm. Heading back toward the street, I lie down in the dirt, curling up at the road’s edge. Grit and stones and leaf litter press into my palms, my cheek. Bits of broken glass wink and glitter, lit by passing cars’ headlights. The earth’s chill slips up into hip and shoulder.

When the footsteps approach, I peeking through my lashes, see a little girl dashing across the church’s night-darkened lawn. She can’t be more than eight years old — curly blonde ringlets, blue eyes. Dressed in a flounce of blue and white taffeta, a sky blue ribbon in her hair. Without hesitation, without a look, she skips across the street to lie in the dirt alongside me. Where are her parents? Why is she out here, all by herself, at this late hour? Traffic has increased now, and I worry about her safety, assure myself she is far enough away from the pavement’s crumble.

Checking on her again, she is no longer a little girl, but a young man who regards me with a steady, dark-eyed gaze. There is something menacing about him, predatory. On knees and elbows, I press myself up from the cold, hard earth and run back across the street, down the church’s long driveway. My husband awaits me outside the church’s side door; we’ll enter together, get back into the warmth and safety of the kitchen. But the door is flung open, and that same young man now blocks our entry. He threatens. Commands. Coerces. But I will not be influenced; will not be persuaded or manipulated. Until he changes his tactics, threatens instead to break my husband’s legs if I do not comply…

Side of the Road.jpg — “No Place to Hide” — C.Birde, 1/16

dreams writing

Leaving a Mark — A Dream

Surely, it would have been easier to enter the house from the ground floor, but then, she would have been aware that I was here. So, naturally, I’ve come in through a little door in the roof. Having gained entry to the attic, I can descend through the body of the house, undetected, at my leisure. Floor by floor, I creep through various rooms, sprinkling a trail of perfume as I go. The scent is woodsy and subtle, with hints of moss and musk — a favorite of mine. She’ll know I’ve visited, even though she won’t have seen me. My cleverness amuses me…

Until I realize the splashes of perfume I toss here and there — over pillow and bedspread, on couch and chair — exit the vial in thick wave of viscous blue. To my chagrin, I realize I’ve left an indelible, inky trail to mark my passage. My fingertips are stained, and the perfume bottle drips midnight behind me.

A clatter of noise echoes up from below as my friend moves busily about her kitchen. Feeling like a vandal, I edge down the stairs to the basement with my back pressed to the wall. I hope to leave unseen, but am not so fortunate — when I reach the finished basement, two men turn at my tread. They are middle aged, and one is my friend’s husband who greets me with cheery surprise. He offers me a drink, immediately includes me in the conversation. But I can’t stay, must leave. Crossing the room, I climb a chair situated against one wall and haul myself out a small window set high above it. Grass under my hands and knees as I duck the window’s low edge and escape into the night.

Created with Nokia Smart Cam — “Exit” — C.Birde, 1/16

dreams writing

Fragile Structures — A Dream

This is no easy task, my attempt to re-enter the house. It sits high upon thick wooden pylons sunk deep into a body of water that stretches out toward the horizon. I stand on a squat pylon similarly anchored, but one that is far too near the water’s level for comfort. Wavelets splash against the pylon’s coarse sides, sending sprays of moisture to dampen my feet.

Extending down the house’s side, and just beyond reach, is a narrow fire escape. Standing on tip-toe, stretching till there is no space in my lungs for breath, I brush fingertips against the ladder’s lowest rung. Another breath, another attempt. Again. More length, more extension — and I am able to wrap fingers around the rung. Now, I haul myself up, inch by inch, sweating, straining, heart hammering in chest and temples, until I have exchanged the pylon’s questionable refuge for that of this fragile fire escape. The structure shudders quietly against the house.

Once I’ve caught my breath, I climb. The waters recede below with each upward step; the wind pulls and plucks. Gradually, the fire escape transforms into a series of railed gangplanks and suspension bridges that rise steadily upward about the house, switching back and forth to weave a scaffold framework around the entire structure. When, at last, I reach the top, I enter the house through a narrow window in a peaked turret.

But my climb is not over — now, I descend the house’s interior by a continuation of gangplanks and narrow floating stairs. These pass through a multitude of oddly-shaped, warmly-lit bedrooms. In one of the rooms I pause — there is a young girl here of about twelve years old. At first, she seems oblivious of my presence. But when she turns toward me, she smiles and we spend time chatting amiably. Although I know her immediately, she does not seem to recognize me. Perhaps because I am somehow in my own past, or hers, or ours. I don’t know how timeline logic works. The reality is that here and now, at this moment as we speak, she has no memory of the fact that we haven’t spoken in so many years, almost as if it never happened, or hasn’t happened yet.

dreams sketch writing

Mischa — A Dream

At some point in its past, this old, fieldstone structure may have been a fortress. But now, it is the site of a haunting, and we three have been called to investigate. We approach carefully, picking our way through night-drawn shadows over the grass-edged dirt road. The building’s open arch gapes just ahead. Wide, flagged slates sweep steadily down into the fortress, which is filled with dark, stagnant water. Just within the entry, a stone ledge dodges off to the left — water laps and splashes against it, but the ledge itself remains dry. One of our party follows this narrow path; I and our third member proceed down the slope of slates toward the murky interior.

The drip of water pierces muted dark; peculiar lights and reflections add a random pulse. Suddenly, a fist-sized bright light pops into existence and zips toward our solo party member, where it pauses, hovering before his face. Then, it zips over to hover similarly before my own — its light is so bright, I must squint against it, drawing my arm up to shield myself from its intensity. Finally, upon visiting the last of our party, it soars away, deep into the castle, down a watery corridor.

For a moment, all is dripping, lapping silence as we stand breathless, waiting for our vision to readjust. Another noise emerges now, off to the right. I see, beyond the window-pierced stone wall, a figure passing by outside, its movements furtive, suspicious. Dashing back up the sloped flags, I move to intercept. An arch-topped garden gate is affixed to the fortress’ side here, and I wait beside it, patiently. The click of the gate latch, the sawing hiss of wooden boards against untrimmed grass as the gate opens…

To my astonishment, a tiny man steps through. He’s no more than three feet tall and about sixty years old, with a wispy fringe of white hair. Though he is unusually small, he is perfectly proportioned, a perfect miniature; he carries in his arms a similarly scaled violin and bow. Upon seeing me, he starts in surprise, equal to my own. But I realize…I know this man! It is Mischa Elman, the violinist famous for his passionate style and tone and musicality! All thoughts of ghost hunting vanish in my excitement to meet this man. Graciously, he shakes my hand, pulls from the vest pocket of his dark suit an old creased and faded blue program. It lists all the songs her performed live in concert in 1957.

Note: Mischa Elman truly was a gifted violinist. Born in the Ukraine in 1891, his family moved to New York and he became a U.S. citizen in 1923. He died in his home in Manhattan in 1967 and is buried in the Westchester Hills Cemetery, NY. So much was his playing admired, he sometimes performed as many as 107 concerts in a 29-week season. He was not peculiarly small.

dreams ghosts writing

Breaking Chocolate — A Dream

I dreamed I stood with my back to Autumn on the eve of Winter, and though I called out, I could not be certain my voice would carry over the noise and clamor of shortening days and encroaching dark.

Despite the graying cold, we threw open the doors, and the house filled with warmth. Cheer and laughter and conversation wove a skein, each thread a shining filament kindled in our hearts that lightly bound us all. We broke chocolate together, and ate sweet-tart kumquats, and swallowed crimson pomegranate seeds. We sipped effervescence and lit the evening with a pale, warm glow that warded darkness.

Scattered about, I found unexpected tokens — owls of wisdom; a likeness in powdery charcoals; tiny cakes; words and raven linked by slim chain; a soft beam of sunlight; edible spells bound in paper; and a tiny, shining, golden dragon.

We parted with smiles and embraces; but the warmth — now fed and strengthened — remained. A dream come true.

dreams photo writing

Apple of Change — A Dream

I’ve lost the apple, can’t find it any where. I describe it to them — such a remarkable apple! How could I have lost it? So unusual. Perfect in its imperfection. Though its one side was misshapen, the other held the profile of a man, of Abraham Lincoln.

“Is this it?”

He hands an apple to me. Can it be? the one I dropped and lost mere moments ago? Yes! The weight of it fills my palm. I hold the curve of crisp fruit in my left hand between thumb and forefinger, and turn it back and forth to behold again its remarkable shape.

But…it’s changing…losing its blush of red and green hues; softening beneath my fingers’ grip. Slowly, it reshapes itself into something fleshy, pallid, disturbing. No longer an apple, I now hold what looks like a shrunken, knobby head. A mashed face that sprouts mismatched ears. The narrow spaces behind those ears are filthy with crud. Beneath my fingers, the head moves and shifts and wriggles. Features still uncertain, it stares back at me with dark, bead-bright eyes. No longer a thing of wonder, it is now utterly repulsive.

dreams writing

Making Space — A Dream

Beyond the panoramic viewing window, a multitude of bright stars pricks the vast, dark expanse of deep space. I see no planets, nothing that resembles Earth — the space station faces outward, not home. It would be comforting, reassuring to see Earth in its expected place. Then again, it could prove nerve-wracking, making all too apparent the hollow, coiling tube that stretches, like an umbilical cord, from the station all the way back to Earth. The tube through which I’ll travel with the others on my return trip. My visit here is over. I’ve seen the old man — he does not look well; his death is a lingering and protracted affair that none of us has enjoyed. But I’ve paid my respects and am scheduled to leave.

So I pack my bags — a small suitcase, a backpack, my purse. Fitting everything in is impossible — my unbound novel in its orderly collection of inch-thick sheets of paper; dictionary; thesaurus; the two books I’m reading. Fortunately, my Mom happens by, sees me struggling to zip the suitcase shut. She offers to help, and I pull out a bottle of olive oil and a round loaf of bread and hand them to her; I keep the bag of pretzels — my son may want them. Now, the case closes, but it’s still so heavy. I’m immediately exhausted pulling, pushing, tugging it along.

For a moment, I pause in my toil to stand and stretch, and, thus, see my Dad. Tall, straight backed, trim — he looks great, like he did years ago when I was a kid. And he’s smiling. An honest-to-goodness, ear-to-ear grin. I tell him how good it is to see him smiling and happy.

But I have to go. Mom leads me to the departure point, where a group of fleet, slim, tall guides wait to lead me to the coiling exit tube. My guess is that the guides are from sub-Saharan Africa — they are well-prepared for an endurance trek. I have no idea how I’ll keep up with them, weighed down by my burdensome suitcase and backpack.

Making Space.jpg — “Making Space” — C.Birde, 12/15

dreams

Proposal — A Dream

The apartment is on the topmost floor of an old brownstone. If I stand on the landing and look over the railing’s edge, I can see the banister march its way down the stairs — at each landing, it curves sharply back on itself and creates a vertical, oblong tunnel all the way to ground level far below.

Having accepted his invitation to visit, I find myself in a large, open room that takes up the majority of this space — it must be fifty feet in length and twenty feet wide; the ceiling flies away into shadow overhead. Large drop cloths almost entirely cover the chipped but shiny black-planked floor. One long wall is painted a pale gray, and the room’s smaller, far wall is candy-apple red and inset with huge cobalt blue-framed windows that look out over the street below. There is no need for curtains so high up. Sunlight streams unobstructed through the great, wide panes of open glass. The dark wood banister defines the room’s other length, its railing all but obscured by random shelves thrust up against it. Shelf after shelf, filled with art supplies — single sheets of watercolor papers and great, thick pads in various weights and sizes; pencils, pens, paints, pastels; brushes; clay, plaster, canvasses.

I could be very happy here but am a little uneasy about becoming involved. He tells me he wouldn’t have invited me if he were in another relationship — he wants to commit. Silently, I study him — his face is mostly hidden by sleek, straight, dark hair fringing his cheeks and brow; but he is trim and lithe with smooth, tan skin, and a chin and sweep of jawline that suggest sensitivity. As I consider, my gaze moving over him, over this living space, he busily preps a canvass, stretching and securing it to a sturdy frame. There is utterly no tension in his body as he bends over his work, his movements graceful, assured. Without glancing from his task, he tells me the decision is entirely mine — to accept his proposal or decline. Completing the frame, he says he’ll give me a moment to consider, and rises, descends the staircase. I hear his feet pad softly down the steps.

Again, I look at this great, open, airy room, with its abundance of natural light and opportunity. Behind me, there is another closed room to the right of the wide landing. I open this smaller door to peer inside — it is an unfinished, small, and cozy space that would make a perfect bedroom. Stepping out again, my hand still resting on the door handle, I see another apartment opens directly off the top of the landing, occupied by a quiet, scholarly type who keeps mostly to himself. I catch a glimpse of him, his back turned toward me. He has short red hair and neatly trimmed beard and mustache; wears dark-rimmed glasses, blue plaid shirt and khakis.

When the artist returns, my little dog rushes happily to greet him. I realize I’ve made my decision. I will stay. I’ll accept his offer. Though he receives this news placidly, he is elated. Together, we sit on the floor in the large room. When he takes up a handful of brushes, chooses paints, collects his canvass, I lie down on my side to watch, my arm crooked beneath my head. I tell him I don’t like my picture taken — I don’t like my crooked tooth, my round-tipped nose. Quietly, he sets all his tools in his lap and says, gently but with challenge: “You don’t see what I see. You don’t know what I’ll paint.” I’m a little embarrassed. He’s right.

dreams writing

Leak — A Dream

Water presses from all sides, a constant squeeze upon my dive suit. As old and worn as the suit is, the fish-bowl helmet affords unobstructed visibility in all directions. The ocean piled atop me is beautiful — serene, quiet, teaming with life. Craning my neck within the helmet, I watch minute bubbles spiraling up alongside my oxygen tube. Each snakes independently toward the surface through blue and green layers of sea.

My partner and I work together to examine a large pylon-like structure that thrusts from the ocean floor. Its antiquity is evident in the thick layer of barnacles crusting the object. Generations of anemones have settled upon it and wave opaque tentacles in the ceaseless current, while crabs scuttle expertly over its uneven surface. But the pylon needs attention and repairs. We’re uncertain what’s wrong with it and how we’ll manage restoration.

My more immediate concern, however, is the water leaking into my helmet — the Scotch tape seal has lifted and a slow rise of sea water climbs within the glass, lapping against my neck, my chin, my jaw. Ineffectually, I attempt to mash the tape back down, by my movements are slow and awkward. My hands, encased in heavy gloves, are poor instruments for such delicate work.

dreams writing

Choices — A Dream

The gray sea stretches out toward the horizon beneath a vast, gray sky. Hovering over white-capped wavelets is a blue telephone box (yes, excruciatingly similar to the Tardis). Hands in pockets, shoulders hunched, a dark-clad man steps from the box and walks away across the sea without dampening the soles of his shoes. The phone box’s door gapes, moving back and forth with the wind and groaning against its hinges. And we, gathered on the shore and disheartened by his apparent failure, watch silently as he leaves us behind. Then, the sea begins to boil…

Two objects rise from the tossing, gray waters — one resembles a cross-section of large, white pvc pipe; the other, a rat’s nest of steel wool. These should be inanimate, harmless, simple detritus thrown up onto the shore; but they are some how alive and very, very hostile. They give chase, and we flee, stumbling over the sand in our panic.

Beyond a wind-whipped dune I see a Gothic, brownstone mansion pressed against the dull and flattened sky. I press forward, push open the double coffin doors and find myself in a large entry chamber — dark, carved wooden staircase and paneled wainscoting; rich burgundy area rug and stair-runner; William Morris-style wallpaper. At the hall’s far end, a doorway blushes with light. Upon entering, I find a throng of people in an impatient, disorderly line. Standing on a makeshift dais, a man exhorts those on line to “choose well”. He continues, saying that those with a pure heart, who are gentle and kind and good, will pick the correct elixir; whereas those whose hearts and wicked and harbor ill intent and greed will choose wrongly. Apparently, either life or death will result. At the foot of the dais are two cherubic children, each holding a small, clear plastic cup. One child offers a red elixir, the other blue (this time, excruciatingly similar to “The Matrix”). Beyond them, is another room, and I step out of line to peek and find a heavily-curtained, semi-dark room. Candlelight flickers over small groups of people gathered together in plush armchairs and couches, talking quietly. Little empty cups lay scattered about low tables, across the floor. Nervously, they await the results of their choice.

Leaving this scene, I return to take my place at the back of the line. This room has altered radically and now resembles a pharmacy, all sterile white aisles, floors, walls, shelves. As the line slowly inches forward, I have a sudden insight — it doesn’t matter which cup one chooses, that the liquid’s color, red or blue, is insignificant. Rather, the liquid itself holds the life-or-death-granting qualities and is merely colored afterward. The good will survive the drink; the wicked will not. As an individual awaits their outcome, the results are mistakenly ascribed to the liquid’s color by those witnessing.

Regardless, I determine that when my time comes, I shall choose red.

dreams writing