dreams – Page 22 – Carrie Birde

Monsters, Monsters, Everywhere – A Dream

(Confession — I had this dream in mid-July. I don’t recall what was occupying my mind at that time, but it seems appropriate to post it on the platform-booted heels of Halloween.)

We have been warned — we deviate from the path at our peril. There is no other guarantee of safe passage through the graveyard. Night and gloaming surround. Elongated shadows arch themselves over hillocks of drifting snow, but I easily find the sinuous depression winding through that indicates safety. I tell my son and husband to remain close, and then push through the frosted crust, breaking a trail. No sooner have we begun, than my husband has stumbled off the trail into deep snow. Alarmed, I call out, my voice hissing, and although he returns quickly, it’s too late. A distant howl of pursuit echoes, hollow and eerie, growing ever closer. The zombies are deceived neither by speed nor misstep.

With increased determination, I push through the snow. The path leads past neatly arranged headstones and down a cleft. Walls of snow rise up on either side of us as we descend steps hewn from ice-rimed stone. At the staircase’s bottom, a large chamber opens before us — at its far end is a scaffold beneath which spills an enormous quantity of foam peanuts and lint-like packing materials. I instruct that we must bury ourselves from sight within them, so the zombies will not scent us. My son and I are successful, but my husband does not sufficiently bury himself — his right elbow and side remain exposed. The zombies drag him out. I cannot see, but I hear all.

In the chaos, my son and I escape. We swim beneath the sea of packing peanuts and emerge in a narrow, worked-stone hallway which opens into another rectangular chamber. One third of this room’s length is galleried, raised several feet higher than the rest. In the gallery, poised over a large cauldron and gesturing dramatically, is a wild-haired mad-scientist. I warn my son to look away, that he must not linger, must not approach the mad scientist, but I am distracted. To my elation, my husband has returned and appears remarkably unaltered by his zombie encounter. Meanwhile, my son is unable to overcome the mad-scientist’s compulsion and has stepped up into the gallery. He is immediately transformed into a vampire. Rushing forth from the gallery, he vaults the stone railing to attack a woman — my sister?! — at the chamber’s far end. They collapse in a heap on the floor near a low dais upon which rests a closed, black coffin. My son-turned-vampire attempts, inexpertly, to bite. I must do something…must act…but I cannot. I cannot strike out because the vampire is my son, whom I love. The scene plays out like bad fiction until my surroundings slowly begin to tilt and revolve around me.

Created with Nokia Smart Cam — “Monsters, Monsters, Everywhere” — C.Birde, 7/15

dreams writing

Tradition — A Dream

I peer through a square pane of glass, smudged at the corners with grit. This lends the scene below an antique character — curving, cobbled streets, damp from a passing shower; tall, sun-washed buildings leaning shoulder to shoulder. I realize I am in Pamplona, and an image in sepia tones appears before my mind’s eye, crowding out all else — a photo that has not yet been taken, of a bull being speared. The great creature’s body has been captured as it rears up, front hooves churning air, head and horns twisting leftward. A long, black lance-like spear thrusts from the bull’s right side body.

For a moment, I wonder how the photographer could manage to take the photo without being trampled himself. I speculate as to a structure that might be placed in the street’s center to protect the photographer on three sides when the runners and the bull arrive, and thus divert the tide of violence to pass around while affording an incredible view of the spectacle.

Suddenly, all is noise and chaos. I press my cheek to the glass. Surrounded by waves of people, the very bull I had foreseen in the photo runs past my cropped, squared-off view. Mud rises from the street in clots. Feet and hooves pound. The bull bellows, the men shout. From my vantage, I see a man below and to the right — he pauses at the fringe of commotion. In his hands is a great, black lance decorated lavishly with twists and coils vining from the hand guard down the lance’s length and diminishing upon reaching the weapon’s smooth, elongated tip. The man hefts the lance, draws his arm back in an impossible arc, and hurls the lance forward. It strikes first the cobbled street at an acute angle, sending up glittering sparks, then ricochets up to impale the charging bull squarely beneath its right front shoulder. The bull bellows rage and pain as the lance wags against its side body.

I find myself whisked from my lofty vantage and planted in the middle of the street behind the final wave of berserking humans who are thrilled at the sight of the bull’s shed blood. Within me, I feel a great pressure building from the soles of my feet, rushing upward to fill my lungs, until I am shouting. My voice is huge: “I don’t care if it’s tradition. I HATE it.” I do not feel as though any one has heard me.

Submerged — A Dream

Sleep. Heavy as guilt, heavy as duty. It swamps. It suffocates. It rests like a great weight, pressing upon me so that I cannot think, rise, lift an eyelid. I see myself on the narrow bed, in the small cabin I share with several friends, with my boyfriend. They tried to wake me, and I struggled to oblige but could not force my way to waking. The effort had me rolling off the bed, falling to the floor in a tangle of sheets and blanket, where I remain, submerged in sleep.

My friends move about the cramped cabin space gathering objects — towels, buckets, hats. They are concerned for me, but the ship has reached port and docked. They have places to go, things to do; they are eager to go ashore. I cannot tell them it’s okay, leave me; I’ll simply sleep. Out of a sense of guilt or responsibility, one of them calls the ship’s physician, who arrives promptly. Instead of examining me, however, the doctor proceeds to massage my boyfriend. I see all through the narrowest slit of my eyelids, through the lattice of eyelashes. He lies face down on the bed opposite me, and she has straddled his back, leaned in close, hands upon his shoulders, head dipped low enough to whisper in his ear. What does she say? He smiles, oblivious to her aims, to my neglect. I cannot voice my upset.

They leave — my boyfriend and the others. As the door closes softly on their exit, I realize one friend remains. She elects to stay behind with me, to watch over me. In my heap of blankets and inert limbs on the floor, I am overwhelmed with silent gratitude. My friend can’t lift me, so she grasps the tangle of blankets, drags me to the cabin’s center. She talks to me, encourages me to wake, demands that I wake. She shakes my shoulders, gently at first, then with increasing agitation and insistence. She slaps me. It stings. I want her to stop, to leave me alone. In frustration, she looks away…and must recall the fairy tale of “Sleeping Beauty”. Slowly, she turns and regards me for a long moment. I see decisiveness flicker in her eyes. Even in my sleep-slurred state, I feel a prick of alarm. She unbuttons her blouse, puckers her lips, and leans over me…and, to our mutual surprise, I manage to emerge from labyrinthine slumber before she can kiss me. I’m uncertain if she is as relieved as I.

Although I am now awake, I am far from alert — a fog fills me, edges my peripheries. My dutiful friend begins to neaten the cabin. She gathers the drift of linens from the floor, remakes beds, straightens dressers, table and chairs. Kneeling on the floor together, we pick up tiny pieces of Lego and return them to rigid plastic bins. Neither of us speaks.

dreams writing

Melodrama — A Dream

If I stand very still, if I do not move, I can see back over the spill of decades, over lifetimes to this specific scene. A grand foyer, Victorian in style, seen as if through a hole in…time? The scene’s edges darken, obscured by shadow. But at the center, the view is bright and clear — a staircase sweeps upward on the left, with heavily ornamented wrought-iron railing; straight ahead, a carved and paneled entry stands with double doors flung wide, opening onto a sunlit two-story chamber. Everything — every nook and cranny, the walls and ceiling — is highly decorated…carved, painted, flocked, tiled, gilt. The opulence is striking. The staircase, thickly carpeted, leads upward, down a hall. A railing on the right overlooks the large, two-story chamber; doors line the left wall. Each door is heavy and dark with a polished brass knob and key-hole — and, disturbingly, a small barred window is inset upon each door’s face. I realize I am viewing an antique hospital; perhaps, an asylum.

Movement catches my attention — the opaque form of a woman. A ghost. Slowly, she drifts toward the stairs. My view narrows, focuses upon her vaporous shape and follows her closely. Up. Along the balconied hall. Past one door, then another, and another. She is grief-stricken, clutching diffuse hands to her sternum, weeping silently. Her sad history unfolds within me. She — young, naive, trusting; he — older, wealthy, arrogant. His gifts and flattery and promises of security — so persistent, so calculated. Over time, her resolve eroded. When their child was born, he had her locked away in this very hospital; he took the baby. Ultimately, she lost all.

Over and done. Swept into the dust of time’s passage. The young woman never recovered from her grief. The man died old and unrepentant, protected by his wealth and stature. What I cannot see, as I stand here, viewing this place and this scene, its history and edges obscured by grit and shadow — is what became of the child.

dreams ghosts writing

Feeding Catbird — A Dream

The woman who lives here rehabilitates sick and injured catbirds — I am delighted and, in my heart of hearts, a little jealous. A single sweeping glance allows me to take in this forest-hued room in its entirety — dusky green walls, chocolate couches and carpet, finely-grained wooden work table and leaning wooden shelves. Windows are arranged horizontally along one wall near the ceiling. Pale fingers of light stream and puddle as if through tree limbs and shifting leaves.

The rehabilitator allows me to assist in feeding the injured catbirds, instructing me to take mouthfuls of raw green spinach and dark brown raisins, to chew thoroughly, masticating them. Pursing my lips around this mixture, one of the injured catbirds flies forward from the shelves. Wings aflutter, it hovers before me and slips its sooty wedge of beak between my lips. It sips the spinach and raisins. He’s so close, I see clearly and directly into his bead-bright black eyes; I see his smooth charcoal cap and little russet undertail. The breeze of his wings fans my face, and occasionally the whisper touch of a feather grazes my cheek.

Note: For eight years now — and hopefully for the foreseeable future — I have been feeding raisins to visiting catbirds in my yard. If you are interested, and have not already seen my earlier post on this, you might want to read “Days of Song & Raisins”.

Catbird dreams Nature

Take a Deep Breath — A Dream

He said that he would follow, that he was right behind me. Now, I stand in the galleried section of a large interior space, while he remains below — I can see him, moving between rows of parked cars with that canvas backpack a peculiar khaki lump strapped against his spine. But he does not follow me, and never intended to — this is evident after the blast. So thunderously loud, it shakes the structure’s foundations, unhinges the roof above the parking lot so thoroughly it crashes down with a great whump on all beneath it — cars, trucks, him. All is compressed in an arch of sound, of flying debris, dust, ash.

Silence settles. Outside, beyond panoramic windows, the scene is pastoral, unaffected — sweeping lawns of bright green; wide blue skies and luminous white clouds. Inside, destruction. And though I am safe, my son is on the other side of this complex, separated from me by the collapsed parking deck. I need to get to him, to be sure of his safety. The only way to do so is treacherous — I must pass through a compressed, elastic tunnel. It is banded with silver support rings, will expand to permit my passage and extend as necessary to transport me geographically. The difficulty is that I must not breathe while within, or I will be crushed.

Inhale, fill the lungs, draw the breath deep into both lobes. I step up to the tunnel — a flat vertical disk suspended mid-air and filled with concentric circles. It gives at my touch like a membrane, envelopes and swallows me whole. The tunnel contracts around me, completely, painfully, then I am out the other side. Great, desperate gulps of air. Another tunnel. Inhale deeply. Enter.

On the other side night has fallen. The darkened, grassy expanse spreads out in all directions. I huddle within a canvas tent with a small group of others. We warm our hands over a bright fire. Shadows move erratically over the tent walls, shifting, hurrying. Beyond the tent’s thin canvas — noises…furtive, stealthy, hungry. I lift a corner of the tent, see the circling wolves, their heads low, eyes reflecting gathered light. Quickly, I drop the flap.

dreams writing

Time of Dragonflies — A Dream

He is unlike the others. Whereas they have been tall and thin as reeds, pale-skinned and dark-haired, cool bordering on frosty, and always, always observing with disapproving judgment, this one is gregarious, interested, and full of humor. His skin is warm with captured sunlight, and his brown hair and neat beard and mustache reflect, too, time spent out-of-doors. He is shorter than they have been (though taller than I); his shoulders are broad from use, though he is somewhat softer of flesh.

The evening slides with shadow. Arms crossed over his chest, he leans against a tree in these woods where I work within a small section of kitchen fitted seamlessly into the arboreal landscape — one wall, a pool of linoleum floor. China dishes flash bright as moonlight as I remove them from the breakfront, stack them carefully into cardboard boxes. And he leans and watches my progress, and he talks — he finished the cabinet at last, though it took much longer than expected. The inlays had been intricate, complex; the spindles and turned legs delicate. Packing the cabinet for shipment had taken additional time and care. He had feared his return here, to me, would not coincide with the time of dragonflies, is pleased to find otherwise. At this last observation, I pause to glance about me with surprise and delight — the dragonflies are everywhere. They dart and hover within the bowl of night, iridescent wings glancing brightly. I am haloed with their movements; they rest on my hair and shoulders.

Now, he makes simple statements — “I like this”, “I like that”. My flat response to each of his utterances affirms my agreement, though I keep unshelving the China, continue to pack and stack it, confine it to cardboard. Until he utters his last adoration — and I turn excitedly, my skirts swirling and licking about my ankles — “So do I!!!”

dreams Nature writing

Dream and Intention

Not long ago, I sat with my writing partners amidst the tools of our intent and mugs of hot tea. Before we could gather the words, phrases, and imagery we would weave into the fabrics of our personal choosing, I asked a question all too common for me: “First, can I tell you a dream I had last night?” And they, as is their habit, indulged me. I then described a lush, temperate rainforest setting, thick with ancient trees and deep, moss carpeting. The details were so sharp in my memory — the scents, the sounds, the textures… They silently digested my tale, and then suggested I start a blog specifically to share my dreams.

Now, truly, my writing partners are two unusual women. They express actual interest in hearing the details of my nocturnal flights of fancy. Any of you who have ever wanted to share some fantastic dream with another have doubtless experienced the more typical reaction: the eyes of your intended audience glaze over; suddenly any activity that would draw them legitimately away from their current environment becomes urgent — a trip to the recycling center, filling out tax forms, a project in the basement that has languished too long. I myself don’t understand how listening to someone’s dream can be considered equivalent to visiting the dentist, but this is about the enthusiasm most can muster on the subject.

Nonetheless, after sitting with the idea, here I am, navigating terrain that for me is entirely new. The ironic bit is, since that night in the rainforest, I have not awakened with a single dream in-tact. Each morning, I open my eyes and the tendrils of dream shift and part — stored neatly in a cupboard in my memory to which I have no key. One image I recently managed to retain: that of an over-filled waffle iron, sizzling batter seeping slowly down the iron’s sides to puddle on the counter. Chocolate batter. I don’t think this counts, but I have since had a persistent and unaddressed urge for chocolate waffles. Maybe, I’ll share the rainforest dream that set me on this new path… Another time…

dreams writing