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Woman of My Dreams
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Woman of My Dreams apologies..... I am now without utilities, except water. Which means that all I have learned from trailing the homeless, I am now trying to refine. I could have edited, but power is what I have in my short memory battery... Maybe I edit it later. Maybe someone actually reads it... No promise, either way, that it matters.... but... it is about smiling. Woman Of My Dreams For three nights running, I have encountered complete fascination with a woman in my dream. And as is usual with Dream, I cannot remember her whole, but rather glimpses, and feelings. Is she the same woman, each dream? I could argue convincingly either way. Surely appearances are stunningly different, yet some sameness exists. These dreams have come, and I attempt to identify how, why, because as with most, I am addicted to dream. I opften turn a pillow over, as with a beloved record album, anxious to get back and play the second side. I have always desired sound while I sleep. In the past, it would be the television, but once the government subsidized HD TV, another of Donald Rumsfeld's campaigns upon the world ( another being asxpertame ), I let the TV go white noise. Now, I play lectures that I have downloaded on my laptop, or White House press briefings. When the electric is truendd on, they play over and over, and my dreams pick up pieces whenever my REM appraoches the near surface, and vision from one side to the other, takes on similar distortion, as if looking up toward the sky, from beneath the waves. The first night, I was listening to "What is Money" by Frederik Bastiat. And I found myself aware, that I was "back" with her, a woman gone from my life, in a place I "recognized". I "knew" that I was unexpectedly fortunate to be back, in the best place of my life. It seems to be an island, as I walked through continually changing scens, all a combination of walkways, stairs and beach. People dragging boats in and out of the water, and occassionally the lecture bled through into conversation from someone in the dream, allowing me opportunity to reply. And while I cannot see her, I knew her... immensely. The second night, there was a group of us going to The Landing, an area near my building here. It is raining, the river is up, we are going to take pictures. And there are two women, one dark haired, the other blonde, and I can feel them both, as one, for a bit. In fact, at some point, the dark haired one is in front of me wearing what seems to be<b> spandex </font></b>shorts, with the body to make them irresistable. I extend my hand to cup her ass, and she wiggles in it three times. I remember kissing her foot, and looking up as she stood, a tight t- shirt of her well built frame, "FEM" stretched fetchingly across her chest. But then I shift to the blonde who seems to have no face, yet I do not notice this. Rather, I just cannot see, yet do not seem to need to. Whatever passes in between, at some point later, the group is teasing that I was attracted to her, as if I shopuld notnhave been. I can only reply that I ws, and that she was gorgeous. Last night, I was listening to "The Law" again by Bastiat. And I found myself in a huge house, with endless rooms, and water was pouring through the ceiling. I climbed stairs looking for the leak, then leaks, as one became stopped, and then another began. A bedroom would have a pipe up through the floor, while a bathroom would have no pipes at all. All this in the middle of the night. At some point, I am on a couch, with "her". I am tired from being up all night, she is sympathetic, as well as empathetic. We smoke, we lay close. And then we go to a house, maybe her house... There are many people there, a guy that I think is her brother. It feels like an elaborate family house, complete with tenants with habits of idleness and excess. The brother is brokering some sort of deal with me, that changes, I can't remember what I denied, but agreed to an amount of hash for 20.00. Unbelievably, I think it was an ounce. ( Okay, I was watching documentaries about the drug trade in Afghanistan, and my rate of exchange might have been afffected ) There are details of keys, hers, hidden in a bowl above the kitchen cabinet, and a glimpse of her brushing her hair. Her hair was long and tapered, down past her hips, and curled... tighter than banana curls, yet looser than corn row braids. And each evenly curled band of strands was colored in stripes of brown and red. The effect was marble come to life, and I just see her, casually running the brush through it, form her shoulder, to her waist. As she got ready, I was back with the brother, and others. The house began to fill, and I notice a woman in a very formal dress, silks, pink and purple, tight to her body, but a huge puffy back. I remark to the brother, " Is it prom prep week?". More people of similar dress arrive, and the group I am in recedes. I walk through the main room, and about thirty young , eight, nine ten years old all dressed in their Sunday best start tap dancing and singing a song... to across the room a young girl, also dressed for a prom whose birthday it is.  |
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