Paper Dreams

Just before I went to bed last night, I added water to a clean kitty litter bucket that was loosely filled with shredded paper and stirred it with my hands. It felt kind of nasty. I wondered if I could deal with the textures in this, my first attempt at making paper.

Today, I am stirring with a wooden spoon, a.k.a. magic wand, to stir in words of affirmation spoken in my dreams.

I did not expect to dream of making paper sprinkled with dried petals and such, even though that is what I plan to do. I did not expect to dream of conversations while making paper with those long come and gone, both living and dead. Tis a bit sad when the man who claimed to never dream wanders into mine as there is no reciprocation. Yes, I want mutual haunting.

I woke myself up by speaking a word of affirmation out loud, then drifted back into the same dreams. I don’t remember what it was, but I’m sure to recognize it if I see or hear it. That word, whatever it was, must have some kind of significance.

We talked about making affirmation cards on homemade papers in the second or third dream.

It’s unusual to have a dream that continues all night long, despite several awakenings. And even more unusual to wake up feeling so peaceful and refreshed, as if it was the best sleep I’ve had in a long time. I savored the sensation and drifted out again.

The last dream was a bit odd. He who cannot dream visited mine, but instead of him being an elusive figure off in a crowd, we sat and talked for awhile, comfy as old friends. He gave me a stack of worn jeans to weave into rag rugs. I asked if he was still alive. The dream ended with me walking alone into a town hall meeting carrying just my own folded jeans, feeling vulnerable and exposed with bare legs and beige underwear, looking for an empty seat.

Now, if I could just remember that word… whatever it was, may his mother’s wooden spoon stir it in.

Thanks for reading!

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Odd Dream

Remember children, if you steal where you land, you’ll never get far.

Such an odd thing to say… last spoken line in a movie-like dream.

It was an odd dream, like watching child versions of myself and an old friend from afar. We were playing in the shallow end of a pool on a warm day, with sunlight dancing off the water. The speaker was woman dressed in a 1950’s bathing suit. We were young and she was minding us. Then the dream flipped to the end scene in the movie, shot in the same location at a later time. All three of us appear to be sleeping, still in our bathing suits, still in the water. We are sitting together, leaning on each other, with our heads tilted different ways. For a moment, I’m confused because it is snowing. Are we sleeping? Are we dead? Are we under the water? No, there is snow on our heads and shoulders, snow dusting the thin layer of ice on the water. We look transparent in the blur of swirling snow, as if faded shells of ourselves. Then Rodney’s shell breaks and there is nothing there. He’s gone.

I woke up wondering who she was, definitely not my mother and too thin to be his… but, I don’t know what she looked like then as we did not know each other as children. Then I wondered if he died. He always vanishes, one way or another, just before I wake up from a haunting dream. Why he still sneaks into my dreams now and then is beyond me… we haven’t spoke one word in over five years. When was the last time I saw him? 2005? Why use the land instead rhyming far with are? “If you steal where you are, you’ll never get far” would be easier for children to remember.

The whole thing is odd… bit bizarre, as we’re not thieves.

I don’t steal because my experience of being wrongfully accused of stealing as a young child got drilled deep into my soul. I got whooped, had to apologize and everything, so humiliated over a stupid little Santa soap. Aunt Donna had a whole dish full of personal use size novelty soaps. She told me that I could keep the one I had used. I asked if I could take it home and she said YES, but she sure as hell didn’t have my back when mother marched me over there to return it. Maybe that’s why I have a hard time asking anyone for anything… to this day, I’d rather not.

On another note…

The women’s art show scheduled for this summer will be a “virtual” event, details to come… not sure if they intend to hang it or just post images sent with entries online somewhere. I hope not, mainly because photos for my entries were snapped with an old cell phone camera and they’re not the best… here’s a comparison.

Opportunity, snapped with old cell phone camera.

Opportunity, quick snap with new phone’s camera.

Maybe just my opinion, but the colors look dulled in the submitted photo. Maybe it is just my eyes… cropped images look flat. They lack the depth of background, shadows on walls and such, so I’m hoping they hang the art and do a virtual tour with a video camera.

Odds are, Opportunity won’t be accepted anyway. I just want to get my fave piece in… that’s My Aura. If you want to see it, it’s on Mice4Mars.com (my relatively new art blog). It’s a WordPress blog, recently upgraded to a paid plan to go “ad-free” as I really do NOT want ads for flabby arm ointment or political bull stuck in between art photos. Someday, this blog will be ad-free, too. I’m waiting a bit to stagger the annual renewals so the payments won’t hit the bank at the same time.

Thanks for reading… peace be with you, wherever you land.

Cinnamon Heart

I must have watched (or listened to, as the TV was on while doing other things) way too many sappy Christmas stories over the weekend as I just woke up from a sappy Christmas dream with a twist common to a lot of those stories: past loves showing up around the holidays to throw a monkey wrench into the current situation.  Every man I have ever truly loved was here, with the exception of one, but a large padded envelope addressed to him in his own handwriting was in my mailbox.  It was stuck between two packages for Rodney and an art supply catalog addressed to one of my computer passwords instead of my name. I saw the package addressed to Ed, but just handed the whole stack of mail off to Rodney and he walked away.  Then I spent the rest of the dream looking for it, wondering what happened to it, and thinking it was something I had mailed coming back to sender as undeliverable.  But how could that be, when his name was written in his own handwriting?  I was asking if anyone knew where it was, but no one else had seen it.  Some man was there trying to sell us a little Santa bag of food, pulling out two plump turkeys already cooked, a honey glazed ham, a beautifully frosted Yule log cake… reaching into the little bag and pulling out something else much to Xman’s delight while I kept saying no, that was way too much food for one woman who lives alone. I thought it was a distraction to keep me from finding that package.  I searched all over, then finally sat down with the art supply catalog, was flipping through the pages when I woke up.

The funny thing is that I knew in the dream that every man I have ever loved was there in the dream, even though if you counted them, there was only two.  Three including the name on the missing package.  Maybe he wasn’t there because I don’t have a face to go with that name anymore, at least not a grown man’s face as the last time I saw him was in 1976. I suppose the funny thing is who wasn’t there… the passing fancy, infatuations, and the two men I had almost married even though I knew that I loved them but not enough or not in the right way.

Maybe it is true, that when you really truly love someone, just love with a purity of heart, that never completely goes away.  It is not something you can turn on and off like a faucet.  Sure, it dwindles down to almost nothing to the point you could deny it’s there, like my love for Ed became a tiny little seed planted deep into a quiet part of my heart where it never got nourished and the soil around it became barren, not able to sustain life anymore.  Sometimes, love changes if the conditions are not right to let a flower bloom.  I still love Xman (my ex-husband), but it is not the same as it used to be. It morphed into being “old friends with history” after plenty of cultivating to be able to get along with each other enough to be friends who don’t hang out together.  We are grandma and grandpa to our daughter’s children and will be for the rest of our lives.

As for Rodney, Lord knows I’d marry him in a New York minute, but I also know that he will never ask so that is pretty much a mute point.  I just love him, always have, in that feels ancient older that dirt kind of way.  The man has issues.  And the fact remains that 2014 will mark a decade passing since he abruptly up and moved in a “I’m not leaving you, I’m leaving Ohio” kind of way.  Truth be told, it took years before we could kick back and relax, enjoy each other’s company when he did live in Ohio because we were both fighting a mutual attraction that neither one of us was ready for, so strong it scared me. Months would pass without seeing each other, then cross paths and zing, zing, zamm… a tilt of his head and I would melt like a pat of butter on a hot griddle.  Even after we got comfy with each other, the man could still curl my toes with a single kiss.  Now we are “long distance friends” and yes, I still love him.  But I am not pining away hoping for things that will never be.  He’s like the chorus of a Montgomery Gentry song, “Gone like a freight-train, gone like yesterday, Gone like a soldier in the civil war, bang bang, Gone like a ’59 Cadillac, Like all the good things that ain’t never coming back…”

Yes, he’s gone.  He ain’t never coming back.  Ohio has too many bitter memories for him and the sweet memories are tainted by loss.  He gave up, walked away, not that the fight wasn’t worth fighting for, he just did what he thought was best for someone else, a child who didn’t need caught in the middle.  He thought his leaving would make his teenage son’s life easier, hoped that he was old enough to understand, to know that his dad would always love him.  Now the kid is a grown man who has absolutely nothing to do with his father.  Sometimes, I’d like to grab both of them and lock them into a room until they work it out, find a resolution just like in one of those sappy Christmas movies.

One of the factors playing into my decision to move downtown was I caught myself waiting.  I told Rodney that I found a part of myself hoping he would ask me to move there.  He was surprised.  The thought never crossed his mind.  Oh well.  What is, is what it is… we are long distance friends, old friends with history and as precious as that is, that is all it is. And odds are, that is all it will ever be.  I cannot fold geography so we can’t even hang out, enjoy each other’s company.  Maybe this is the way it is supposed to be.  A little birdie says that if he really wanted to be with me, then he would be here with me even though he don’t mind suffering needlessly or he’d be here in Ohio trying to make amends and set things right with his son.  Of course, other factors play in heavily, such as the lack of funds.  I want Hallmark endings and those pretend people on TV rarely have any money issues.

One of my decisions about moving downtown was to allow myself to be open to new possibilities.  I still love every man I ever loved, but I am not dead yet.  I can love again.  I don’t have a cinnamon heart laid out to dry up as hard as a rock like the “air freshener” ornaments that I made this weekend.

Homemade Apple Cinnamon “Air Fresheners” laid out to dry.

NOTES:

I thought about changing names to protect the innocent or not so innocent, but oh well… if anyone is mad at me for writing my thoughts out in a blog post, they will get over it… or not.

A part of me says I should not write about my friend’s longing to reconnect with his son, but what if… what if these two men are both suffering needlessly?   Ten long years… each thinking the other doesn’t want him in their lives?

I want a Christmas Miracle… on the off chance the son reads this blog post, please contact your father.   Do it the old fashioned way… mail a card or pick up the phone.   (He’s not online right now.)  If you feel like smacking him, get in his face, tell him off, punch him if you have to… then talk it out.   He’s not the same man your mother knew… life changes people.  The Rodney I know is kind, thoughtful, considerate, helpful, and encouraging.  He’s a bit shy yet animated (talks with his whole body, just not his hands).  He’s been clean and sober since before I met him with maybe a few slips in the early years (showed up drunk once in 1998).  He likes cookies.  He has a sharp mind and a keen sense of humor.  He’s into art and music and texts while watching TV.  He decorates inside and out for Halloween and Christmas.  He lives alone with four cats.  And he has a hole in his heart the size of you.