During the past several days since S's brother passed away, I really haven't had much time to dream. Sleep was relegated to quick naps on the couch, or the hesitations between a cuddle. Last night was the first real sleep I had achieved, and the nature of it is very telling of my emotional state.
S and I are at a family gathering at his grandparents' home. Italians ooze out of the walls practically, talking animatedly in a unique Italian-English-American Sign Language hybrid that I can assume only exists in towns like Gloucester, where families are huge and forever together.
Kids were playing outside, and I see a small animal struggling with something. It appeared ferret-like and I gingerly approached to help. The poor creature was being maimed by a swarm of bees, and in my haste to rescue the fuzzy one, I stepped on the nest and released another hoard upon us. I wrapped the tiny ferret up in my shirt and ran towards the front yard, to get into S's car. The ferret seeed shaken up and stung but generally okay, so I cradled her in a few shirts lying around, and headed inside to tell S. By the time I found him, I could feel my lips and eyes and throat swelling up, and my arms and legs get stiff, and my heart racing. "I'm going into anaphylactic shock!!" I keep yelling, but no one is paying any attention. I keep asking for an Epi-Pen, but S's family is too involved in conversation to hear me. Eventually, I struggle my way back out to S's car and get inside and curl up with the little ferret, and assume I am going to die. S comes into the car and stabs me hard with an Epi-Pen, and I swear I can feel the hystamines breaking down in my blood and my heart slowing back down. The swelling retreats, and S looks at me and says, "Not everything is about you, you know."
I struggle with my selfish nature, but now moreso than ever. I see such opposite nature in S in that way, and I know I am not good enough for him. I need to be good enough for him, I need to know how.. How to be a Frontiero.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Paradiso (Redux)
This was an entry from a livejournal written on October 25th 2006, right before I started working at Highland. My current username (I had many) was Ghost1929, from a beloved Neutral Milk Hotel Song. I had already coined the nickname Megzuki and was still using Myspace. Funny I should rediscover this now, just shy of 5 years later, and I am currently rereading Geek Love, which I cannot but think of while reading this.
Life is funny-touching at times.
Also eerie...
last night i had a dream in which i was staying in a 4-star hotel. the reason as to why i was there revolved around myself being shipped off to college, but lacking an appropriate place to abide until the semester began. my parents had left the country for reasons unknown and so had placed me in the finest establishment they could locate, where all my companions had miraculously been placed, as well. because, you see, in my dream there existed one measly college that everyone was required to attend.
the hotel functioned not only a a living quarters, but for recreational purposes, as well. it included a theater, gymnasium, and an underground shopping center that we could use to our own advantages and function in to fit our own time-frames.
one day i was wandering around trying to locate the theater, and i stumbled upon a room unfamiliar to my memory. the door was slightly ajar and was partially shielding the voices that seemed to be leaking form beneath it. curiosity overtook me, and with no hesitation i gave the door a shove, coming face-to-face with a sight more shocking than i had prepared myself for.
behind the door lay a modernized side-show...but the first word that entered my mind was HELL, for beyond the barrier existed a micro-pod of people that lacked the appropriate limbs to normally function as human beings. their wanton eyes stared questionably at my average form, as they and myself waited for the first move to be made. i could feel their minds straining to locate some anatomical error in my makeup, searching for my missing segment before accepting me into their self-declared sanctuary. as i stood there speechless, jaw dropped open, i suddenly felt i wave a acceptance wash over me, and i found myself to be moving forward--violently driven by some force outside of myself.
before i knew it, my arms were wrapped around these hobbling creatures...these misplaced mutants lacking lower-bodies. grasping onto something so honest and pure, that i drifted into an out of body state, with these innocent souls just inches away from my heart. and suddenly their expressions shifted from something defensive and fearful to inexplicably astonished as i continuously brought each one of them into my arms and onto my chest, lifting off me a weight that i had become so used to carrying. every chip on my shoulder, every rust-eroded memory, every scar that haunted my weary mind...disintegrated.
and the rooms inhabitants wept, because an incident as rare and as lovely as this was doomed to never occur twice over alongside humanity. for if it did, the universe would collapse inside itself, and the world would be dangerously too close to Paradise.
It's at a fancy restaurant, kay?
Even my subconscious finds ways to see humor and irony in things. It creates these situations for itself, but in a way, there is a beauty inside the science of dreaming.
S pulls me into the car, blindfolded. It is cold out and I require a blanket, curled up inthe front seat, waiting for the engine to warm up. It seems early. Dark still. Perhaps not even morning.
I often have dreams where I am only expeeriencing them via sound, touch, and taste. Many of my dreams are blind and visionless, and I have dreamed in this way for my entire life. Nothing seems lacking, and it isn't necessarily a fearful feeling. It is just a different perception. And if dreams are only one thing, they are a combustion of perception.
But this dream opens up suddenly, no longer a blind experience. A vast field is to my right, outside my window. It's chilly, late fall, few leaves left on the trees. A few boys fumble with traditional falconing equiptment: a tangle of leather jessies and a flurry of tiercels, peregrines, and goshawks. The austringers wave as we pass. I turn to S and exclaim how we must be passing near King Richard's Faire, but S shakes his head and says that we're nowhere near there. Disappointed, I watch the falconers communicate with their birds. They disappear into the horizon, and the ride seems to go on forever.
Eventually we pull into a parkinglot with a traditional amusement park gate, and my heart flutters once again. We really ARE at King Richard's Faire!
We get out and I bubble all the way to the front gate. S tells me that we have to go back, though, because I have to work in an hour. So we get back into the car and drive all the way home. I arrive at work upset, and enter a store in a state of complete disarray: animals scurrying about, products and items scattered as if an earthquake ravaged the area. My boss calls and tells me that the floor is built on some kind of wetlands, and suddenly I'm standing on Jell-O. Wobbling across the store, I decide to close early. I send everyone home and close down the registers, and get back home by noon. S looks at me confused, and I tell him, "we should have stayed at the faire after all" with an exaggerated tone, as if I truly saw the situation as ironic. S reacts as if he's hurt by this.
Outside, a hawk screeches and swoops.
-runt
S pulls me into the car, blindfolded. It is cold out and I require a blanket, curled up inthe front seat, waiting for the engine to warm up. It seems early. Dark still. Perhaps not even morning.
I often have dreams where I am only expeeriencing them via sound, touch, and taste. Many of my dreams are blind and visionless, and I have dreamed in this way for my entire life. Nothing seems lacking, and it isn't necessarily a fearful feeling. It is just a different perception. And if dreams are only one thing, they are a combustion of perception.
But this dream opens up suddenly, no longer a blind experience. A vast field is to my right, outside my window. It's chilly, late fall, few leaves left on the trees. A few boys fumble with traditional falconing equiptment: a tangle of leather jessies and a flurry of tiercels, peregrines, and goshawks. The austringers wave as we pass. I turn to S and exclaim how we must be passing near King Richard's Faire, but S shakes his head and says that we're nowhere near there. Disappointed, I watch the falconers communicate with their birds. They disappear into the horizon, and the ride seems to go on forever.
Eventually we pull into a parkinglot with a traditional amusement park gate, and my heart flutters once again. We really ARE at King Richard's Faire!
We get out and I bubble all the way to the front gate. S tells me that we have to go back, though, because I have to work in an hour. So we get back into the car and drive all the way home. I arrive at work upset, and enter a store in a state of complete disarray: animals scurrying about, products and items scattered as if an earthquake ravaged the area. My boss calls and tells me that the floor is built on some kind of wetlands, and suddenly I'm standing on Jell-O. Wobbling across the store, I decide to close early. I send everyone home and close down the registers, and get back home by noon. S looks at me confused, and I tell him, "we should have stayed at the faire after all" with an exaggerated tone, as if I truly saw the situation as ironic. S reacts as if he's hurt by this.
Outside, a hawk screeches and swoops.
-runt
Her paws.
Ever notice how nap dreams seem to differ in style than dreams of the night? At times, they seem less serious; playful. A glimpse of a worlds' corner outside my reach.
It's funny how less than a minute can so quickly become an eternity. She had walked away to use the bathroom, patting my head before departing. I grunt, exhaling loud, forceful sighs in childs' play. During this lapse of abandonment I burrow into the blanket-nest we had sculpted moments before. The whites and yellows and purples and greens are still warm from her touch, they still breath her air. I nestle into their colors, digging deeper still. I feel her glowing over me, but I cannot emerge.
Her hand on my shoulder tries to uncover me. The heat of her breath tickles my skin as I claw at the sheets. I move my mouth to speak but my voice is buried in silence. I am frozen. My spirit drifts outside my physical form, I float inches above her, resting my chin on her shoulder. She pauses; does she sense me? I want her to feel me. I want the waves within me to collide with her ocean.
Still speechless, I waft through the kitchen as a ghost would down a stream. I find the closet and am somehow drawn inside of it. My flesh-self still rests limp on the bed, her claws flitting about me; eyes burning into me. I need them to follow the path my soul has taken, to find me bubbling and huddled on the floor of this lonely closet. I reach for the handle of the door and have to catch myself from colliding with the ground--I have passed through it. My shaky hand and the rickety door handle are unable to become one. I thrash about. I turn myself upside down; inside out. I lion-roar.
Then I am left weak and exhausted and moon-beamed and still sobbing. I paw at my phantom body and speak her name between love-labored breaths. Spit dangles from my quivering lip as I morph into a ball of insecurities on the stale floor. I am vacant.
My eyes burst open as a sudden calm crawls over my skin. Her face is inches away from my own, resting beautifully underneath the palm of my hand. One of her arms is coiled up beside the frame of her body; like a spring-loaded snake inside a peanut-can. I trace the outline of the other with my eyes until I realize that it is my warmth-source. Hibernating between my legs, she has awakened me.
She drinks every last drop of my senses flowing over.
<3 runt
It's funny how less than a minute can so quickly become an eternity. She had walked away to use the bathroom, patting my head before departing. I grunt, exhaling loud, forceful sighs in childs' play. During this lapse of abandonment I burrow into the blanket-nest we had sculpted moments before. The whites and yellows and purples and greens are still warm from her touch, they still breath her air. I nestle into their colors, digging deeper still. I feel her glowing over me, but I cannot emerge.
Her hand on my shoulder tries to uncover me. The heat of her breath tickles my skin as I claw at the sheets. I move my mouth to speak but my voice is buried in silence. I am frozen. My spirit drifts outside my physical form, I float inches above her, resting my chin on her shoulder. She pauses; does she sense me? I want her to feel me. I want the waves within me to collide with her ocean.
Still speechless, I waft through the kitchen as a ghost would down a stream. I find the closet and am somehow drawn inside of it. My flesh-self still rests limp on the bed, her claws flitting about me; eyes burning into me. I need them to follow the path my soul has taken, to find me bubbling and huddled on the floor of this lonely closet. I reach for the handle of the door and have to catch myself from colliding with the ground--I have passed through it. My shaky hand and the rickety door handle are unable to become one. I thrash about. I turn myself upside down; inside out. I lion-roar.
Then I am left weak and exhausted and moon-beamed and still sobbing. I paw at my phantom body and speak her name between love-labored breaths. Spit dangles from my quivering lip as I morph into a ball of insecurities on the stale floor. I am vacant.
My eyes burst open as a sudden calm crawls over my skin. Her face is inches away from my own, resting beautifully underneath the palm of my hand. One of her arms is coiled up beside the frame of her body; like a spring-loaded snake inside a peanut-can. I trace the outline of the other with my eyes until I realize that it is my warmth-source. Hibernating between my legs, she has awakened me.
She drinks every last drop of my senses flowing over.
<3 runt
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Wherever I go, I take you with me.
I heard a story about love once. It was more of an anecdote, really, a statement filled with rhetoric. You throw me against walls every night of my life, sometime more warlike than usual, but sometimes there is a trace of some sort of devotion; something more than simple repetative violence. Sometimes, I think the you in my brain still loves me.
The setting is usually blase. A car, sometimes a dry barren field. Tonight, we are in a boat about to be shipwrecked at the stern of her justifications. I see her, a mermaid carved into the ship's woodwork so that she, too, is instrumental in this. She, too, is in the body of the schooner, holding it together, holding us afloat.
I scream something about how this isn't the right time for this to happen, as if I have some sort of control over when you interject into my dreams. You laugh dryly, unamused really, and say that timing is everything. It is, it really is.
So I walk around the starboard side of the ship, looking for a vector for escape back to something else. A porthole that might really be a wormhole.
Eventually you get tired, or bored, and come to find me. You have an anchor tattooed to your arm. I don't think it's fitting on you, but feel impolite staring, so I tell you I like it. You know I'm lying, and that's where you snap.
As you reach for my paralyzed body, something else switches on in you. A glimmer in the corner of your mouth, and as your hands grip my arms and you shake me, banging my head against the ship's bow, I see a sadness growing. It hesitates in that space, but it is there. The mermaid of my heart begins to sing a soft lilting lullaby, and tears well up in your eyes. You drop me, look away. This is what haunts me when I wake, the possibility that you've hurt yourself more than you've damaged me.
As the ship disappears from around me, you fade away too, and I suddenly am inside of a tent, and it is warm and glowing outside, and I wonder if the fires have begun. S is with me, he is asleep inside a warm sleeping bag, and seems unbothered by the fires. I snuggle in closer to him and whisper, "fire can't destroy this. We are more than the sum of our carbons."
As the dream fades, I know this to be true. We are more than the sum of our carbons.
--runt
The setting is usually blase. A car, sometimes a dry barren field. Tonight, we are in a boat about to be shipwrecked at the stern of her justifications. I see her, a mermaid carved into the ship's woodwork so that she, too, is instrumental in this. She, too, is in the body of the schooner, holding it together, holding us afloat.
I scream something about how this isn't the right time for this to happen, as if I have some sort of control over when you interject into my dreams. You laugh dryly, unamused really, and say that timing is everything. It is, it really is.
So I walk around the starboard side of the ship, looking for a vector for escape back to something else. A porthole that might really be a wormhole.
Eventually you get tired, or bored, and come to find me. You have an anchor tattooed to your arm. I don't think it's fitting on you, but feel impolite staring, so I tell you I like it. You know I'm lying, and that's where you snap.
As you reach for my paralyzed body, something else switches on in you. A glimmer in the corner of your mouth, and as your hands grip my arms and you shake me, banging my head against the ship's bow, I see a sadness growing. It hesitates in that space, but it is there. The mermaid of my heart begins to sing a soft lilting lullaby, and tears well up in your eyes. You drop me, look away. This is what haunts me when I wake, the possibility that you've hurt yourself more than you've damaged me.
As the ship disappears from around me, you fade away too, and I suddenly am inside of a tent, and it is warm and glowing outside, and I wonder if the fires have begun. S is with me, he is asleep inside a warm sleeping bag, and seems unbothered by the fires. I snuggle in closer to him and whisper, "fire can't destroy this. We are more than the sum of our carbons."
As the dream fades, I know this to be true. We are more than the sum of our carbons.
--runt
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