I dreamed last night I lived in Detroit and I dreamed last night, in the same dream, but separately that I escaped from a frightening Arby’s into a haunted house ride.
De-troit. Dee-troit. De-nver.
Did we want dessert? At this dark, shadowy, film noir fast food restaurant, I wanted dessert, but it was so sweet…just frosted everything, like Cinnabon times a thousand and there was thunder and lightning clashing and crashing overhead so I gave up on that thought and found myself in this sort of open-concept haunted house ride.
It had various physical obstacles (ala Nickelodeon’s GUTS when I was a kid). One of which was some sort of tunnel covered in snow. This was entirely indoors as the lights flashed on and off in a way that mimicked the earlier lightning.
After crawling through the fake snow with fake, but still functional bits of broken barbed wire in it – caltrops, I guess, I arrived at a floating bar on the wall. It was hidden, except to me, behind a painting.
Somehow I rode this elevator bar up as though I were Mario and realized, with real dream astonishment, that there was a hidden room upstairs. I half-registered that this was where they must keep the props and half-believed it was exactly as it seemed, a haunted library. Immediately, I thought I needed to take something with me, that something here was mine. There was a thin book, with gold-gilded pages, some of which seemed missing. It had a long title and a latch like a diary. I had to hide the book in my shirt.
I woke up when I took the floating elevator back down stairs and all of the lights were on, they said it was two years later and I was confused, but knew I still had to hide the book. It was about 12:30 in the afternoon. I…don’t know anything more except I needed that time. That stillness, that struggle within relaxation.
I did get up, and we got over to my parents where…the stillness, oddly enough, somehow continued. My mother had made BBQ ribs. I ate myself full and then we worked on another puzzle, which seems to be a major form of comfort to all of us. For that flowing in and out, to work on the project together. It makes her happy and I sat there with an ice cream cone thinking to myself, but mostly not thinking because reality is the whole of the world on my shoulders.
Then, my father appeared with a check for $500.00. I told him I didn’t want it. Even after all of the Amanda Palmer and taking the doughnuts and accepting help when someone is able and wants to help you, oh, that felt like we were all agreeing that things have gone wrong somewhere somehow. And I was just hoping to keep on pretending otherwise, in perpetuity. He gave it to my sister to make me take it – it’s for both of us in that it will let me get things paid so I don’t have to lean on her. But, wow. The emotion that I feel attached to that. I don’t want to be in this position. I don’t want to be vulnerable like this.
But I am also…grateful. Grateful that marching towards the abyss means having to pass through so many barriers and so many people reaching out their arms to me. I mean, there are those in this world that don’t have the resources I have.
Trying to show that gratefulness by taking care of some stuff, getting myself more square, being active in the ways that I can that will improve the situation. If only allowing me to be more creative and less bogged down with stress in my physical surroundings.
I have an idea for a post now, but it’s late so. Yeah.
After all of this, I put on Sunrise: A Song of Two Humans. Nobody seemed to find it as exquisite as I did, but my mother did watch along, riffing, laughing. I didn’t mind because she was amused in one way or another. They all said “Oh, it’s just one of her movies.” In a gentle poke sort of way that, at one time, would have depressed me. “She just walks to the beat of her own drum.”
I think, in some ways, that’s true. A silent movie.
I wanted to touch the hard places, to get in there and understand why things are the way they are with me. Things like the driving and doctor anxiety, the things I’m so unwilling to talk about like sex and love and romance and intimacy but that are so constantly on my mind, body image and weight and perfectionism and what it will take to be in a place where I can just write, be it for a living or for myself, and not get hung up on these other issues and stop in my tracks.
This is a piece. I want to turn away. I want to ignore it. It’s been so many years of ignoring it. I have to forge forward. I have to go to the gangrene and the rot and pull things up. Go down to the foundations and build it anew.
It is okay to have this money. It’s not okay to pretend that things are going to improve via magical thinking or that I’m satisfied with where things are. I’m not. Not yet. It’s in writing. I need to know.
Even in the face of my sincere gratitude, I am willing to face this superego and say that I want more.