beautiful, funny, sad & true

This morning, I had a short, funny dream that took place in the kitchen of a house.  The point of view is like a movie.  I’m watching myself take part in the action.

* * * * *

A woman (a friend of mine from PDX who also happens to read this blog) is standing at the sink washing vegetables.  She is listening to music on a little stereo on the counter.  I sneak up and stand silently behind her.  She starts to sway her hips to the music a little bit.  I surprise her by putting my hands on her hips and swaying with her a little bit.  She turns around and gives me a mischievous smirk.  I raise my hand to brush a bit of her hair from her face.  She reaches for the counter, grabs a leaf of Romaine lettuce, turns toward me and throws it in my face in a hilariously flirty way.  We both crack up laughing, and she turns back to her cooking.  I step to the fridge and grab the entire head of lettuce, rip off a bunch of of leaves, crumple them up and drop them on top of her head.  She laughs and turns back toward me.  We are about to kiss, but then I wake up.

Romaine et roman, non? Le sigh.

Wow.  I’ve been away for a while now.  I was on a nice little plateau there, with the flurry of childhood stories, and then when Stepdad died, I got thrown into the whirlwind of feelings and thoughts, as well as a low-level ‘malaise’ (my friend’s term) that made me feel listless and unmotivated to do anything.  It took me almost a month to remember to pay my rent, for example, even though I had the money and everything.  I cleaned house for the first time in weeks yesterday; what a difference that made.

IrishBand had an amazing EP release show last Friday, which also helped with my mood, although the show left me completely physically exhausted for the next couple of days after that.  It was the good kind of exhaustion, though, the kind where you feel like you’ve got something to show for your hard work.

I was still feeling weird on Halloween, and I almost gave it a miss.  One of my friends invited me to the Erotic Ball that takes place every year, but I declined.  “It’s not my thing,” I told her.  “Ever, or just right now?” she asked.  “Ever,” I said, and smiled a little so I didn’t sound harsh.  “It’s just. . .not my thing.”  A couple of my friends who were checking up on me said that I should really go out that night, instead of just sitting home and ruminating.  So I did.  I didn’t dress up, but I did go to a party.  I arrived when the party was in full swing, so it took a little while to adjust to the craziness.  The hostess was glad I came, but she told me that I really should have a costume – since everyone else did – and that she could probably scrounge something up for me.  She said, “How about a hat?”  Sounds great.  She went into her room and came out with a cool fedora.  “How about a really big camera?”  How about it?  She reached into her closet and pulled down a serious thirty-five-millimeter camera with a huge lens on it, and put it around my neck.  “Awesome,” I said.  “instant photojournalist.”  At a certain point, we trundled through the pouring rain to a nearby bar to continue the celebration.  The place was completely dead until the twenty-five of us rushed in.  We soaked the clean floor, and a few people spilled drinks, and some even broke glasses.  It was pandemonium.  There were two Snookies in our group, one of whom was a guy.

He wore the requisite wig and gold sparkle dress, and even made a point of telling us that he wasn’t wearing any underwear.  It turned out later that he didn’t need to tell us that, because we found out for ourselves when the dress slipped off at the bar.  A couple of us looked over at one point to see a bare ass hanging out of the top of the dress.  Niiiiiice.  Right after that, someone narrowly made it outside the front door to throw up, so we figured the party had hit critical mass.  We took a few group photos and called it good.  And yes, I’m glad I was there.

The moral of all this is that I’m starting to feel my equilibrium returning, and you can expect to see BFS&T return to its usual self very soon as well.

This morning’s dream was unusually verbose and intense.  I slept fitfully after staying up until three a.m. to listen to all of my friend’s radio show, and my dream reflected my restlessness.

* * * * *

I’m in my childhood home in Yakima to visit Mom.  I’ve decided to stay at her house temporarily since Stepdad’s death, so I’ve brought a bunch of my furniture with me and set it up in a pleasing and particular way in my old bedroom.   It’s late at night, and I’m straightening up a few things before going to bed.  Finally satisfied, I pull back the covers, crawl in, and turn off the light.

When I wake up – in the dream – everything seems strange.  The bed is facing the opposite direction, and the furniture has all been rearranged in a way that Mom had suggested I try.  I sit up in bed, and there is stuff piled on top of every available flat surface.   Stepmom appears at the door, which is particularly odd, and asks, “Did you get anything for your birthday?”  Something in her voice tells me that I should be looking around the room for new items.

“I don’t think so,” I reply, “but let me take a look.  I just now woke up.”  She leaves the room,  and I sit up in bed to look for things that weren’t there before.  A telephone rings – a land-line phone, which I haven’t had in ages – and I pick it up, realizing that it’s one of the gifts.  I put the phone receiver to my ear and hear a constant stream of gibberish and advertising.  I listen for about five seconds, then place the receiver back on the base, with a considerable amount of difficulty.  Thanks, Stepmom, I think to myself.  Thanks for the gift I didn’t want. Hoping that the other gifts aren’t just more of her cast-offs, I look down at the carpet, and notice that it’s patchwork, instead of the purple that’s on the floor in my room.  I’ve awoken in my brother’s room.  Just then, Brother walks in and sits down on my bed.

“What’s going on?”  I ask him.  “I went to bed in my room, and woke up in here, and my stuff is all rearranged.”

“You need to get up now,” he tells me.  “Everybody’s expecting you.”

“All I want to do is sleep,” I say.  “I got about two hours last night.”

“Well, sorry, but. . .let’s go.”

I grumble and get out of bed, but I only make it about two feet before I have to sit down on the floor and lean my back against the wall.  Brother is not pleased by this, but he sits down next to me.  A kid about seventeen years old walks into the room and sits down on the other side of me.  I have no idea who he is, and instead of introducing himself, he says to me, “Your brother says you can do accents.”

“Yes, I can.”

“Well, do one.”

“Why?”

“Cause I want to hear it.”

I lapse into an Australian accent.  “What if I don’t feel like doin’ it?  That’s gotta count for somethin’.”

He laughs a little bit.  “That’s really good.”

I go back to my normal speaking voice.  “Thank you.”

He scoots in front of me and reclines against my legs, which makes me really uncomfortable.  “Dude.  What’re you doing?  Get off.”

“Use your accent,” he says, and stays put.

I lapse back into the Australian accent and say exasperatedly, “I didn’t ask for that, and I’m not playin’ along.”  I stand up from behind him, and he falls backwards a bit before regaining his balance.  I turn to my brother and ask, in my normal voice, “Who the hell’s he?  I don’t need this crap.  I’m going back to bed.”  I stand up, walk to the bed, and climb in, rolling away from Brother and the kid so that my back is facing them.  I pull the covers over my head, and I hear footsteps next to the bed.  An old man with huge Coke-bottle glasses leans down by my face and peers at me.  He blinks twice and speaks in a shrill voice.

“Where’s your driver’s license?”

“Who are you?”

“Your driver’s license?” he says, more firmly.

“Who the hell ARE you?”

Brother walks over and motions for the man to leave me alone. I am starting to lose my cool, and Brother knows it.  The old man leaves, and two middle-aged women appear in his place.

“What’s this about?” I ask them.

“We think there’s something wrong with you, and we want you to be okay,” one of them says, gesturing toward the other.  “She’s going to call the doctor now.”  The second woman picks up the land-line phone.

“I’m sleep deprived, that’s all,” I say irritably.  “I don’t NEED a doctor, I need sleep.  I’m not responsible for anything I’m likely to say to him.”

The doctor walks in and stands beside the two women.

“How the hell did you get here so fast?!”  I yell.  “She only just now picked up the phone, and she didn’t even SAY anything!  This is ridiculous.  I have to use the restroom.  Excuse me.”

The doctor looks at me and says to the women in a low but clearly audible voice, “He’s in a ‘baric’ state.  We’d better let him rest up.”

I walk to the bathroom and stand in front of the mirror to inspect myself.  The walls are painted dark green, and the large sink has been replaced with a tiny yellow one.  There are flowers everywhere, and a small candle is burning on the counter.  I turn the faucet handle and the water comes on full blast, sending water all over the counter.  I turn it off quickly, and try again for a normal water flow.  I rub my eyes and scratch my head.  I look and feel disheveled.  I stay in the bathroom for a few moments, flush the toilet so they think that’s what I was doing, then I open the door and walk out to the living room.  I lie down on the floor and curl up on my side.  Brother walks in and crouches down next to me.

“You can’t keep acting like this,” he says.  “You’re pissing people off.”

“Oh, is that right?” I say, very sarcastically.  I raise my voice so that everyone in the place can hear me.  “SORRY, EVERYONE.  SORRY I’M PISSING YOU OFF.”  I lower my voice to an acidic snarl.  “I’m sure that’ll do the trick.”

Brother raises his left hand to massage his furrowed brow.  “Don’t do this.  You haven’t even seen Niece yet or anything.  She wants to see you.”

“I want to see her too, but first I just need some sleep.  I’m not doing anybody any favors by seeing them when I’m in this state of mind.  Is the doctor gone yet?”

“Yeah, I think so,” he says.

“Thank God.”  I stand up and walk toward the back of the house to find Niece.  There are lots of strange people in the house, like servants and gardeners and cooks.  We’ve never had servants, or gardeners, or cooks.  None of this makes any sense.  Mom’s friend walks by and give me a hug.  “What’s happening?”  I ask her.  “I seem to have gone through the looking-glass, and everything is super weird now.”  We turn and walk toward the back door, and she keeps her arm around me for longer than I want it there, so I maneuver my way out of her grasp.

“It’s better with me here, though, isn’t it?” she asks.

“It certainly is,” I say, choosing my words carefully.  “We wouldn’t be able to do any of this without you.”

I walk out the back door and see Niece and Mom trying to get the attention of Mom’s five cats.  Niece wants to pick one of them up, and Mom tells her, “Here, try shy Saghra.”  I arrive next to them just as Niece cradles Saghra in her arms.

“Wow, she’s huge, like a tiger cub,” I say.  I reach out to pet Saghra, and she slowly raises a single claw, which hooks deeply into the skin of my left index finger.  “Damn it!” I mutter a couple of worse expletives under my breath, since Niece is standing there too.  “Stupid cat.”  I unhook her claw from my finger and run into the house to get a bandage for the bleeding flap of skin.  Brother is inside, and I push my way past him.

“What happened?” he asks.

“Something’s wrong with everything today.  I can’t even pet a cat!”

I storm off into the bathroom and bandage my finger carefully, though I know the blood is going to fill it up before too long.

* * * * *

I’m not really sure what to write about the last week.  I started about ten different sentences, and all of them seemed inadequate.  This may be a long entry.

The week was a flurry of activity, and much of it was either painful or surreal.  Mom’s friend was with her overnight to hold her hand and get her through the worst of the tremors and fits of sadness that woke her in the middle of the night.   The phone would start ringing early in the morning, and it wouldn’t stop until late in the evening.  The three of us (Brother, Mom’s friend and I) screened all the calls and relayed the messages, but after a couple of days we let the answering machine do what it was designed to do.  Everyone was very sweet and wanted to offer their condolences, but it was too much for Mom to deal with, so we handled them as tersely and courteously as we could.  We made sure that one of us was with Mom at all times, because she had occasional meltdowns, and whoever was around would go and wrap their arms around her while she sobbed.

We each had a thousand different feelings about this whole situation, and we spent lots of time discussing them.  We talked about the good things Stepdad did for us, the predicament he left Mom in, the personal quirks he had, and the mountain of tasks that lay ahead.  Brother started going through her finances, and luckily she was well taken care of in that respect.

In his note, Stepdad said that he wanted to be cremated, and that he didn’t want a graveside or memorial service.  “Cheap everything” was what he specified.  I’m glad that Mom decided to have both services, though, because it’s been hard enough to make sense of it all, even after seeing him at the funeral home.  In fact, when we arrived for the viewing, the woman asked if we were with the family, and we said we were.  I stepped up to go in first, and the woman motioned for me to walk down the hall.  I was expecting a chapel or something, with a little room on the side, so when I walked in to the tiny viewing room, I found myself right in front of the coffin and was very much caught off guard.  Stepdad looked like himself, and they did an excellent job of restoring him, especially given the nature of his death.  When Mom was able to go in, she made a point of touching his hair on the ‘natural’ side of his head that had been unaffected by the gun shot.

There were lots of family gatherings, as you would imagine.  They went surprisingly well, despite the fact that some of us had not seen each other for many years.  Times like those were when I felt the most estranged and uncomfortable, because some of the people there were ones I’ve made a conscious effort to keep a safe distance from.  I have a pretty low threshold for intense socializing anyway, but I had to ignore my impulses to flee and had to just tough it out.

Stepdad’s daughters scanned a ton of pictures and made a great slide show for the memorial service, which was very touching and honest.  They also had some pictures enlarged and placed on the table in the entry of the church, along with some things of his to remember him by, like his fishing equipment and tool bags that he took everywhere. That was a really nice touch.

The pastor of the church was friends with Stepdad, and he knew him well enough that the service felt genuine and unforced.  The church belongs to a very conservative denomination, and until very recently, they believed that when someone commits suicide, they are instantaneously banished to hell.  Thankfully for Stepdad, that belief has been tempered by modern knowledge of depression and mental illness, but I’m sure that some of the older folks in the congregation will be struggling to reconcile that.  The pastor said that this was his first time dealing with a suicide, and he was very candid about the fact that he did some research and found that the banished-to-hell idea came from Constantine instead of “from God”, so he felt very sure that Stepdad was where he wanted to be.  He spoke a great deal about depression being an illness that Stepdad struggled with, and that it wasn’t the work of evil forces or anything.  The previous pastor spoke a bit as well, and there was a lot of talk about Satan and evil, in a way that left a bad taste in many of our mouths.  That stuff is fine for a church service, but not for a memorial.  Incidentally, I still remember the last time I went to that church (we sort of went along with my mom for a while), and the theme of his sermon that day – “We Think Too Much” – was diametrically opposed to my spiritual ideologies, which were (and still are) tenuous even in the best of times.  The nicest part of the service, I thought, happened when they had an ‘open mic’ time for family and friends to share their memories.  There was just the right blend of laughter and tears, and it was very beautiful.  Brother read one of the Psalms earlier in the service, and I played cello during the slide show.

The rest of the week was spent taking care of Mom and of her house.  We all pitched in to do some of the things that needed to be done, and Brother’s Wife spent a bunch of time cleaning the house thoroughly.  We’d spent so much energy planning the service, and making the programs, and all the zillions of things that you have to deal with during the worst possible time, that by Friday, we were feeling a bit claustrophobic and needed some time apart, so Brother and I asked if we could have the evening free to meet up with a friend or two.  She readily agreed, and we gladly took the opportunity for a night out.  Brother and I went back to our respective homes on Sunday.  My drive home was pretty scary, since northwestern Oregon got hit by a particularly heavy storm that night.  It was so hard to see the road that I stopped in Cascade Locks to eat a veggie burger and calm my rattled nerves.

Since then, we’ve all been struggling to make sense of everything.  It still doesn’t seem real.   Both Brother and I have been feeling a distinct lack of motivation.  I had a few things that were planned already, and I’m doing them all, but I’m doing them on auto-pilot, and I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience a lot of the time.   This is Halloween weekend, too, so there are a thousand parties and things happening, but my first inclination is to give them all a miss.  This would ordinarily be a week of celebration, since my birthday was a week and a half ago, and the previous few birthdays have all been stretched out into two-week extended parties, but I’m just not up to that right now.

There are more things, good and bad, that I may add to this later, but I wanted to write a little bit and start the process of focusing my thoughts again.  This kind of thing never makes sense, though, and many questions will always remain unanswered.

“Coming home from very lonely places, all of us go a little mad: whether from great personal success, or just an all-night drive, we are the sole survivors of a world no one else has ever seen.”

–John Le Carre