Tuesday February 03, 2004: visitations
You're having dreams about your exes.
You're having dreams about your exes, and for once, none of them have either knives or the power to kill millions with a single thought. This will be comforting. This is good; stay with it.
You will dream about the second boy you ever officially dated, and you will dream that he is talking to the boy you fell in love with right before you started dating him. You will dream that they are laughing together, reminiscing. You will study your ex's pretty blonde hair and his long bones and you will recognize that you sort of imprinted on him somehow, but the thought will be emotionally meaningless to you and you will simply stay, watching, listening.
They will be talking about how stoned the Gumby's delivery pixies always were, and how cute their pretty stoned eyes always made their faces. They will be talking about babies and how they smell so nice when you pick them up.
Your name will never come up. Leave them.
The first girl you ever dated is talking to God. This will startle you because the last time you saw her, she was still a pagan. She's sitting on a picnic bench and she's talking to God in a conversational voice that suggests that she does a lot of it. God is talking back, invisible but definitely present, and she dimples adorably at Him.
It figures. Even God is prey to her all-consuming cuteness.
But, you know, she seems happy, sitting there talking to God. Happier than she ever was when you knew her, back when her name was something different. She's gotten married to a man who makes useful things for a living and she's in love with him and always will be. And he doesn't mind that she treats God as if he were an amusing guy who occasionally stops by for dinner.
She sees you, and waves. Wave back. Move on.
You'll dream about the girlfriend who almost was. She's feeding her dogs. She still has shocking red hair and she looks exactly like she did seven years ago, all pale skin and pouting lips, like a redheaded Gina Gershon. Feast on her beauty for a while. She can't see you, so it's all right to brush her cheeks with your fingertips and look into her eyes, which are a crystal blue.
The dogs are large, and have floppy ears. She's got what looks like letters she's writing longhand spread out on the kitchen table, but they seem to be in Spanish or perhaps Russian; you can't read them.
Brush her hair one more time with the palm of your hand. Walk out her back door and into the living room of the first boy you ever kissed like you meant it. He's changed, you barely recognize him. He went into the Navy, you know, you have a picture of him with his white sailor hat on. He's still tall, still thin, but he's stooped, he looks older.
Try to remember how much older than you he was. Couldn't have been more than three years.
His arms have strong, ropy muscles in them, and he's got a kind of purposefully vague look on his face, as if he's about to get up out of his chair and do something, the moment he remembers what it was he's supposed to be doing. The paper is spread out on his lap, again in Spanish or Russian.
You want to apologize to him. He didn't know you had no idea what you were doing, he thought you did it all the time. He was confused by you and your metaphors. He didn't quite get irony, and you were all about the ironic. But now you're looking at him and you barely recognize the person you would be apologizing to, and you doubt he remembers you.
Walk out of the room. Close the door behind you.
You will dream of the fallen angel, whose thorny world you lived in for a long time. You won't stay long. He's doing something to the inside of a computer and he looks angry. Behind him, the ghost of a cat sits, waiting.
You will stay long enough to look at him and satisfy yourself that he is neither more nor less than he was the last time you saw him. And then you will move on.
You will dream briefly of your third boyfriend, curled up with his beautiful wife; you see him sometimes in your real life, so you'll simply touch briefly on him and then you will slip under his door and out into the sunshine.
You'll slide into the kitchen of the one who taught you to melt when he growled at your neck. He's talking to Early 80's Sting, who occasionally cameos in your dreams. Early 80's Sting is hitting on him, talking about tantric sex or something like that.
There is spaghetti sauce on the stove and you're looking at his familiar cheekbones, which you almost could have fallen in love with and didn't. Sit crosslegged on the kitchen table and listen to him skilfully fend off Early 80's Sting, who nobody ever seems to want to sleep with. It's the best entertainment you've had all night.
When your time here is up and he starts to set the table, slide off and pat his shoulder with your transparent hand. He'll absentmindedly touch your hand, which he can't see but he can feel, and you'll smile and leave the kitchen.
You will dream of one after another of your exes. Some are happy right now, some are not. None of them are thinking of you, and you will take great comfort in this.
Then you will wake, lying in a bed that's not yours but that's familiar anyway. You'll take a moment to understand that you're no longer dreaming. You'll stretch yourself out and take a deep breath, and you'll feel someone turn over and pull you close.
He'll ask, "Did you sleep well?"
And you'll say, "Beautifully."
You're having dreams about your exes, and for once, none of them have either knives or the power to kill millions with a single thought. This will be comforting. This is good; stay with it.
You will dream about the second boy you ever officially dated, and you will dream that he is talking to the boy you fell in love with right before you started dating him. You will dream that they are laughing together, reminiscing. You will study your ex's pretty blonde hair and his long bones and you will recognize that you sort of imprinted on him somehow, but the thought will be emotionally meaningless to you and you will simply stay, watching, listening.
They will be talking about how stoned the Gumby's delivery pixies always were, and how cute their pretty stoned eyes always made their faces. They will be talking about babies and how they smell so nice when you pick them up.
Your name will never come up. Leave them.
The first girl you ever dated is talking to God. This will startle you because the last time you saw her, she was still a pagan. She's sitting on a picnic bench and she's talking to God in a conversational voice that suggests that she does a lot of it. God is talking back, invisible but definitely present, and she dimples adorably at Him.
It figures. Even God is prey to her all-consuming cuteness.
But, you know, she seems happy, sitting there talking to God. Happier than she ever was when you knew her, back when her name was something different. She's gotten married to a man who makes useful things for a living and she's in love with him and always will be. And he doesn't mind that she treats God as if he were an amusing guy who occasionally stops by for dinner.
She sees you, and waves. Wave back. Move on.
You'll dream about the girlfriend who almost was. She's feeding her dogs. She still has shocking red hair and she looks exactly like she did seven years ago, all pale skin and pouting lips, like a redheaded Gina Gershon. Feast on her beauty for a while. She can't see you, so it's all right to brush her cheeks with your fingertips and look into her eyes, which are a crystal blue.
The dogs are large, and have floppy ears. She's got what looks like letters she's writing longhand spread out on the kitchen table, but they seem to be in Spanish or perhaps Russian; you can't read them.
Brush her hair one more time with the palm of your hand. Walk out her back door and into the living room of the first boy you ever kissed like you meant it. He's changed, you barely recognize him. He went into the Navy, you know, you have a picture of him with his white sailor hat on. He's still tall, still thin, but he's stooped, he looks older.
Try to remember how much older than you he was. Couldn't have been more than three years.
His arms have strong, ropy muscles in them, and he's got a kind of purposefully vague look on his face, as if he's about to get up out of his chair and do something, the moment he remembers what it was he's supposed to be doing. The paper is spread out on his lap, again in Spanish or Russian.
You want to apologize to him. He didn't know you had no idea what you were doing, he thought you did it all the time. He was confused by you and your metaphors. He didn't quite get irony, and you were all about the ironic. But now you're looking at him and you barely recognize the person you would be apologizing to, and you doubt he remembers you.
Walk out of the room. Close the door behind you.
You will dream of the fallen angel, whose thorny world you lived in for a long time. You won't stay long. He's doing something to the inside of a computer and he looks angry. Behind him, the ghost of a cat sits, waiting.
You will stay long enough to look at him and satisfy yourself that he is neither more nor less than he was the last time you saw him. And then you will move on.
You will dream briefly of your third boyfriend, curled up with his beautiful wife; you see him sometimes in your real life, so you'll simply touch briefly on him and then you will slip under his door and out into the sunshine.
You'll slide into the kitchen of the one who taught you to melt when he growled at your neck. He's talking to Early 80's Sting, who occasionally cameos in your dreams. Early 80's Sting is hitting on him, talking about tantric sex or something like that.
There is spaghetti sauce on the stove and you're looking at his familiar cheekbones, which you almost could have fallen in love with and didn't. Sit crosslegged on the kitchen table and listen to him skilfully fend off Early 80's Sting, who nobody ever seems to want to sleep with. It's the best entertainment you've had all night.
When your time here is up and he starts to set the table, slide off and pat his shoulder with your transparent hand. He'll absentmindedly touch your hand, which he can't see but he can feel, and you'll smile and leave the kitchen.
You will dream of one after another of your exes. Some are happy right now, some are not. None of them are thinking of you, and you will take great comfort in this.
Then you will wake, lying in a bed that's not yours but that's familiar anyway. You'll take a moment to understand that you're no longer dreaming. You'll stretch yourself out and take a deep breath, and you'll feel someone turn over and pull you close.
He'll ask, "Did you sleep well?"
And you'll say, "Beautifully."
