dogs like panthers, cats like ghosts

My dream last night was that I was in college and just finished my Junior year, and all my family was treating it like a graduation (but a bigger deal than my actual graduation). my godfather was there, my dad's other best friend, grandmother, nuclear family, some other people, joe, missy...It was Pittsburgh and it was cold. My dad surprised me with some of his old scuba gear, some snorkelling equipment that's actually really nice. I went off with Joe and Missy, Joe got my car to start because in real life it's dead, and Pittsburgh turned into sort of a carnival. We got pretty drunk and I had parked my car in this alleyway. So I go to get in my car, I'm by myself, and this huge panther-looking things starts coming at me. I turn to face it and start backing up a bit more quickly, and it starts galloping towards me. But it's smiling. And a giant dog. A huge black god with a giant head. and it curls up to me and then when I am at my car, it hides behind my legs so my butt it basically on the dog. Then it lays down under the car when I am opening the doors, because the alley is real small and there's not enough room for dogs and open doors, and then I say, "OK dog, are you trying to adopt me? Do you want to get in the car?" and it goes into the back seat and curles up on the floor. I try to drive away but my car is dead again. Then there is a security car behind me and I get nervous, and then the dog senses this and I have a feeling that if I get in trouble with the security guy, this new dog is going to eat him. So I say, "it's ok, puppy." Then I wake up.

last night's dream

took place largely at the house in which i grew up, in hull, ma. only it belonged to my current boss, rachel. there was some sort of party going on, jon showed up, and i had to get something in rachel's room (which was my old room as a kid)-- either my paycheck or a present for jon, i don't remember. anyway before he showed up, rachel had told her brother (not her brother in real life, her dreamland brother, who is younger than her real brother and sorta punk) and his friend they could go into her room to get something too, and they never came down and she was like, "that's weird i wonder what they're doing." so jon and i go upstairs to get what i need to get, and her brother and his friend are jerking off and as soon as i come in they scramble to put their things away, wink wink, and i don't even flinch because so what, big deal. but they were incredibly embarrassed and made sort of a big deal out of it.

and that, for some strange reason, if all i remember about it.

book agency pt. 2

Book Agency part 2
(1st rough draft)

Your man’s name was John Kelly. A good, solid name that tells ya nothing at all about him, and so tells you ever’thing. He didn’t grab my arms when we left, didn’t put his hand on my back to guide me neither. Just got up his heavy chair and hovered over his desk, moving his eyes between me and the door, willing me to move first. So I did. I stepped back and waited for him to pass me. He hadn’t made me scared, yeah, but r’member this is the man that killed my father, and anyway he had bodyguards to protect his peace of mind, an’ all I had was my wary self.

“Good man,” he said. He gave me a hard nod and smiled the way the school misses do when I do the right thing but not the correct thing, and they aren’t supposed to smile but can’t help it. Mr. Kelly moved around me like a soundwave, he kept his eye on me until he passed. I could be rabid wi’ mourning. But I wasn’t, not yet anyway. I had a job, to keep face and keep Mum’s name clear as it still could be. I kept my head held high as I followed him out, not looking at the goons sizing me up as I went through their barricade. The sun burned with an acidity I’d only feel once more in my life, years later, but Mr. Kelly seemed acutely aware of it but bluntly unphased. We walked like two blind men now. Only I’d just lost my sight, and he’d never bothered to have it.

“Can I tell y’something ‘bout your father, Eouin?” We were in the car now, a new smelling ’71 Pontiac. Rare in this neighborhood, a new car like that. It was a treat. I felt like I’d won something, before sinking back into the shadows of the car, realizing the greatness of my loss.

No, I shook my head. Then after a pause I understood to be his waiting for my honest answer, rather than his agreeing to not tell me what I ought to know, I leaned a bit out of the shade and said, “No,” loud as I could. He barely heard it, but did catch it. I know ‘cause he looked at me shamefully, concerned, until I turned away and looked out the window. Then he told me anyway.

“He was a good man. Not the best, but good. Don’t go ‘round thinking your Da was a scoundrel. He was a crook, but come a certain age a man’s got’ta be a crook to keep alive and feed a family. Y’understand?”

“Yessir.”

“Your Da, well, he got his hands a bit too wet for the winter. Over-estimated his own perseverance. Watch for that in y’self. Don’t ever be an eager man. At your age it’s ok to be eager sometimes. But watch it doesn’t become who you are, watch that you don’t turn youthful interest into aging urgency.”

I blinked at him and it was the only response I could think of, so I did it again. He blinked back, and this time it was he who turned ‘way first. But I followed his stare because I could not help it, and the car turned in the same d’rection, and we pulled into the tailor’s. Mr. Magoo, I’d always called him, ‘cause of his big bottleneck glasses. Ever’one knew him, he was one of two tailors in the area. One who did God’s work, as Mum would say, lookin’ a’ the dresses an’ suits in Mr. Magoo’s window, an’ one for the Prods, a town over.

Mr. Magoo’s real name was Padraic Finneran, and his shop was called, plainly, Tailoring Shoppe. He was small and serious, like me, only about 70 years older. He was made up of bodily accessories: big feet, long nose, wide flapping ears. But had the smallest, daintiest hands that looked like that could take a man dancing and woo him to fatherhood ── so long as the poor sap never opened his eyes, ‘course. I never talked to him really, though he didn’t say too much even to people who knew him well. Rumor was he was so smart it came out his ears in white tufts, but all I could see was old man ear hair.

“Hello John,” he said without looking up as we entered the shop, the little bell by the door jingling happily.

“Paddy! Good to see you as ever. I brought a friend, hoping you can help him out today. Eouin, meet a dear ol’ friend of mine, Mr. Finneran.”

“Tom’s boy?” he asked, not wanting an answer. He looked at me somewhat blankly, but with kindness, then shot Mr. Kelly a look to say, “What the hell you doin’ with this kid, an’ right now? Poor taste, Johnny.” But he paused for a second to bite his tongue, and said, to me, “’T’sa pleasure to meet ya, boy. A friend of Mr. Kelly’s is a friend of mine. What can I do ya for t’day?”

How could I tell this man who knew my father was dead, knew why prob’ly, def’nitely more than I did anyway, I needed a suit for Da’s wake? I turned inside myself for a second, searching for the right words, and found none. My mouth went dry and I could feel my face reddening, all them freckles gathering in arms.

“A suit, Paddy. The boy needs a suit. For tomorrow. He’s got none. You can put it on my bill.”

“Aye, son. We’ll make a man’a you yet. Let’s first take some measurements, and work from there.”

A few hours past, I was sitting in th’ Lamplighter with Mr. Kelly and his watchdogs, drinkin’ tonics and waiting for the proper adjustments to be finished on my new clothes. Already I was wearing a new set of drapes, real smart like, with cuffs that came right to my wrists just right, and then down past my ankles just so like they was a shell grown right from my own skin, to fit just perfect. It was just lying around waiting for me like a miracle. Still used, but clean, and sharp. Mr. Kelly was happy and impressed, and we ate burgers together forgetting all propriety, remembering only hunger, thinking only of possibilities.

“You clean up real good, kid. Real good.”

“Yeah, don’t I? Thanks ‘gain.”

“Consider it a trade. One future for another.” This bit harder than he meant it to. I winced and his eyes said sorry.

“Listen I got to get back to Mum. She worries. An’ her sisters have all been at the house since the news, and it just makes it harder with everyone around. Everyone with an opinion on Da, or tears shed that jus’ cause ‘er breakin’ a frenzy. She’s having a real hard time of it.”

“A’right. We’ll finish up here, pick up the suits, an’ I’ll drop you off. Maybe pick some flowers up for your mother first, yeah?”

As we were putting on our coats, one of the watchdogs, Winty, whispered in Mr. Kelly’s ear. They both nodded and looked near the front of the pub.

“They’re going to meet us around back, Eouin. There’s a street sweeping goin’ on.”

I followed because I had no choice. Walking through the kitchen, I heard a few muffled thuds coming through the walls and I stiffened. A few boys from school were working in the back washing dishes and they gave me uncertain looks. I shrugged. I was scared. Reality came in waves like a bad smell. I could forget who I was for moments at a time, keep parts of the day from molding together and fermenting under my nose. But here I was, looking boys my age in the teeth, walking with a murderer, hearing noises of God knows what. And my Da was dead. Dead. I trembled and began to weep, but fought hard to keep it in.

“Lets go, Eouin. It’s ok.” In the moment, I hated him. But still I followed. I needed him still and always. This stranger who could now be God or the Devil or my father. But never my Da. I stood with him in the alley and waited for the new-smelling car to pull up. I smoked a fag and gagged on the swells in my throat. I couldn’t say a thing, couldn’t focus my eyes.

But out of the corner, just out of sight, Mr. Kelly shivered, hard.

dreams of pasts and autumn

The theory is, we dream before and after deep sleep, when we are definately sleeping but not quite sleeping well. We dream, in the course of an 8.5 average recommended night of sleep, about 7 dreams. This is of course a guess and an estimate, based on neurological studies I'm sure, though I've never conducted one myself.



Anyway, I have not had a full night of sleep in weeks. I sleep for an hour or two at a time, wake up, fall back to sleep eventually, pattern repeated, until I just give in to the day. This morning I gave in to the day at 5:30 in the morning, having initially fallen asleep around 1:30 or so, and waking up for about a half hour at about 2:20 and again about 3:45. I worked for 9 hours, came home and tried to write, but needed a nap because I went through 4 plots and could not develop any of them.



In this nap (I typically nap exactly 1 hour at a time, with no alarm waking me), I dreamt spookiness regarding my sister.



We lived together, or one of us was visiting the other, likely I was visiting her. She lived in a rustic house, set away from town a ways in the woods, which is her style. We were the ages we are now, maybe a little younger, or at least I was. And it took place out of time. Timeless, yet giving the feeling that maybe it was a generation or two before us. And it was October, late, around Halloween.



She disappeared. There were reports going around about different mysticisms to watch for, different threats in the physical realm and in the spiritual as well. I got visions that struck at me violently. I saw her in waves. I felt her in strangles. I knew things and I didn't know them. I saw images and had to put truths to them that made sense.



Halloween day. Maybe I get a phonecall from my mother. I run outside. go to the back of the house. There is a path. I found a pile of dirt and knew she was under it. But it was strangely high. There was a ghost. And a man. And a wolf.



That's all I remember.

book agency

Book Agency

As soon as they pushed me into the room, I knew my Da was gone. I couldn’t see much besides the man in front of me, dissected by the light shining through the blinds like he’d been thrown into a meat slicer o’er at Jimmy Flynn’s. He was eyes to me, a crooked nose smashed into his face, red and swollen like ever’one else's his age. A smart grin and a cigar. Smoke rising and quivering in front'a him like a new girl in a brothel. Someone shoved a biscuit and a cuppa tea in my hands and I took it. I hadn’t eaten in two days ’n whatever poison they’d put in it couldn’t make me feel worse. I sipped, turning back and forth in the swivel chair but not taking my eyes off the bloke.

"Y’know what your man’s done to me, Eouin?"

"No sir. Da’s a private man."

“In his private life, I s'pose he was.” He knew I was lying 'bout knowing the story, but I knew it didn’t matter. I wasn’t there to give information, I was there to be informed. There was no more billy to rap on our door, tell Ma the news with all my li’l sisters cowering under her apron. No, we got instead the murd'rin' sonsa bitches settin' you down for a business conference, explaining the situation man to man. Maybe it was better this way anyway. Maybe this guy was a police chief in Italy, maybe even Little Italy. But this was County Waterford. The gov'ment had forgotten we even existed, or ’least tried hard to keep from being reminded. We needed him at least as much as we needed to hate him, maybe more. "Eouin." He paused. His bearish body leaned into the desk and I could feel it move slightly under the weight, pressing into my shins, stopping my swirling. "Eouin. Listen, Eouin."

I wanted him to stop saying my name. I wanted him to not know who I was but it was too late. His eyebrows arched and he brought his cigar down, held it between the fingers that cupped his fist. He took a deep breath and studied me studying him. I'm a good watcher, I got it from my mother. I could stare my teachers into giving me good grades in school, I memorized the color of every girls’ eyes in my neighborhood and dropped it in conversation with them and they’d fall in love.

"Do you know what grace is, Eouin?" I nodded. "A man’s got to have grace. Part of being a real man is learning a bit from our mothers. See what I’m saying?"

I nodded again. I felt completely empty. The biscuit I wanted to eat was only getting stale in my hand. I tried to nibble it like a rat.

"You’re father, he had no grace. No humility. Some of my associates even accused him of being a Proddy, but I know your mother would never marry like that so I paid no attention. Point is, he never learned from his mistakes or anyone else’s. Shoulda read more books. Do you read, Eouin?"

"No sir. No' really."

He reached behind him. There was a bookcase there I hadn't noticed before, like it just appeared as he'd wished it to. Full of titles I couldn’t pronounce, books I would never have to read in school. He dropped a copy of Siddartha in front of me.

"Here, read this. It will change your life. You’re due for a change, aren’t ya?"

I didn’t know what he meant so I nodded and flipped through the book.

"You’re a good kid," he said finally. "Right, you’re a good kid?"

"Yessir."

"You’re gonna need a suit for tomorrow, y’got one?"

"No sir."

"Let’s take a ride." He nodded to one of the potato sacks behind me and the door opened, soaking the room in stale daylight.

torpidity is the devil's playground

I don't remember the dreams I had last night. I do, however, remember the dream I had this morning, after seeing how early it was and putting myself back to bed.

It was a short dream. Minimalist. I was lying in a grey room, with no furniture, trying to sleep but still aware, ust incredibly torpid. There was an overwhelming, oppressive feeling of loneliness in the room. That was the dream. Existing in a stale, lonely room and trying unsuccessfully to sleep through it.


Damn.

Dreams

I've been having a lot of strange dreams lately. The kind where I wake up and feel the need to tell someone. Where I lay in bed for a while after waking up and don't immediately check my email the way I sadly usually do (my laptop sleeps on the floor next to me, and stays on, so all it takes is a click of the "refresh" button), but instead just stare inwardly for myself, wondering what is wrong with me, or what is going on in my life to have these dreams. Not all of them are fucked up, but they all do leave me with that "Hmmmm...." feeling.

The other night I dreamt I went to my parents house in Massachusetts to pick something up, and there was this dirty old envelope on top of my bookcase from Nana Kate (my father's mother). I was all, "What the hell, I'll open it up." It was for me anyway, and I have a horrible history of never opening my mail, even when it's good things inside. so I open it up, and inside there's a smaller envelope. Inside THAT is cash. tons of it. Peering into the envelope it appeared to be all 5s and 1s without flipping through, but Rob was with me and he insisted I was "set for life" so for the remainder of the dream I was convinced this was true, that the envelope was full of hudreds of thousands of dollars.
There was a letter in the larger outer envelope, explaining that the money was from my grandfather. The odd thing about my family is that we are so close that my dad's mom and my mom's dad were best friends, and in the letter she admitted to being in love with him. Which is ok, my mom's parents were seperated and my dad's dad died when my dad was only 16. So it's not scandalous except for the fact that she could have been getting her socks rocked off all those years instead of remaining celibate and somewhat grouchy for 50 years in the name of loyalty. But it's a dream anyway, and in real life they were friends
So I have all this money. And am wondering what I should do. And was feeling like a huge dick for a second because the letter must have been from Spring 1997, when Papar died. I never opened the letter when Nana Kate was alive, so I could never talk to her about why I was getting the money through her and not in the form of a Will inheritance or Trust Fund or anything. Where did this money even come from? But that feeling didn't last too long because it was a dream and I had other things to do.
I meet with a poetry guru who gives me a lesson on zen and existencialism. I did not write the lesson down upon waking, but I remember he wrote me a zen poem about the beauty I see in things are aspects most people see as ugly, or else don't even notice them. Which has to do largely, of course, with perception and openmindedness. Of course, the first thing I do is seek out a zen poet master! Of course! I wish I had written down the lesson, I will undoubtedly need it in the future, when February continues on like a lecture.
Back in Pittsburgh, I wonder what to do with my newfound wealth. I bump into my friend Steve who somehow already knows I got all this money. He instinctively directs me to his best friend, with whom I've recently been romancing.
"We're all set," I tell him, "we can do anything! We can move to Cuba, write manifestos, rekindle La Resistance." My head is already in bloom with poetry and ideas. He asks me what my grandfather did, how he had all this money. I describe my grandfather, who in real life was a great guy but continuously lost everything through drinking and betting: the house he owned, the bar he owned, his position in society in Charlestown. He ended up moving into the projects with the whole family, and then they moved to Hull when it was just my aunt Suzie left of the five children he'd fathered. My nana Ollie kicked him out of the house once and for all, and he moved back to the projects and lived there basically the rest of his life until moving to Florida on some pension or something. I don't understand those old people deals they get, something helped him out so he could move to warmer climates Also, this is all hearsay from what my mom has told me, and what I have retained from those stories. In the dream these were all truths, but in real life I understand the fallacy of memory, and that history, generations, and romantic notions only further the inacuracies
Regardless, my bubble was pretty burst. The envelope seemed to fade out of my grasp as I accepted the "truths" of it's improbablility, the rediculous notion of having this cash with no strings attached to it at all. I woke up fishing around my bed for a moment for the envelope, trying in vane to reclaim that monetary freedom.

*******************

That was three nights ago. Two nights ago as another odd dream, of which I no longer have any recollection. Last night's dream was even more bizarre, however, and more disturbing.

I don't remember as many details as the other dream, except that I believe this dream also took place partly at my parents home in Massachusetts. This is especially odd for me, because I hold virtually no sentimental value to that particular home and have never quite felt "at home" there, for all my years living there. When I needed safely, I would find solace at my friends' homes, the forts, walking around Cambridge, etc. I don't know why, really. Maybe because when we moved there, my folks told me we were just spending the night to check it out, to see how we liked it. And then we never got to go back "home" and I never really felt very moved in.

Anyway, in this dream I was the nanny for Hitler's grandchildren. If I remember correctly, I was an older lady in the dream, and had previously helped out his children, though I don't remember if I was their nanny also or if I was a confidant.
I was not a nazi in this dream, nor was I a nazi sympathizer. Just an older woman who was a philanthropist and saw no distinction between the descendants of those who'd made errors in judgement and those whose ancestors were the victims of such errors. In real life, I feel the same way on some level. However there is also a necessity of awareness of place, and it's crucial for those of us who come from a privelaged lineage to understand that their life choices and world views are going to come at a different angle from someone who has a less prosperous family history, and that many things in life are cyclical and also systemic. Personal accountability for one's actions and reactions is imperative, but we are humans and therefore have the ability to see and interpret the "bigger picture" which I feel is important to not disregard. But anyway..
Hitler's grandchildren, a boy and a girl if I remember correctly, were at risk of being charged with some accountability, or something of that nature, and were being hunted down by a mob-like governmental force. I was their adamant protector. I annexed them in a safe hiding place in my room, which turned to be my room in Pittsburgh, where I do feel comfortable and at home, which probably has more to do with the age at which I moved to Pittsburgh and the circumstances under which I came, here, namely circumstances I chose. Not ironically, my room here in Pittsburgh is an attic.

*******************

Rob, my roommate, has an acute awareness of his own spiritual presence, and therefore is very atune with Feng Shui. I have been reading on Feng Shui for years, and for the life of me can never get it right, can never remember a damn thing about a damn thing in regards to the energetic blueprint of my living quarters. Rob told me I should not have a bed that aims itself in the direction of the bedroom door. In Ancient China, bodies of the dead were bondaged and delivered head-first into tombs and incineration chambers. I did, actually, set up my "bed" with my head facing the exit-wall (though the door is on the other side of the room) until the aforementioned co-romancer came for a visit and instinctively moved my pillow to the other side of the designated sleeping quarter.
My feet are still facing the door.
Rob claimed that he had once set a bed up in this manner in a different apartment and had horrible dreams until he moved it, and later read about Feng Shui's connection to bed-placement. I have significantly less negative dreams than I did when I lived in Boston, when I lived tucked into a wall behind a stair bannister, again in the attic. I was then positioned perpendicular to the door, behind it, and over it. But I was head-first with the window, being the most direct exit. As it stands now, I am perpendicular with one window, head-first with another, and feet-first with the door.

I just think I maybe shouldn't eat before I go to sleep.