Cancer 22°
Okay so just woke up at 4am—I’ve gotten six blagues behind—so we’re just approaching the New Moon, which just transited Venus, opposed Saturn, as the Sun is about to transit Mars—so things are feeling intense beneath the surface. Anyway I awoke from a dream and/or Stella woke me up because I was talking in my sleep which I know I was, as I’m quite aware:
I was exactly in the same part of Provincetown as I was in the last dream I awoke to the morning before actually, a dream I spoke about time and again to Stella all day yesterday. I kept saying I know I keep talking about this dream but I feel it is significant, and we were unpacking it still into the evening. But this second dream from which I awoke at 4am, today (it’s 4:19 now) only related to the previous night’s dream in geographic location. The first dream was a dream, this last one was a nightmare:
My parents were alive and my family (I have one estranged sister, the “evil quint” in S+C stage vernacular of yore) were all trying to go on a day trip, I think, just out to some forested beach or something, and there were different themed routes to take. We decided to “book” the Flintstone theme. Don’t ask. But it was one of those classic dreams where you have a goal of trying to get where you want to go but wherein you keep discovering obstacles, a bad object exercise like I used to do in Uta Hagen’s acting class.
To be specific, the dream had the quality of trying to keep kittens in a bag. Everybody was sort of running late getting ready in their hotel rooms. Friends of my family were also staying in the hotel, in other rooms of course, but loosely moving too and fro among all the rooms as if they all belonged to us. I for one had some pointed problems with keys, which were my exact keys to my old Mercedes (anxiety over a need to start that car daily to make sure the battery isn’t being drained by some rogue connection, in reality that is). Anyway, there was something about finding a legal parking spot, but then I left my keys in the car, and I had to go back, but by that point my father was missing, and I felt he was using my running back for two seconds to grab my keys from the car for which I just finally found a spot, as an excuse.
I went back into the hotel where he supposedly was and went into his hotel room, where he said he needed the bathroom, but someone else was in the bathroom, or just coming out, an off-spring of that friends-of-the-family, David Vermeuel. But somehow my father got into the bathroom and I heard him talking on the phone, and I knew what that meant. In the dream it was my mother’s birthday. I was starting to speak up, to yell at my father through the wall, making it clear I knew what he was doing.
Somehow he was now in the room with me still on the phone, one of those heavy phones, not rotary, with buttons, but not the Streamline or whatever that slicker seventies phone was where the buttons were on the receiver. This phone had that classic bone-shaped receiver, with the buttons on the standing base of the phone, that heavy receiver that felt (I know from actual experience—I wrote about it once in a Christmas show—and I will find that piece I wrote and maybe print it in the next blague) like, and also recalled the shape, of a lightweight hand-held dumbell with which some type-A character might, with one in each hand, actually run, jog or powerwalk.
I pulled the reciver from my father’s hand—oh, I had already heard a woman’s voice coming through the phone receiver, as you kind of could in the seventies and eighties, and I started commenting loudly then pointedly shouting derogatory soundbites in my father’s direction, so that when he entered the room from the bathroom, now he was almost flaunting the fact that he didn’t actually run back to use the bathroom but to call this woman. I grabbed the receiver and said something like: it’s my mother’s birthday and then I launched into calling this woman what I felt she was but I was attempting to do so in Spanish because I realized that was, at least, the language she spoke. So I started saying puta, puta.
But you know how it is when you’re dreaming and you’re angry and you’re trying to get the words out: it’s a struggle. And this is symptomatic of the fact that, even though you’re dreaming, you actually trying to say the words for real i.e. talking in your sleep. You’re yelling, or trying to yell, in your dream, but to the person actually sleeping next to you, it comes out as deep gutteral moans. Meanwhile, back in your dream, it’s so hard to get the words out. They die on your lips. And the struggle to utter is lodged somewhere, or everywhere between your gut and your throat.
Now three particular things are going on here all at once. I believe my father did (often) have someone (probably not the same woman) on the side. In later life I might have caught him on the phone—although he would have preferred I thought he had a mistress, which is sick enough, instead of what he was really doing: performing his role as a bookee, which is something he apparently was in his later life, or so says the one and only semi sane cousin I have with whom I would, perhaps, once a year by email (although I really can’t even do that anymore because it’s always depressing and somehow stirs the pot of my family connections which are actually non-existent); also my mother had Alzheimers from which she died and my father it seemed to be used that as an out to get away with bad behavior of some sort he wanted to hide, leaving my mother at home not knowing where he was or just how long he’d been gone, so that was all the first thing.
The second thing is that just before going to bed we were watching Cria Cuervos, a Spanish film starring Geraldine Chaplin as a dead woman whose husband, now remarried, dies in the act of fornication with another woman, a friend and neighbor, in the first scene. Chaplin is a ghost who only one child, a daughter, can see. So there’s the adultery trigger and it explains the Spanish lady whom I called puta figuring it most be close enough to whatever word means whore in Spanish.
The third thing is that I caught my evil quint once on the phone on Christmas Eve after she just arrived about four hours later for an elaborate seven-fishes dinner I prepared, talking to her (not-so) secret either boyfriend or husband—yes this is how dysfunctional my family was, my parents and sister, who were locked in some bad-karmic knot, I would often say, like the three prisoners locked in a prism hurtling through space in the opening scen of Superman 2. Yes that’s an old reference so you can see how long I’ve had this perspective, as it dates back to the late seventies or early eighties. Anyway upon discovering my sister, now further delaying our dinner, after having just arrived, secretly muttering in a corner of an upstairs bedroom, I verbalized my outrage at which point she started beating me with the heavy receiver of that exact kind of phone. In the dream it was olive green, in reality I’m guessing beige. So much in my family enviroment, real and metaphoric, was.
Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*
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