It’s been a weird week. This could be partly accounted for by the fact that I’ve spent most of it sitting in my house, staring at the screen of this machine, writing things I do not want to write. The weather’s been warm and gorgeous–perfect for sitting on a park bench reading a novel of little to no literary merit; I, however, do not have that luxury. Being imprisoned as I have for the last week in my dark little garage, I’ve begun to understand why inside cats tend to hurl themselves through any open door and then stand in the yard, stunned, not knowing what to do next.
This morning I dreamed that I was attacked by an opossum in my grandmother’s house. Only it wasn’t just any opossum, it was a giant one, the size of a large tiger cat, with big bulbous eyes like a lemur. The thing came charging through the screen door and into my grandmother’s kitchen (the house was sold years ago, after my grandmother died). It stood there looking at me and the other person in the kitchen (no idea who it was), then it lunged at me and, not knowing what to do in case of a random opossum attack, I ran. The thing ran after me, jumped up, and bit onto my lower back. Of course, it was in that place on my back that was impossible to reach–it was a bad dream, after all, and those are always ruled by Murphy’s Law. I shook and shook, and it didn’t come off. Finally, I woke up.
In another dream, also this morning, I removed some sort of covering–I think it was a cast–that had been on my right calf for a VERY long time (like five years or something) and discovered that I had a bunch of really bad tattoos that I didn’t remember having gotten. A couple of them were not so bad–they were star charts; constellations–except the one that I’d labeled was spelled wrong: “OREON.”
Speaking of tattoos, most of my nearest and dearest know that I recently got a new tattoo–it’s an armband around the top of my forearm that’s made up of a musical staff with the first line of Aretha Franklin’s song, “Angel.” Last night, I was at a friend’s house, and his roommate was watching “I’m An Alcoholic,” one of those terribly voyeuristic recovery shows on cable TV. Onto the screen comes this tacky, overly made-up and puffy girl–with MY tattoo. Granted, it was surely not the same song. And it was not in the same location–this girl had the band around her bicep, which I considered–but still, the girl had my damn tattoo. That someone so… icky… would have the same idea for a permanent marking of their body as I did, was downright apalling. The one thing that was comforting was the fact that her tattoo artist was appropriately terrible, while mine had immaculate precision, so my tattoo looks way fucking better.
And I keep dreaming about my dad. I keep dreaming that he’s still alive, living in West Wareham, and that I’ve got something important to tell him. I wake up almost every morning desperate to talk to him, and I realize every morning, all over again, that it’s totally impossible. But at least in my dreams, I get to hear him laugh every so often, and I get to see him smile.