When I Woke Up

March 2, 2011 at 03:01 (Poem) (, , )

I swear I won’t turn this into an emo-poetry blog.  I just needed to get some of this out.

Those days
Anything seemed possible
We’d conquer
Anything and everything at all

I felt like
You were the sun
And I felt as though
Winter would never come

Flowers would blossom in December
And a warm breeze would rustle the February leaves
Rain would fall all over November
And we would live how we pleased

Oh, I dreamed
That you were there
And you loved me
Oh, you loved me again

And I dreamed
That we were there
In that place
That place we called our own

But when I woke up
I remembered that you were gone
Oh, when I woke up
It was like you’d never been at all

These days
Nothing is possible
There’s always
An excuse of hurdle in the way

I feel like
You are the moon
And I feel as though
Summer is gone for good

Snow falls hard in July
And the chill wind covers May blooms in frost
The lakes freeze over in June
And the ice on my heart reminds me of all I’ve lost

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Every Time It Rains

February 9, 2011 at 15:47 (Poem) (, , )

This is half-dream, half-memory.  I have nothing else to add to it.

Every time it rains, I think of you
The smell of the soil seeps into me
I remember the north woods and letters
From that time long ago

Every time the sun shines, I think of you
The dry heat on my skin slowly warms me
I remember bike rides and public parks
From that time long ago

Every time it snows, I think of you
The white softness collects in my hair
I remember late nights and city tunnels
From that time long ago

In the thunder rolls and lightning strikes
I can hear your voice speaking softly
Telling me all those things you said
Once upon a time long ago

In the cool breeze off the lake
I can feel the touch of you on my skin
Holding me closer like you did
Once upon a time long ago

In the swirls of falling snowflakes
I can see the the shape of you as you were
There for a moment and gone again
Once upon a time long ago

Now the harsh rains make me cry
Pouring my insides out as the sky spills around me
And the hot sun can’t reach the hidden places
To warm what stays cold and empty inside me
But the snows makes me feel at home
When I lay down inside them and let them cover me
So leave me here as you’ve done before
And let me melt with spring’s thaw
To soak into the ground as I should have done long ago

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Dystopian Utopia – The Thugs

September 27, 2009 at 15:46 (Dream) (, , , )

This bite is from one of my more vivid dreams.  It’s rare that I remember so much from one night, but I needed to get it down whilst I did.  There are bits before this that I remember also, but they’re fragments and I’ll get to them separately, if at all.  This bite contains a lot of contextual direction-description.  If you can’t follow the map in my head, I’m sorry, but I hope to get it down on paper for you soon.

I’m walking with my cousin.  She’s not any of my actual cousins – you know, from Real Life – but in here she’s my mother’s brother’s daughter.  We’re not really walking.  Well, maybe she is, but I’m loping.  That’s the closest word I can ascribe to the action.  It’s like… jumping across river stones, the childhood imaginings of a moon-leap-step, or the stretch of legs a hurdler uses, only lower to the ground.  I can go really far with one, as though gravity stops applying with such force in those moments when I’m completely off the ground.  She keeps up, somehow.

This dream-me is taller than real-me.  I don’t know for sure how tall, but it feels six feet.  My cousin is chin height on me, so maybe five-four?  She’s got straight black hair, cut around her chin but angled a little to be longer in front.  She parts it in the middle.  She smiles those secret-smiles of people who know more than they’re letting on, though she’s not mean about it.  She’s wearing a skirt or a jumper-dress, I’m not too sure, but she has a long-sleeve top on too, striped horizontally.  I think her skirt-dress is green: olive-y.  The shirt is white and creamy-orange.  She’s wearing tights, I think, and Mary Janes.  I’m wearing jeans again, which is more common in my dreams than Real Life.  This time they’re tighter, though not form fitting, and lighter-coloured.  I’ve got on red sneakers, this time, still the skateboarder-type.  I think I’m wearing a tee-shirt, though I don’t know for sure.  Whatever the sleeve-length, it’s a bright-ish colour.  My hair is fire-engine red, and I’ve got freckles.  I’m not sure on the style of my hair, but I think it’s in braids: two of them reaching my mid to lower back.

We’re walking home from school.  The streets are lined with warehouses in bright colours, though they’re all metal siding rusting away and boarded up broken windows.  Dystopian Utopia is the closest I can come to a name for it.  It’s carefully crafted ruin; ‘shabby chic’ on a city-wide scale.  The streets are well taken care of, as if the society we’re in doesn’t care about it’s buildings, but has one hell of a Department of Transportation.  There are few cars on the streets, though there are enough that we have to beware when we cross them.

The sky is brilliant blue with a few luscious white clouds; it’s maybe three in the afternoon.  It’s summer, or close to, as we didn’t actually have school that day, but were there for some other reason.  We’re on the left sidewalk, as you stand behind us, and we reach a corner.  We turn, then stop at the next corner.  A crossroads, literally, that has me bounding ahead (though it’s really to the right).  I make it across before the light changes and we’re separated for once.  She’s waiting on the other side, so I explore a bit.  The forward side of this cross street, the side I’m on, is blissfully open.  I’m now on the right side of a huge hill (though not The Hill).  There’s fencing on the outer sides of the sidewalk because the land simply… isn’t there. It’s far below, and free of clustering buildings: I’m looking down on a vast green parkland that I cannot reach.

I cross the road again, to the left of me.  At the same time, my cousin makes it to the corner I just left.  We’re separated still, though I’m not paying attention to that.  I think I see her walk past me, not down the hill, but following the right-hand sidewalk of the street we first crossed.  I turn, follow her for a bit, calling out, but realise it’s not her.  This girl’s wearing a red zip-up sweatshirt with the hood pulled up.  I turn again and see my cousin behind me.  She’s called my name, I think, and stands in the middle of the hill-street at the top.  She’s not alone.

I’m back at the corner (left side, top of the hill) though I don’t remember moving.  My cousin is beside me, half-behind me.  I’m carrying two plastic spoons.  There are five or six heavy-set Hispanics still in the middle of the road.  There are suddenly no more cars around.  I’m not sure heavy-set is the right word.  The men aren’t fat, they’re as if… as if they used to be muscular but stopped working out, and the muscles just… sagged a bit.  They’re tattooed, wearing white tank-tops and black tee-shirts with jeans and white trainers.  Not much jewelery.  Most of them are shaved-head-bald, all of them are taller than me.

The leader – the tallest, the one in the middle of their huddle – calls out to me. “So!  I finally get to meet my sister-in-law!”

I know he’s my cousin’s ex-boyfriend.  I know he knows we’re not sisters.  Somehow, I know his words mean that his brother has ‘claimed’ me.  I’ve never met any of them before.  They’ve never met me.  I’m still not confused, and only mildly irritated.  I still have my plastic spoons.

My cousin is now under his arm; her body half-turned towards him but her face fully towards me, complete with pleading look.  She doesn’t want him there.  He’s an ex for a reason.  I’ve got the arm of a thug around my shoulder: almost a choke-hold, but not.  He’s on my left, his meaty right arm weighing me down.  I know it’s not leader’s brother.  We fight, scrabble really, and move downhill as we do.  Our positions don’t really change.  We stop close to the bottom of the hill, near where the upkept designer-ramshackle warehouses start again.  I raise my right arm, one of my plastic spoons clenched in my fist, and place the curved edge dangerously close to his left eye.  I don’t know what I say.  It’s threatening enough that he stills instantly and soft enough that we’re the only two that hear it.  The spoon in my hand melts a little, bubbles and reforms.  First it shifts to spork, then fork, then knife.  It’s still plastic: the type you find in a cafeteria or fast-food joint; it’s still pointed at his eye.  I say something else, he nods.  I lower my weapon, reshaping it to the spoon it was.  He lets me go.

I turn towards the top of the hill, and the thug is back with his leader, my cousin is at my side again.  The hill is much taller-higher-longer now.  Together, we turn away from them, and continue towards her house.  I’ve no longer got the spoons.  We smile, laugh, chat.  I lope.  She keeps up, somehow.

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The Carts, The Marriage, and The Hill

August 24, 2009 at 09:40 (Dream) (, , , , )

There is context that surrounds the bite of dream I’ll get to shortly, but it’s disjointed, and most of it revolves around The Hill.  The Carts are the focus of this piece, so for now, we’ll ignore the rest.  (Warning: there is more set-up and description of scenery than actual Cart-time.  You’ve been warned..!)

I am walking up The Hill.  It is a very steep hill, though I feel no particular strain in my calves or shortness of breath.  If you’re standing at the base of The Hill, looking up, I’m walking on the right side. There’s sidewalks on both sides.  It’s nighttime, though the scene is tinted in that grungy grey-brown that seems to be the colour scheme of choice for video games like Gears of War and Resistance: Fall of Man.

It must be fall because I’m wearing a black hoodie, loose, dark-coloured jeans, and skateboarder-type sneakers.  The opposite side of the street is lined with tall buildings; apartment complexes, I know.  They’re run-down but serviceable, and don’t have too many broken windows or boarded up doors.  The side I’m walking on is free of such things, though my knowledge of the landscape over here only extends to the sidewalk and maybe a few hand-spans of grass to the right of it.  Leaves blow around with litter, though I don’t feel any wind.  Overall, it’s rather bleak.

I don’t know why, but as I’m trudging up The Hill, I turn to look across the asphalt towards the other side.  Nothing’s there to catch my attention.  There was no sound in this dream (there almost never is).  As I’m looking though, still walking forwards-upwards, a shopping cart rolls down The Hill.  She’s got a bridal veil tacked to her handle, though I can’t see how.  I imagine she’s giggling as she speeds down the other concrete trail.  Soon after, she’s followed by her cart-groom.  He’s got a bow-tie on the front of his cart-grill and a little top hat tacked to his handle.  I imagine he’s chuckling as he speeds after her.  They’re off to their honeymoon, and she’s being flirty as she races him to… I don’t know where.

I’ve never seen them again, but I imagine they’re happy.

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Lessthan Naught Three

August 24, 2009 at 08:49 (Uncategorized) (, , )

Or rather, the hole in my heart.

That sounds way more cheesy than I intended, but no changing it now.

Once I get around to it – soon, hopefully – this blog will be a dream-dump.  I have… interesting dreams; the ones I remember, anyway.  Most of them involve my elementary school, zombies, or both.  The ones that don’t are the weird ones.  The example I always give is the one I will share first.  Shopping carts marrying, or having been recently married.  (What a tease the bride-cart is!)

If I get around to it, which I most likely won’t (so don’t hold your breath), I’ll post pictures I’ve sketched from these dreams.  The reason you ought not to get your hopes up is that I’m rubbish at sketching.

That’s enough of this, I think.  On to the first dream!

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