I've been having all these strange dreams lately where I am a fragile young man with a terminal illness. My nose begins to bleed while I'm in class or out birding or talking to Edgar or some such routine thing, and I collapse near death. I look a little like a crow with a broken spine, and cinematic focus spins out away from my crumpled body, twisted on its back, surrounded by a ring of dropped papers or loose clothing and frightened, healthy companions. My awareness of life's beautiful, aching frailty is heightened almost unbearably and then I fade into unconsciousness. Sometimes Edgar is holding my head, tearing as if with cold. He's trying to call me back, but I'm so far away my own lost blood and flagging strength cease to concern me. My hands are like bleached bone, my eyes and wet and huge in my illness-ravaged skull.
Then I wake up.
4 comments:
*in freaky Czech accent* You will tell me who is this Edgar. You are telling me, yes? Yes, tell me.
have you read 'death be not proud'? that was my september.
freakin' anonymous posting. that was me above.
-jill.
A dream from last February:
Last night, I dreamt that I was afraid that the Patriot’s defense was going to strangle the Eagles.
Literally. We were on a train platform – 14th and 8th - where I was with two Pats, strangely wearing
Steelers uniforms. We knew there had been a horrible accident, so we went down to the bottom floor.
Drownings, and death. We went searching for ghosts, like the way kids do. When we found one,
nonchalantly, we felt nothing, almost pleased by our sense of the inevitable.
“How do you know it’s her?” I asked.
“She’s like three feet tall,” one of the Pats answered. They pointed towards a woman – my height,
which I then took their comment to be a slight – clumsily walking through walls, as if it was new and
uncomfortable to her. Her face looked wan, and while cold and lifeless, also slightly confused, as if she had no idea what she was doing there. Being dead
seemed new to her. We noticed this, and took it as confirmation of her death, self satisfied with our
clever interpretation.
“Whose wife is that?” I asked.
“McGinest,” one said.
“Oh shit!” I thought. "He’s going to be upset. He’s going to kill someone on the field."
They mentioned another player’s wife dying in the same accident. I imagined another killed Eagle.
Now it was game time, and for some reason, I’m supposed to be in the opening huddle, and I’m late.
The team is about to line up when I appear. I need to do something rah-rah to make up for my tardiness, and I meekly and awkwardly offer my fist for a punch-in.
I go down the line, growing excited. By the end, the squad is pumped, screaming “Punch-in! Punch-in!
Let’s do one with the O-line! Let’s do one with the O-line!”
Suddenly my mind – my working, in-dream consciousness
– is filled with football strategy, but like deep strategy. Like psychology and shit. Like I knew what the commentators on TV were going to say about my play.
I determined that an early score getting the offensive line involved would be key to our win. We would set the tone, and it would be impossible for the Pats to play from behind.
I sat back and watched the play. Success! Suddenly, I’m back in the huddle, screaming, when we get a
whistle and a flag for illegal location of game. Somewhere between the snap and the touchdown, the
official ruled that my dining room is not an appropriate setting for the Super Bowl.
We have to do it over, now in a different place – a cavernous and dark bar, like an old Lazer Tag arena.
The Eagles line up, and good hair metal is blaring: our musical champions. The offensive line is again incredible in the first play, pancaking and literally tossing away Patriots, opening up a huge lane (“an avenue,” my dream-wit called it) for Westbrook to run straight through. 41 yards. Touchdown!
The Pats are stunned, and take the field in the form of a confused Def Leppard – it’s suddenly a Battle of
the Bands. They talk nervously before launching into their first number. It sucks. They know they need to kick ass, and while they try to rearrange the song on the fly, knowing that it’s about to move into a pussy power ballad-type radio chorus, they can’t. It turns
all cutesy; they had no idea we would come out so strong. I start humming Elvis songs and casually
knocked out the wood boarding of the wall, opening a hole in the bar for sunlight to get through, our
victory assured.
-Francis.
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