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Personal ramble...
Nov. 6th, 2001 03:10 pmI had several dreams last night (oh, the wonders of O), but the last one is the one that I'm wondering about.
I was in the old, run-down mess that was my old house (the house that no longer exists in real life). There were 8x10s of me on the wall, where the family pictures used to be, and my two spelling bee trophies from when I was in elementary school (I'd forgotten all about those!). I wanted to take them with me, but it seemed the floor would cave in, and somehow I knew it wasn't my house anymore. So, F and I were in the house, looking at things, and my friend Kisha walks in. It's her house now. And there I was, caught in the middle of breaking and entering.
I played it off, tried to. But my vision was extremely blurred at that point, as if I were no longer wearing my glasses. And my balance was affected, like when I'm on a second-tier DXM trip. In sum, I was not myself, and it was plainly obvious. It seemed that Kisha had a disbelieving look on her face. It seemed that she understood why I was there, but was still mad about it.
I went into the kitchen, but the kitchen area was from my old Grinnell attic apartment, kind of in the middle of the room. Instead of a stove, there was this strange, ancient machine that... seemed to talk. It worked by "reading" greeting cards that one stuck into what looked like a letter drop. I tried to insert a card for it, but it got jammed in internal spokes, and I couldn't get it unjammed before Kisha came in the room. So I yanked it out and threw it between the machine and an adjacent table. I pretended I was perusing the room. She walked out, and I turned to my right 270 degrees. On the north wall was a recess, and in it were two stone heads--one Egyptian (similar to Nephretite), the other of Jesus. Nephretite seemed chiseled out of obsidian; Jesus of smoke gray marble. I remarked how lovely the statues were. I wished I could take one with me. In my mind, I could imagine how heavy those to-scale heads would be. Their necks were broken, as if the statues to which they belonged had fallen and broken into hundreds of body parts. Now, the heads were all that were left.
The three of us had decided to go somewhere, so we went outside to the parking lot (!) to try to find my car. F's mother came at us from the right and asked us to take some of her bags, since we were going to the same place. We told her we didn't think we'd have enough room in my car, since it was so small. I went to put my key in the trunk keyhole, and realized, hey, this isn't my car. This is some 70s model. I brought my vision up, and saw that the car was certainly quite retro. We scanned the lot for my car, but we never eyed it.
... I don't know what to make of this dream. But when I awoke, I spent several minutes going through my old house's blueprint in my mind. It was almost like I had to verify I knew where every room was, and which rooms led into the next. I didn't want to forget the house in which I grew up. I know that all I have now are my memories, and a handful of photos. There is nothing to go back and touch.
I'm still upset. My friends my age can't empathize with me; they don't know what it is like to lose your childhood home, to have nothing tangible of things that meant something to you when you were young. I woke, thinking of my sticker book (which had pictures of my family and friends, pictures I didn't want to lose), my diary, my poems from my pre-teen years. These are all gone, never to be recovered. And if I feel this way at 26, I do not look forward to being even older and having to look back.
I was in the old, run-down mess that was my old house (the house that no longer exists in real life). There were 8x10s of me on the wall, where the family pictures used to be, and my two spelling bee trophies from when I was in elementary school (I'd forgotten all about those!). I wanted to take them with me, but it seemed the floor would cave in, and somehow I knew it wasn't my house anymore. So, F and I were in the house, looking at things, and my friend Kisha walks in. It's her house now. And there I was, caught in the middle of breaking and entering.
I played it off, tried to. But my vision was extremely blurred at that point, as if I were no longer wearing my glasses. And my balance was affected, like when I'm on a second-tier DXM trip. In sum, I was not myself, and it was plainly obvious. It seemed that Kisha had a disbelieving look on her face. It seemed that she understood why I was there, but was still mad about it.
I went into the kitchen, but the kitchen area was from my old Grinnell attic apartment, kind of in the middle of the room. Instead of a stove, there was this strange, ancient machine that... seemed to talk. It worked by "reading" greeting cards that one stuck into what looked like a letter drop. I tried to insert a card for it, but it got jammed in internal spokes, and I couldn't get it unjammed before Kisha came in the room. So I yanked it out and threw it between the machine and an adjacent table. I pretended I was perusing the room. She walked out, and I turned to my right 270 degrees. On the north wall was a recess, and in it were two stone heads--one Egyptian (similar to Nephretite), the other of Jesus. Nephretite seemed chiseled out of obsidian; Jesus of smoke gray marble. I remarked how lovely the statues were. I wished I could take one with me. In my mind, I could imagine how heavy those to-scale heads would be. Their necks were broken, as if the statues to which they belonged had fallen and broken into hundreds of body parts. Now, the heads were all that were left.
The three of us had decided to go somewhere, so we went outside to the parking lot (!) to try to find my car. F's mother came at us from the right and asked us to take some of her bags, since we were going to the same place. We told her we didn't think we'd have enough room in my car, since it was so small. I went to put my key in the trunk keyhole, and realized, hey, this isn't my car. This is some 70s model. I brought my vision up, and saw that the car was certainly quite retro. We scanned the lot for my car, but we never eyed it.
... I don't know what to make of this dream. But when I awoke, I spent several minutes going through my old house's blueprint in my mind. It was almost like I had to verify I knew where every room was, and which rooms led into the next. I didn't want to forget the house in which I grew up. I know that all I have now are my memories, and a handful of photos. There is nothing to go back and touch.
I'm still upset. My friends my age can't empathize with me; they don't know what it is like to lose your childhood home, to have nothing tangible of things that meant something to you when you were young. I woke, thinking of my sticker book (which had pictures of my family and friends, pictures I didn't want to lose), my diary, my poems from my pre-teen years. These are all gone, never to be recovered. And if I feel this way at 26, I do not look forward to being even older and having to look back.