I awoke in a dream the other day. But that's not where to start. That's the beginning, but certainly not where the dream started, I mean the subconscious tip of thought that finally broke through into being. What I mean to say is that I must explain where the rapture began, with her, and how I perceived her, and how those around hers depiction told me what I did not know.
I was serving, running food back and forth, pleasing smiling, fresh-shaved, hair done, shirt-tucked, and they were my last table, and I knew from the first exchange of words difficulty was inevitable, and the funny part being I saw the problem that was, before it had even arrived, whether or not there was an agreement on which of the two ladies to arrive is the problem. I'm sure they have yet to come to the conclusion, or else they are so wrapped into the dementia of the mag that escape was merely out of sight, out of mind.
There were three sitting at the table, a table meant for four people, with an extra chair placed at the end so as to make room for when the fourth and fifth party arrived. Five menus spread across the table, one up in hands, four atop the table, two of which being read. An older gentleman, the father, slouched heavily against the intersection of wall and table, his right leg and arm opening up to the breadth of the table that was there, and that was yet to arrive. Two others, a couple, across the table, but not on the table, no, not even their knees cross the threshold of the table. Nothing of theirs touches the table. Sitting erect, peering down the tips of noses, not crooked of the back. I will be with you folks in
just a moment, I say. The gentleman, the father peers up, flips the index of his finger up, consulting me to stop, we have more arriving he says, shaking his head, trying to shake his own understanding into my own head.
The answer rings almost as an insult, and rightly so, almost. The gentleman eats out, often, no one can put on visceral fat with a diet at home, plus the work boots, the oil smeared hat means he works long awkward hours, or that he cares little for his clothing anymore. If it is the former than he should know. I know they are waiting on people. And if the latter he would certainly not be telling me he was waiting on more, he would want a drink, and quickly and so would agree with my announcement instead of wasting pointless words. But it's in the sitting of the couple, the young adult, mid 20's upper 30's with his significant other, that makes me realize it is none of these. They see what I see through them. And I know that this event is something that rarely happens, or it is so fine tuned, orchestrated as such that there is no room for error on any ones point but my own.
All of this may seem quite pointless, and it is, and it isn't. And I must explain the perception of the child, to perceive how she entered, and how I indeed entered myself. So listen, or don't, I merely wish to explain the mental maneuver I saw, and pitiful is it the chains her mother drapes.
The mother, and daughter arrive. and mind you, the mother sits at the head of the table, the fifth chair, the fifth party, and the daughter, sixteen, between the mother and father. The father open to the whole table, especially her, his giant slouch of a show. The mother. Erect! My spine feels the tingle of attention to everything, yet she is only in her mind, and very deep within it, all the gears pressing hard, pressing hard, mechanics forcing the ship to go where it will go, and she believes the table her ship, and herself the captain, and believe you me, James, the tongue is certainly the familiar rudder. And her elbows propped, hands together, but never in a form of prayer, no, she's pressing things together, knuckles white, trying to press everyone together. And the daughter slumps, but not out of slouching, she is merely present at the table. But she does is not part of the table. She is not her own, but anothers, and thus resigns to the way things go.
She does not look at me, and as I go around the table taking the second series of orders (the first being so misunderstood by the family, because the youth new exactly of what I spoke, but the father so lost because he was not listening to me, him so lost in his own thoughts of his family and what it's become and how it does not fit, and why does it not fit! that while he's looked through the menu for twenty minutes he has not read a single word, nor seen a single picture. Such is the eyes that look at me. And I see the depth of his love.) Where was I?
The second order. Yes, the daughter. She does not look at me when her order is being given by her mother. Perhaps the biggest sign of disrespect, but the mother does not know. Like the mother who's son sucks her nipple until his pubescence, that is what she has done to her daughter. and it is only when I ask the daughter a question, disregarding the mother, that i see the small hint of a smile, the flash of life that lies dormant, in this familiar situation.
And let us not forget the mother ordering the daughters drink! no ice! she'll throw the drink if you bring her ice! she says. She will not ma'am. She will not through a drink in my restaurant. You may not know it but I do. She will not test me. I see it in her eyes. And the fact that you would speak of your daughter so in public, though it be a cry of help for all that weighs upon your machinery, is not something to slip in public. You should not treat a family member so, demeaning is it. If this is how you treat you daughter in front of servants, how then do you treat her in the presence of your peers? and God forbid if your treatment has aloud her her own!
The girl is Native to America. Both her parents are white, though the woman is of only European descent, and the father is white, but he is a Native. I see it in his cheekbones, in my cheekbones. In the beard that never wished to grow. I see it in the textured skin of his generations. But mostly in his legs, in his hips, in those feet that a few generations ago ran with the wind. And I see all of him in her. And I know that to be white amongst Native relatives is like having the chickenpox. And I know that she has felt the reverse of this.
They share food. The mother, father, daughter. And the mother tries to send back the food of her daughters that the mother has taken, and is now not eating. I tell the woman that it is not free of charge. And she decides she does not want it. Take it away, she says resigned. Failure shines. And I tell her I will send out my manager to talk to her, perhaps something may be reached. I know the manager will not see what I see, but will see with pity what she has never lived, nor ever will understand, for she is a mother too, she will see what the mother sees and will do what I could never bring myself to do.
Clearing the table, and excuse me I must take a break to remember what it is the daughter dreamt. I'm back. Though did you even know I was gone? Much has happened since I departed. In between the watering boiling, the coffee being pressed, the cigarette smoked outside as I saw the lady outside with her dog which she says to heel as it yet again sees me, and whats to know me, as it did the time I saw the woman being hauled on her ski's across the road, her yelling heel! stop! not yet! and he understood his master, though he was seeing what she could not see for herself, though he wanted it for her as well as for himself. He sees and sense what she does not! A brute of a dog he is yet he does not approach me in anger as most dogs would, he does not see harm in my size, in my stature, he sees how he has been trained, and he only sees what she shares with him. He sees in the present on his walks with her, while she does not dwell in the present, but in the past, in the future, instead giving him the present to lead, only interrupting when his present presses her out of her distraught tenses. do you see the path I see here? Do you see The Jacques? The Morans? Do you see what I say? No and yes. Well
know matter. It is in the ashes.
It is when I'm clearing the dishes from the table, when I've dropped off the check to the woman who is very much indeed happy with me, as stressed as the description, and she is relaxed, (the men gone, only the ladies remain,) all of her attention pointing towards the daughter, while the other woman sits in her corner,now slouched, now listening, perhaps texting from the incline of her chest, the round declination of her shoulders, her head down, peering up while the story goes on from the daughter. And it is a dream. And in it is everything I cannot dream. And the daughter describes the dream in utmost detail, using and, and, and, and, and, but never loosing the reader, or the listener, depending upon how your mind associates the text, maybe into words for storage, or perhaps just the music of her voice.
The mother is in rapture, for I doubt she ever here's her daughter speak these words, and when the mother stops her, saying I must stop you to tell you, you sound like some great writer, like Tolkien. And I think to myself, more like Joyce, or Nabokov, (and at the time I should have been saying the Toilest but I wouldn't have understood, only now that it is fulfilled can I see) certainly nothing like Tolkien outside the aspect of the giant birds, and the adventure involved. But the girl describes her dreams, and does so in a way I've never dreamt. She has control in her dreams, something I never have. I'm the man who jumps awake to escape the fall he cannot control. I've never had control in my dreams, nor have I ever wanted to remember them since the days I wished to escape from all that life deals out.
Yet she has control in her dreams, and she sees them with such a vivid depiction that I cannot recount, for I've stripped away all of the matter in storyline, and picture, so as to analyze how it was she did this inside her dream. What I am left with is a girl whose sense have all been shutdown in reality. She cannot talk to people, her mother does it for her. She cannot do things, so she does not. Yet she lives so very much in her dreams, doing so much, that I've only
tried to do.
Enough of my blabbering. Here is where I start my dream. It happened in the small hour in between 7 and 8 o'clock last Friday morning. How it happened is I awoke to my alarm. I instantly hit snooze five minutes, though I wished to get up.
It is pitch black. Though the strangest thing. For it was light awhile ago. I must be in a dream. I know I am dreaming. I can see nothing, though I keep
trying to see with my eyes, yet I know where everything is. I reach for the lamp on the right side of my bed to turn it on, and I struggle supremely. My body forcing my to writhe as a reach for the string to pull. I pull and fail, and no light comes on. I try and try and try, and try, but nothing happens. I need to get out of here I need go get up. Get up.
I awake. My alarms has yet to go off. This is odd. I reset the alarm, thinking to myself I've already used this space, I must provide more.
It is pitch black again. I
try at the light. Same as before. Same writhe. Something new. I
try to slide to sitting on my bed. Nothing happens but
trying. My body fights me. Alright. Go to the door. my body roles across the bed without a moments hesitation, but as I near the end of the bed I think I must use my feet or else I'll surely tumble to the ground. bad move. I
try to use my feet and end up as a result tumbled on the ground. Now I'm on the ground. How peculiar. Why do you work sometimes but not others? I
try and reach for the doorknob but all my hand does is slip off of it. My body has made itself so that it is just in reach of the doorknob with the body propped up with an arm outstretched
trying for the doorknob. everything is aligned perfectly to open the door except for my arm? why does it show progress in all the areas but where I
try? Never ignore the italicized words.
I don't
try. I open the door. I am standing. I am no longer in pitch darkness. the glow from the light that has been left on all night, Though I do not see it. I have yet to see. Sense are something that do not work here. I see but without eyes. The perception has the fog of when you are not looking at things correctly though. Still all I sense is where I tell my mind to sense (this I see now, though sense is not the right word). I'm done
trying.
I walk out, and look over the balcony into the living room. Their is a giant
Tree in the corner of my living room. It turns and looks at me, its cartoonish mouth opening to study why I have deserted it. Mind you it is a Christmas tree in every aspect of what someone stricken of metaphors, but to me it is
trees. Other
trees starting sprouting and I'm becoming overwhelming scared. And no, not of the trees, but the
trees. I begin running back and forth between the hallway of my roommates room and that of my own, constantly peering over at the trees whom are talking amongst themselves when I do not see them as if they were in my eyesight, though I knew where they were the whole time, it has come to my attention that I new what they did, how they acted and moved even when I was out of my line of sight with them, yet I continually tried to peer at them and when doing this they directed all they're attention to me, all turning with a bump as they switched they're core a little, then a jump as they gained momentum.
Run into my room. I need to find a weapon. A long stick erupts in my hand, a rod, one you would hang drapes on, the rounded balls on the ends, yet I need one that is sharp, so as to defend myself against them. I need a spear! The end of the rod turns into a knife, then it blurs, Only when I'm focusing on the tip does it become a knife, when I'm looking elsewhere it blotches out similar to that of felons on Cops. I set out into the hallway, onto the balcony. I am ready. The giant tree, bumps, and then jumps, and then opens its mouth to speak to me. I AM NOT READY FOR THIS! I throw the spear, hefting from foot to foot, a killing glance it will certainly be, but I turn my sight and cower away from what I will certainly kill. I run into my room ducking beneath the wall.
AIAIAIAIAI! AIAIAIAIA! AIAIAIAI!
I'm awake. I've just entered a dream. I've found the mental maneuver, if only partly. I have just entered a dream. I do not dream. I remember when I wished off of dreams. I have just entered a dream. Why do I have to have class? I need the next hours to sort this all out immediately! this is important! Now I have to wait! Four hours of class, followed by a night of work and all I need to do is get his out immediately before it becomes corrupted by all of my thoughts. I must keep it. I must think about it constantly. I must force it into a perversion of itself so as to keep it alive, I must keep it alive! Even if it means ruining what it is, time will leave its stamp yet perhaps some of it will remain. And this I thought as I made my way to the bathroom, commenting to myself about the light that was on in the living room, and how odd that it should be on in my dream. I turn right, going through the door of the bathroom, similarly open as in my dream. The shower curtain is closed. I lean over, on the good leg and turn the water on, no need to lift the already higher shower lever. water on, shower going, I enter through the other side, and I look up at the glow above me. Odd. It's not the same. it's much to bright, not it's usual dim. I look down at the ground where my foot is touching the curtain that is much, much lower than usual. I look it up and down. Oddly enough the rod that it is on is a foot below where it normally rides its walls.
And I do not believe I had much in the way of Lysine that night, though I surely visited Mrs. Lys. I floated down the French river, down the leie, and while there Lousse, you will lose us down the Lethe. I found the decomposition in the garden. I entered the Atlantic, floated amongst the muddied water, and I saw the small group of rocks. The beacon, before I awoke.
