This
week, over at Woven Dreams, Geraldine wants us to think… well, about dreams.
I’ve
tried to come up with some little (almost) poem but every direction where my
mind would wander seemed on a sure path to some sort of sadness, or at least
nostalgia, and I really didn’t want that.
But
thinking about dreams reminded me of a dream sequence I wrote for my on-off
WIP. You probably won’t understand much but here goes…
I
dreamt of New York
that night. It was whole, it was still safe.
I
was striding up 8th Ave. with Manhattan, his soft, cold nuzzle touching my bare
calves at every step, thinking there was no reason I was still there, I should
be boarding the train, I should be on my way to Aunt Amy, only there was
something, something, something I couldn’t pinpoint, an apprehension twisting
my stomach, not letting go.
“Please,
behave,” I was whispering to him, “just until we get there. It’s not far now,
really not far.” Where? Where? Yes, to my nice neighbour, Mrs. Guilbeault, she
will take you, she will pamper you, I can talk her into giving you the best
biscuits every day.
He
was happy to follow me, trusting, trotting, but I had no leash for him and
passers-by were starting to give me dirty looks, how dared I bring a dirty mutt
unleashed among them, what if it attacked them, it belonged to the pound not on
their beautiful streets.
I
couldn’t pick him up, he had wet mud on the underbelly, his long white coat
caked with grey mud, and I didn’t want to spoil my white skirt on this early
day of spring.
For
the umpteenth time I was trying my cell phone, looking up at the sky, the sky
was so beautiful, it looked so normal, but that was an illusion, the satellites
were gone, never had been, the cell was useless and I was supposed to meet
Tessa at the coffee shop, only I had intended to ditch her in the first place
and now I was walking straight towards that place, I couldn’t remember its
name, instead of being on the train and running away. I didn’t want to see
Tessa, I didn’t want to do her dirty work for her again, dump a boyfriend for
her because she was too cowardly to do it herself, why me, Tessa? it’s always
me, do it yourself for once, show your true self to poor Billy so he can know
who you are.
People
were looking at me, stopping and turning, watching me, staring at my skinny
stray, or was my skirt too short, or my legs too white, and the stupid cell was
still not working, never working again. People whispering, looking at me and
whispering, and that apprehension like a dark cloud inside me, she got out, she
escaped, their faces turning ashen, their hair, they clothes turning ashen.
Something happened, something happened, they were whispering. Penn Station is
gone. Puff, just like that, all gone, no more trains, no more platforms, just
big holes in the ground, all a big excavation for the old Penn Station.
Then
I began running, I didn’t know where, and Manhattan
was running beside me and barking at me, although there was no sound but a
muffled drumming, somewhere afar. I kept wondering if this dog was a mute, how
come I could hear no barking when he was barking his lungs out, and what was
that awful drumming.
And
then I glimpsed a spot of colour among the ashen faces and I knew it was Rob
and it felt tremendously good to see him. Maybe we could dance again, I was
thinking, and there was a joy spreading inside me at the thought, like a sweet
song.
She’s
not my girlfriend, he was saying and I could hear him although his lips weren’t
moving. She’s not my girlfriend.
But
I don’t know you.
Are
you sure we haven’t danced before?
She’s
not my girlfriend.
Smiling.
Smiling. Smiling in the dream.
by Lia Habel.
