Tuesday, February 22, 2005

when i sleep my dreams consume me...

If you had talked to me this morning at 8 am, you would have seen my "Lorn is not amused" face in regards to my having gotten up, driven through traffic, and taught one (1) lesson before being informed that schools are undergoing some wonderful, no doubt NCLB-inspired goodness entitled TAKS testing. Meaning- there was no way of knowing when they would be done and whether or not that completion would coincide with the periods in which they generally have their trombone/baritone/tuba lessons.

Grumpy Lorn goes home, grumpy Lorn goes back to bed. With her contacts in. Weird dreams ensue.

I am fond of saying that my vision is not dependent in any way on my left eye, meaning I have developed depth perception and so forth with just the right (please don't shout "inconceivable!" at me, as you are not me and you have no way of knowing). However, a major theme in my dreaming is flawed vision. Dreams in which I can't open my eyes. Dreams in which I am forced to only use one eye as if I did depend on them both. Dreams in which color is absent. Dreams in which I am blind.

These kinds of dreams usually occur for one of two reasons: either I should not be sleeping anymore but, in consummate lazy-ass style have yet again fallen into slumber; or if I leave my contacts in for a nap.

In my dream this morning I was running. I had been driving, but I could no longer see the road because my left eye was for some reason missing and my right eye was only reporting a grey blur to which the rain and fog did nothing but worsen. It was late at night. In my apartment, waiting, was a lover vaguely resembling Rocky Horror in more than just physical form- he was innocent and lusty and I was his queen. The memories of our liasions flickered through my dream, flashbacks of intense happiness. But if I couldn't get there- he would leave me forever, disillusioned. The police stopped me; because of the fog tenants of the apartment were not allowed to park in the actual lot. So I began running, through apartment hallways and stairwells and found myself several times in a courtyard with a stone fountain, lit by sunlight despite the lateness of the hour and the weather. I was burdened by my bass trombone, which I could not abandon. Children taunted me, their parents shook their heads in sadness as I fled past.

Suddenly I stumbled into a red room. Red carpet, red furniture, red paint- the works. There was a letter there for me and it read:
You won't believe it! I've learned to play trumpet. Started taking lessons and am doing great. I'd like to see you, but we are both so busy these days; plus, I've decided to move to Austin. I wonder about you.
Are you looking for a political lover?
Do you dream of arms for air dancing? Will you realize it is real by smell, taste?
You ask for so much but expect so little. Good for you.
I want you too.
But you're always running.
Signed, [the name of a girl I have briefly met in Dallas and hope to see again]

It was just as that reads, only I'm sure it ended differently. I can't recall anything more except the oddly interspersed italics.

Upon reading the letter I began to fantasize an ornate love scene, foggy and dense, ecstatic, which was interrupted by my alarm telling me that no more of the day was meant to be wasted.

I turned it off and slept until one. But I couldn't bring back the boy or the girl, there were no more dreams, and all that was left was hands, closed eyes, and desperation.