I don’t usually write down my dreams, tho my dream-world is one which, altho often fearful to me, I will remain, living in it, half-lucid, reliving detail after detail, disturbed yet entranced.
I live with my lover in a large piecemeal house with his parents. It is a house of half-finished rooms, particle board walls and ceilings bending under the broken mass which hovers ill over the air.
Just returning from a trip away, I find my lover’s father staring not talking, silent disapproval hanging like a half-syllable he won’t let fall from his lips; my lover has spoken to him of me, words he cares not to hear and ring of falseness, but discordance spoken is too plain for his taste.
His mother approaches me in my bedroom, a falling-down room empty save a seventies-styled broken brown armchair and straw mattress which lies in a corner on the floor and out from which the harsh insides poke, leaving me marked and scratching each morning. She sits in the armchair and hands me two prescription pills she has been saving for her cousin. She fears my lover will find and take them. I hand them back to her; I fear myself taking that which she is entrusting to me to hide.
At times the house fills with the caucauphonous laughter of nieghbors and relatives; it is then I know to sit and stare at the false walls in my room, rocking in silence. This is their world. The density of what the walls speak tells me so.
A high school friend I called my “best” when those definitions mattered most is one of that gaggle of neighbors. She is same in large laughter, aplomb, and unfearful to summon to contest as that which made us an unstoppable team of teenaged twitters and cackles lifetimes ago. Another neigbbor, this one colorlessly middle-aged, is leaving and my long-ago friend bellows in a manner still bespeaking cheer that she will not be welcome over her neighborhood gatherings, as she has no place for those who do not walk the generous fields which connect the group.
I burrow to the barn, cavernous, with stalls for horses which no longer exist, filled with the stench of rotted hay. In one of those stalls I had set up my white desktop with the blinking green computer monitor attached to a dot matrix printer. It is gone. The stall is empty. The gym school locker which held writing from a long-ago lover also is empty.
I return to my bedroom. On the long dank wall between armchair and mattress my lover has written in large grade-school letters “I love you forever strumpet you are here beastly you are mine.” The words are scrawled in his own execrement. The room reeks of it and I can see the streaks from where his fingernails, shit-encased, scratched as he finished a word with a flourish.
I crawl to the mattress. Unpack a bag. Take out my laptop. I can’t get a connection.