moleskine

I have a moleskine notebook that goes with me everywhere. Or thereabouts. It gets the doodles, the lists, the random regurgitation of other peoples thought and opinions as viewed through my experiences. I was re-reading my most recent journal, and came across an entry I had completely forgotten. I think part of this blog will me remembrances like this. I had a dream several weeks ago that disturbed me. Made me sad to wake, but terrified me during it. It haunted me for days, but I had completely forgotten it until I came across it:

Sept 15th,
I had a dream a few nights ago. Still so vivid.
An angry holiday dinner.
I was supposed to make pumpkin pie, but I don't bake. I do the turkey, the gravy, the ham and any number of glazes. That is my role. I am the chef, but I do not bake.
Everyone is yelling at me.
They didn't care.
In the dream I am thinking, "I wish my dad was here." Which is weird. For starters, I never wished him to be anywhere. And he never did well in large, loud, family events. Not after he had quit drinking. But in some childish way, I wished my dad was there.
And then, in the kitchen, he was there.
They didn't care.
He was/ He is dead. Without words, we both knew he was only here/there to create this impossible pumpkin pie. And it was perfect. I don't like pumpkin pie. Apple is my thing. But out of tart shells, gravy and stuffing, my dad made the perfect pumpkin pie.
But he still wouldn't talk to me. I was crying. Sobbing silently in the kitchen during a thanksgiving meal. Something I usually did in the privacy of the basement bathroom. Something neither of my parents have seen me do since childhood. Something I have not done publicly since he died over seven years ago.
And they still didn't care.
I told him not to leave. By now, aware that this was a dream. Aware that time was running out. In the dream I knew it was only a matter of moments until my alarm clock would go off and ruin this. Wakefulness would ruin this horrible family meal that let me see, let me hear and smell my dad in ways I could never do with expressed effort when in need of comfort.
Then I woke up.
And forgot this dream for two days.
I remembered at Starbucks, a place I rarely go. And never know what to get, as I don't even like coffee. But I got a pumpkin spice latte. It tasted disgusting.
I didn't care.

This dream is weird. Not just for its content, its apparent meaning (and my lack of faith in the interpretation of dreams) but for the plain and simple fact that I do not dream. I just don't have dreams. I mean, I do have dreams, but very rarely. Maybe I will dream two or three times a year. If that.

But whenever I do dream, they are usually one of three or four recurring dreams. One, I am on a picnic in Burnham Park, and me and a faceless girl are chased by a gnome to a house where we reach safety and i wake up. Another, I am at a pool. Happy. Then I realize that I have no idea who owns the house I am at, or how I am supposed to go home. Embarrassment and dread fill me. I wake up. And all my dreams are semi-conscious. Because they are all recurring dreams, it only takes a few minutes for me to recognise the familiarity and to attempt to influence the outcome. Which makes it very fun when I have a sex dream. But that is a very rare happening. I can honestly say that I have only had three erotic dreams in my whole life. And they were all random variations on a theme.

This dream is new. It is the first New dream of my adult life. It scares me. But I want to have it again. And I am impatient to wait another four to eight months for the off chance it will be back in time for Easter.