Keithrm - Love And Heartbreak

What does it mean when, behind all the vignettes my mind created last night, were the lyrics;

“There's a light

Over at the Frankenstein place

There's a light

Burning in the fireplace

There's a light, a light

In the darkness of everybody's life”

?

I Am Alone

Originally Written and Posted July 10, 2012, edited in 2024

I am alone.

The dream was like most dreams.  Something observed.  Something I was a part of, yet detached from.  It began as an odd, nonsensical musing about the American Indians battling their oppressors.  The scene quickly shifted to strange, almost Dickens-like imagery, an odd series of narrow water locks, more like flumes, and youngsters fooling their betters out of cups of cream with feats of magic and escape-style trickery.  Large whale-like creatures rocked the small boats that worked through the locks, each whale larger than the one before, as if Escher himself had a hand in the maze like twists and turns of the locks, and the creation of the whales.

Suddenly we were in a home.  I say, ‘we’, while I was clearly all by myself, I could feel her.  I was more than just me – I was a part of a ‘we’.  She was in another room, getting ready for something.  This home was not like any place I have ever been, and yet it felt familiar. Upscale, with all the flourishes that bring her comfort.  She was bustling about, filling the air with her bounce, as she always did.  I was in a vulnerable, prone spot in some back corner of some back room.

She appeared in the open door of the room where I lay, and said, “Well, I’m on my way. Won’t be back tonight, and then tomorrow, we’ll be off.”  She had that slight English lilt that she adds when she uses her favorite British phrases.  But, “we’ll be off,” did not mean we were going for some ride.  As casually as she said it, the phrase was devastatingly final.  Panic ran through me.

I chased after her as she stepped out of the front door.  “What?” I yelled, but she did not hear or did not respond at first.  Outside, the yard is covered with the flotsam of a moving day.  Neighbors and passersby are picking at the debris like crows on a carcass, yet the sun was shining and the air was damp with morning dew.  I made it to the porch where I felt the need to cower behind a pillar, in retreat from the busybody collectors.  She cheerily flipped her shawl over her shoulder and helped a Mr. Butler to negotiate the purchase of a garden hose by one of the neighbors.

Then she turned, looked at me and responded to my earlier cry.  “Oh, didn’t you know?  I won’t be coming home tonight, and then tomorrow, we’ll be off.”  I understood it from our reality.  She would be working out of town, and appended to that was, “we’ll be off.”  Not “off” as in leaving for a trip, but “off” as in the turning out of a light.  I felt the sorrow swell up in me.  I could feel the corners of my mouth curl down, like a child about to bawl.  I clung to the bit of column I crouched behind, hiding from the crows.  I peeked out to catch a fading glimpse of her as she gave Mr. Butler a final word and began to head to her car.  “I’m sorry,” I cried, the tears swelling up as I cowered and clung to the pedestal, avoiding the gaze of the neighbors.  I watched her as she drove away.

I woke, the sorrow thick.  I am alone.

What About the Blind Girl?

(Written 12/10/2013, not previously posted, edited 2024 and posted on Tumblr)

The dream started like most dreams do, wispy and vague. There is a gathering of a few people I know, though I cannot identify them. They present me with a horse, of sorts. The horse slowly morphs into a large dog, which we all take for a walk.

As we walk, I become more aware of the group, though I cannot see a face.  I feel comfortable with them.  These are more than merely friends or acquaintances, they are close companions, one of them extremely close, and yet shrouded in a dreamy veil.

I am told, in a rather soft and indirect manner, there is a new person in the group whom they all want me to meet.  The young lady is blind.  She is quite chipper.  The group and I, along with the blind girl, lead the dog with a long red leash as we walk along a low grassy hill in a populated area that feels oddly familiar.

The grassy open area morphs into the interior of a house I have never seen before.  I could not really see it in the dream.  I was aware of walls and rooms, but cannot describe the layout or color, other than to note there are several sets of stairs that have no banisters or railings.  The blind girl walks around the house with ease.

I ask her, “Are you counting?”  Indicating her ability to know where she is by the steps she takes.  She replies, “Yes.”  I am amazed at her ability to walk and talk, and yet keep count.  Suddenly we are all in an upper room.  The blind girl descends set of stairs that has no banister and no wall.  She loses her footing, and falls from sight.  There is a collective gasp.

I lunge toward the edge where she had fallen, and then quickly dash down the stairs, but the blind girl is gone.  There is no sense of urgency.  Instead, there is a feeling that everything is all right. Suddenly a table appears with my ex’s father sitting at it.  He calls his two grown sons to the table for a game of cards, and invites me to play with them.  His demeanor is firm, but not grim.  That was his way.

I place a coaster on the table, and he moves it.  He then notes the table itself, giving it a firm rap with his knuckles.  The bleached wood makes a solid knock sound.  “This is a strong table.  Good wood,” he says.  He grabs the corner and twists it using superman like strength, causing the corner to splinter but not break or detach.

With a spirit like movement, he floats toward me, getting close for a whispered conversation.  “I had a thing for one of my secretaries once,” he says.  I look at him shocked.  He questions me, “But if the house is burning?”

I reply, “Well, I would be the last out.  Everyone else goes first.  That’s my job.”

“Exactly,” he states, with a sense of pleasure in my reply.

While this conversation takes place, there is a sense the hosts within the house are in chit chat conversation.  Some are wondering about the blind girl, while others are talking about ‘her.’  The woman they indicate is my ex, the daughter of the overbearing figure who is questioning me.  I could feel my heart flutter and nervousness rise.

The father turns back toward the card table, and I turn around looking deeper into the house.  I see that I am in a well-adorned living room.  I wonder where the blind girl has gone.  Then I see a young lady whom I seem to know, in a dreamlike fashion.  I recognize her as a dear friend of my ex.  She is a tiny little thing of a woman, putting on her coat and preparing to leave.

She comes over to me and gives me a good-bye hug.  The hug is friendly, with an understanding.  I begin to choke up.  She and I slowly spin a quarter turn, and then the friend releases her grip. There in front of me is my ex.  She did not look anything like she really looks, except in the face.

She has a classic hourglass figure, and wears a gown of day-glow orange.  Despite the seemingly garish color, the gown is fashioned like Cinderella’s dress, and in the foggy muted nature of the dream, creates a glowing princess visage.  She comes to me, wrapping her arms around me.  I hug her, and we hold each other close.  She does not feel like her real self, the shape is all wrong, but it is she.  Her emotion, her personality, her warmth comes through loud and clear.

Like a figurine atop a music box, we began to turn in a slow, floating spin.  The emotions well up in me.  I fight hard to contain a wail.  My eyes water as I soak up the warmth of the embrace.  For a moment, from a third person perspective, I can see my ex turn her head and look at me, though I do not look at her.  She is smiling.  Knowing her happiness adds to the depth of my feeling.  It takes more effort to contain a weep of despair.

I concentrate on my breathing to hold back the emotional onslaught. In and out, breath after breath.

Dream becomes half dream, which becomes waking consciousness. I became aware of my actual, real life breathing.  The breathing of the dream in time with my real, deep, deliberate breaths.  Emotions crawl over me like a pet cat seeking rest.

I fight back tears.

Lonely Because

(2024/02/12)

I am not lonely because I was not loved,

But because I was loved.

I am not lonely because I never loved,

But because I love,

And I threw it all away.

“I want to love and be loved more than anything else in the world.”

— Marilyn Monroe

It Happened Again

Originally Written and Posted June 28, 2012, edited in 2024

It happened again.

Time heals all wounds, they say . . .

I have grown more comfortable in my own skin then I have felt for a very long time.  With comfort comes a certain beige banality. Hermitage has a homogeneity.  I would not say that it lacks stimulation, but the emotions are soft.  The highs aren’t so high, the lows not so low, and there are very few turns in the road.  It isn’t bad really.  It is serviceable, comfortable, and safe.  I rather like it that way, but it does come at a cost.  Yin and Yang eternally strapped to the seesaw.

It happened again.  Like most nights, when I laid down last night, I sent out my thoughts.  There is no god, but there is an energy and I send my thoughts out into it.  I wish Alex well, and Dad, and Kim.  I think of Mom.  And I think of Elizabeth.  I hope that she is well and all right, and happy. Like most nights, my mind worked, drifting from thought to thought, examining an issue here, and reflecting on a resolution there.  And then the blackness absorbed me.

Being a night-owl hops your life around the clock.  During the mid-morning hours, when most are starting to feel the weight of the day, I usually still lie prone.  Often this is when the dreams are deepest. This morning was no exception.  It started simply.  I was unpacking something, a tiny trinket – a small teapot and high-heeled shoe on a miniature platform, all porcelain and white and pure, and all no bigger than two thumbs.  It made me think.  “Had I missed something?”

I rushed into the middle room of my hermit’s hole, where I opened a file cabinet drawer.  I found an old yearbook, with signatures and pictures.  It was hers.  “Oh my, I will have to get this back to her.” Then a pair of fur edged gloves, and several floppy, fabric, flowered purses.  And then books – books upon books upon books, filling the drawer as if it were a gateway to a larger dimension.  “Oh my.”  I clutched a colorful clutch and held it to my cheek, and began to weep.  “I’m sorry.  I am so very sorry.”

Suddenly I woke with the sorrow heavy, the concern real. Were there really things I had accidentally spirited away?  No.  Then I remembered.  I know every nick and knack in my recluse’s realm; there are no beautiful bags or boxes of books that should not be here. It was a dream, full of deep emotions not felt during the steady pace of my waking life.

They say time heals all wounds.  But these are not wounds, and I will keep them safe.