Including Dreams

Most nights, I dream of past relationships. In one recently, I was avoiding an ex at a party and every time he got close to me, I floated to the ceiling as though full of helium. It wasn’t a high or any specific feeling, if anything there was an embarrassed quality to it. Here I go again, on the ceiling, sorry about this folks! I am closing out my 30th year and my dreams are offering some review. The other night I dreamt that I got metoo-ed by a swarm of actors that I was sending hyper sexual emails to. I attended a deposition where they all announced how I was ruining their lives. I felt defensive and ashamed in the dream, why am I doing this? I don’t even know them. It was interesting being on the other side of the psychology, minimizing my actions. Like “Come on, a few lewd emails ruined your life?” What does it mean? Am I my own predator?

Last night, my friend and I found ourselves in a money pinch, and decided to be escorts for the night. Seth Green ordered me which I was delighted because I am a fan of his. (This is another dream btw. Seems like the last man on earth who would order an escort.)  I think it had to do with a transactional sense of love I’ve experienced, like a part of me is selling myself up until I’m in the thing, and once in the relationship a part of me is given away. It’s a pattern at least. Perhaps I just keep dropping further into this hole of singledom, and the aloneness has made reflecting easy, objective even when you’re not constantly coughing on someone else’s perfume you can finally smell how rotten something is. 

Any good habits, of exercise and diet have fallen off in my travels. New York City was life giving and also made me feel constantly wasted and very broke.  I kissed people I love in the rain, I watched a show at the Natural History Museum Planetarium, got my aura photographed in Chinatown, and felt a sense of flow and healing finally seeing all the faces I love. Now I’m in Maine, at my parents, where the ocean sitting only a few yards away, makes sleeping a psychonaut experience. Our days are spent doing our traditional Maine things: museums, boat, ocean, sunset. It’s easy and sweet here, but the ocean tide sleep reveals the underbelly.

Overcast now and my mood is on the floor. Yesterday morning, I watched a duckling struggle alone in the waves. I watched for awhile and got a closer look on the rocks when it swam to me for help. It hopped onto the rocks and into my hands. I never felt this trust from a wild animal that had seen me watch her all day from the shore. She needed rest and water and I didn’t know how badly. For a second she perked up, even jumped out of my hands and waddled around. Then her head hung low and she was dizzy, spasming a little. We finally hooked up with Avian Rescue who looked at her and said it wasn’t looking good. They called back saying she had slightly revived, but then I just called this morning. The baby girl died last night with some lady named Cheryl. I drank beers yesterday on edge wondering about her fate. I feel better now knowing, but am heartbroken. 

Did I not hydrate her? Did I tire her out somehow? What did I do wrong? Why did she come alive and then seemed so sickly. I haven’t felt this emotional in awhile. I didn’t know really how fragile she was, seemed like a resilient duck who would make it somehow. I’m trying not to lacerate myself indulgently about what I did wrong if I messed it up somehow. I had good intentions and I didn’t snatch her from the water. She came to me. I don’t know what my hearts doing but it seems to be melting some cynicism or pride. I may have done the right thing but we’ll never know. Maybe I held it wrong, or hurt it like a regular Lennie Small.  The rescue said we saved her from a death of being pecked or eaten. I feel hollowed.  

What’s all this stuff mean? Nothing. Purely an update on my drowsy, barfly headspace who can only speak about their deep regrets and meaningless to anyone else dreams. It’s a drunk period of time even without booze- coming into parts of our realities that seem surreal and less like home than ever before. Perhaps, I am taking responsibility for being a clumsy monster somehow between the duckling and my Weinstein dreams. I don’t know how to judge my past anymore and maybe am seeing how impactful each action I choose really is. My masculine side wants to reduce this to a joke or a blanket statement. My feminine side wants to include it all: nostalgia, renewal, shame, mourning and coming out of a deep sleep of me too dreams.  I had hope for that duckling.