Fake wake
I wake up and record all my dreams perfectly.
I can hear the sound of my pen scraping the paper as it writes.
I look at all my words, re-reading what I've written, and go back to sleep.
Then the phone rings and 'wakes' me. (wrong number)
I walk into the bathroom (still dreaming) and find blood clots coming from my nose.
I clean up the blood and start walking back to my room. I pass Paul in the hall and wake up.
He says he was just writing down a dream. I say I'd just finished doing the same.
Back in my room. I pick up my notepad to find it blank.
(I still remember what I'd 'written' before, so I managed to save the nights dreams)
Blowing Rock II
Dan and I are in Blowing Rock, running away from 'The Captain' (aye-aye and goodbye)
who wants us to be his 'special friends'.
We climb the boulders just off the road to get to Hemlock cottage
(formerly owned by our great aunt and uncle).
The boulders are covered by moss and these little bright red plants called Russian Soldiers.
(they look like cinnamon tic-tacs on tiny hairlike stems)
The old fish pond is still there, and we feel safe as we catch our breath.
We turn towards the cottage,
which has turned into Grandpa and Grandma Smythe's old house in Blacksburg.
Grandma comes out of the house with glasses of lemonaide and a big blue photo album.
I remember it being a favorite thing to look at (as a child.) and begin to flip through it.
The photos are black and white, seem very old, and are smaller than usual, but very clear.
The photos on the page I'm looking at are of Lucy (W.) and I at about age 8-9.
[I actually met her at age 15]
We are in my parents back yard under the apple tree.
Lucy is heavier, and wearing a pink gingham dress
(which she gave to me after the photos were taken).
It's sunny, and shadows from the tree branches fall across us.
In one picture, Lucy is curled up in a lawnchair, smoking a cigarette.
I think to myself that I hope this picture didn't lead my family to believe I smoked at that age.
The murderer of murderers
I'm sitting in the north side of my parent's yard.
There are trinkets and piles of junk filling up the garage; hanging from the rafters:
bottles, cans, coils, wires, a chipped hobbyhorse (white with black spots and a cracked red leather bridle), dried flowers, sage, beaded necklaces, feathers, a rusty boxspring, a chimney sweep's brush, mannequin parts, flayed skin (I notice darker and darker things the longer I look), and old fashioned shaving kit, a bird skeleton at the bottom of a wrought iron cage, dead insects, etc.
I know that in the center of all these things there is a body.
It is the body of a blackblackblack souled murderer.
His dead body is caged inside these things that appear to be thoughtlessly tossed into the garage,
but are actually placed just as they must be.
In the yard, there is a large sheepskin and a tribal drum made of human skin.
These are the dual talismans and trophies of the killer of killers.
The murderer of murderers.
I know that these things are mine, as no one else can touch them.
I know things I shouldn't.
I realize slowly, reluctantly, what this means.
Whore
I'm working in a 'prostitution booth'.
It's just like a photobooth, except instead of getting your picture taken,
you get a 5-minute handjob.
I'm wearing dark bloodred lipstick that I'm reapplying between customers.
My workmate is a bubblegum chewing bottle blonde who has a biting sense of humor
and puts on the 'dumb blonde' act for people, but is actually quite bright.
Her job is 'Towel Girl', to help clean up spooge.
I tell her she's "sure got spunk"...
she laughs and throws the dreaded towel at me.
I look into the booth mirror to finish my lipstick, and notice that my face looks funny;
a cross between too real and a pasty blue (from the light?)
I push my fingers into my face, worried because I can't feel anything. It's numb.
Alley
2 "dweebs" in a compact car are trying to get me into their vehicle so we can "drive to U.B.C."
They're good looking losers who think they're hot, but I don't.
I finally convince then of this and they drive away.
I'm wandering down the alley near my parent's house, looking at trash.
I pass a mossy stove top, wondering if the Gianopolouses notice it at all
-just sitting there cluttering up the alley.
I pass a rusty black structure that could be used as a makeshift tape holder.
It has small drawers in it. I try to open one, getting rust flecks all over my hands in the process.
After much difficulty and wiggling, I open the top drawer.
It's empty.
Sports Day
There's a "Sports Day" get-together for several schools (grade schools) at Cypress Bowl.
Doug is there, waiting tables. There are huge crowds of kids there, and lots of bad food.