amazon_syren (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
amazon_syren) wrote2007-10-20 07:57 am
amazon_syren) wrote2007-10-20 07:57 am
Entry tags:
Stalker Dreams
I feel kind of gross.
Like I could really use an extra-long weekend, or something.
I am tired in ways that are just plain odd. Like I'm still drained from the other night, or something. I think that long, hot bath is in order. With a lot of lights. Or something.
(I'm having trouble getting up these days. Blah! When does daylight savings time end, again? I need the light in the morning more than I do at night).
I didn't hit the grocery store yesterday, so I'll have to do that on the way home from choir. (Conveniently, I can hit the Loblaw's at Billings and bus all the way home. That would be good).
The Feminist SF blog carnival comes out today (I think), so I shall have to go hunting for that soon enough (I'll link to it once it's up).
And now, randomly, a dream I had last night:
I dreamed I found an old box - five by five by five, or so, dark-stained wood with a lid that opened on black hinges. It had a glass inset and there was a picture of you set into it.
Inside the box, there are more photographs - sepia, black and white, they look like they could have been taken in the 30s, but I know how recent they must be.
They are photographs of you, dressed in your wedding gown. You wear a shawl of crocheted lace, your dress has a halter neckline.
There is, in fact, a picture of the dress, itself, on a dress-maker's dummy, with the shawl pinned in place, the skirts over-layed with the same, draping, handmade lace.
There is a letter - more a note, really - from your husband in the box. He'd taken the pictures.
To my surprise, the note is not a love-letter, but a comment on the picture-taking experience, notes on the lighting (natural, spilling through the window, touching your pale skin), on you -- That you don't like to look at the camera, that you'd rather have a character to hide behind.
And yet... There are two sets of pictures.
One set (two pictures, one with a woman who might be your mother, might be someone else, one of you, alone) must have been at the wedding - your hair is short, spiky, tipped with bleach blond (it must have been growing out)
You remind me, here, a little of my aunt - though she is eleven years older than you, just as you are eleven years older than me - maybe it's the haircut. Maybe it's something else.
You are wearing thick-framed, rectangular glasses, staring defiantly at the camera, what flowers you may have carried have been forgotten (on a table, somewhere, lily-stems crushed under a box of crystal, a toaster, a camera for the honeymoon).
There is steel in your eyes; they say
Survivor.
The other pictures were taken later.
Were taken this year - maybe over the winter - your winter, not mine (June, August).
Months away from your ninth anniversary.
You are looking out the window, not at the camera, as though you normally swan around in silk gauze - instead of the yoga pants your so fond of - relaxed, pensive, thoughtful.
What prompted this, I wonder?
Did he ask for another picture?
Did you wonder if the dress would still fit? (How could it not? You're tiny. Sometimes - rarely - I wonder if what you really need is a good meal. Usually I know you're just built like me, eating everything in sight, the ceaseless engine of your body burning it all, using it all).
How did this box - this unexpected touch - find its way into my hands?
This has to be a dream - I know it, though I am still dreaming - so I look at the pictures that my mind has given me: The you I have invented.
A figment of my imagination.
*~*~*~*~*
Time to eat a quick breakfast and head to choir.
- TTFN,
- Amazon. :-)
Like I could really use an extra-long weekend, or something.
I am tired in ways that are just plain odd. Like I'm still drained from the other night, or something. I think that long, hot bath is in order. With a lot of lights. Or something.
(I'm having trouble getting up these days. Blah! When does daylight savings time end, again? I need the light in the morning more than I do at night).
I didn't hit the grocery store yesterday, so I'll have to do that on the way home from choir. (Conveniently, I can hit the Loblaw's at Billings and bus all the way home. That would be good).
The Feminist SF blog carnival comes out today (I think), so I shall have to go hunting for that soon enough (I'll link to it once it's up).
And now, randomly, a dream I had last night:
I dreamed I found an old box - five by five by five, or so, dark-stained wood with a lid that opened on black hinges. It had a glass inset and there was a picture of you set into it.
Inside the box, there are more photographs - sepia, black and white, they look like they could have been taken in the 30s, but I know how recent they must be.
They are photographs of you, dressed in your wedding gown. You wear a shawl of crocheted lace, your dress has a halter neckline.
There is, in fact, a picture of the dress, itself, on a dress-maker's dummy, with the shawl pinned in place, the skirts over-layed with the same, draping, handmade lace.
There is a letter - more a note, really - from your husband in the box. He'd taken the pictures.
To my surprise, the note is not a love-letter, but a comment on the picture-taking experience, notes on the lighting (natural, spilling through the window, touching your pale skin), on you -- That you don't like to look at the camera, that you'd rather have a character to hide behind.
And yet... There are two sets of pictures.
One set (two pictures, one with a woman who might be your mother, might be someone else, one of you, alone) must have been at the wedding - your hair is short, spiky, tipped with bleach blond (it must have been growing out)
You remind me, here, a little of my aunt - though she is eleven years older than you, just as you are eleven years older than me - maybe it's the haircut. Maybe it's something else.
You are wearing thick-framed, rectangular glasses, staring defiantly at the camera, what flowers you may have carried have been forgotten (on a table, somewhere, lily-stems crushed under a box of crystal, a toaster, a camera for the honeymoon).
There is steel in your eyes; they say
Survivor.
The other pictures were taken later.
Were taken this year - maybe over the winter - your winter, not mine (June, August).
Months away from your ninth anniversary.
You are looking out the window, not at the camera, as though you normally swan around in silk gauze - instead of the yoga pants your so fond of - relaxed, pensive, thoughtful.
What prompted this, I wonder?
Did he ask for another picture?
Did you wonder if the dress would still fit? (How could it not? You're tiny. Sometimes - rarely - I wonder if what you really need is a good meal. Usually I know you're just built like me, eating everything in sight, the ceaseless engine of your body burning it all, using it all).
How did this box - this unexpected touch - find its way into my hands?
This has to be a dream - I know it, though I am still dreaming - so I look at the pictures that my mind has given me: The you I have invented.
A figment of my imagination.
*~*~*~*~*
Time to eat a quick breakfast and head to choir.
- TTFN,
- Amazon. :-)