tomorrow is Easter
all I can remember is the crab and butter, your Carolina pulled pork, the sound of Sinatra in a long-dead restaurant, before I ran away to find myself
your forgiveness washes down like Northwest rain, cold, wet, interfering with my plans,
my hands are always shaking now as I imagine you on your boat, fishing for men
This morning’s dream felt like an omen and a parable at the same time. I was walking up this parking garage of a big building, a hospital, talking to a person who seemed to know the lay of the land. On a larger scale, this person was probably one of my spirit guides; she felt familiar, calm in the face of my growing (earthly) panic, as if she’s been through this tour before millions of times.
I was talking to her about getting old, missed opportunities, and not being ready for the end. Here’s where we end up close to this ramp (we didn’t get on it, curiously enough) into a part of the hospital for those aged 40-67. In fact, the sign above the light on the open doorway read: “GAR 40-67 Face to Face.”
She let me know that everyone goes through those doors, because everyone needed the solace required before the very end of life on earth. “It’s not a scary place, Carol. We’ve all been there before. But when it’s your time, it’s your time. Your son is still young, with his entire life before him, let him live. You have another place to attend to.”
It didn’t comfort me. I wanted to stay and live longer to experience my son’s life. “I’m not ready. I’m not that far off from 67!”
She let me pass the doorway, as I did the Math, then relayed, “Live now. Remember this.”
It’s been awhile since I journaled a dream. Gotta lay off the naturopathic sleep aids this spring break, because I almost always end up in aggravating arguments with people. I also almost always end up in hotel lobbies, feeling disappointed because I don’t have enough time to eat at the places nearby.
Once, I was in an office setting with these bitches coming at me over something stupid. It didn’t matter what I said in my defense — I was right and they were wrong — they ganged up on me like a termite infestation until I had to leave before I did physical damage. I wanted so much to beat the living crap out of each and every one of those drones.
This morning, same thing, but with this martial artist who threatened to beat the living crap out of me, or sue me for his own criminal act. Prior to this lovefest, this woman we were staying with refused to wash our small laundry basket full of dirty clothes, but she declined with such politeness I wanted to shove her off a high flight of stairs.
There was no up side to these dreams. Even the ocean water was a muddled dirty orange, as if the entire state of New Jersey vomited up its power plant juice all over the deep end.
"I’m such a bad friend." "I suck."
Am I supposed to argue with you? make you feel better about yourself for failing me as a friend, for bailing on me whenever it counts, for talking a good game but never following through but once or twice when there’s nothing better to do or you feel too guilty?
Usually, I can go days, weeks even, without feeling bothered by the sense that most people can’t be bothered to reciprocate a friendship where there really is none. Most of the time, in my case, there is no friendship, just the appearance of one, built up with a lot of hot air and good intentions.
Today, I’m sick of it. I’m liable to go on a deleting spree, except I don’t care anymore. Just mentally make a note, and move forward. And the next time the subject comes up, I’m too busy making other plans to meet up for coffee or Girls’ Night Out (Lord, I hate that term).
The next time I hear, “I suck as a friend,” I’m not going to argue. Yeah, you do. But then you were never a friend of mine to begin with. I just played the role to the hilt. Playtime’s over.