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Flip-flop flop.
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Psycho bitch.
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Saturday, September 23, 2006
Frought with emotion. I rarely remember my dreams unless I'm woken up mid rem cycle. Last night it was my dream that woke me up, guaranteeing its place in my conscious memory. There was a second floor balcony on a sort of New Orleans style building. Two friends of mine - I don't know who they were, though I suppose I must have in the dream - were urging me up to the balcony to proselytize to the people below on the street. I didn't really want to; I didn't know what to say. When I reached the balcony, I started telling people about the importance of Rosh Hashanna, and Yom Kippur. But a few words into my improvised, heartfelt speech, the friends flanking me started shouting out to the people what it was I was trying to say. Only it wasn't what I was trying to say. It was like a game of telephone where once person says something, and repeaters change it until it's unrecognizable. These folks were doing that before I even had the words out of my mouth. And they were louder. I wasn't mad about it, I just kinda stopped talking. Why try to out shout someone? As I stood on the balcony, I realized I could see onto a rooftop below. There was my paternal grandfather sitting among chaos. There was broken furniture and all sorts of debris around him. He was sitting in a small chair, holding an old black & white photograph of my young, skinny grandmother with my six or seven year old father on her lap. I had to be there, and since it's a dream, I was. My memory is fuzzy from there. I remember him, I remember the smell of Old Spice, I remember the photograph, and I remember waking up while dreaming that my head was in the lap of someone - my mom? my dad? my grandmother? - crying deeply with my whole body, "I miss my grandfather," over and over again. It was nice, since he died a few years ago and I haven't cried yet. posted by hilary at 9:05 AM |  
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I miss my grandpa too. My Grandpa Slye could do anything. He could reapholster a roomful of furniture. He could do beautiful things to leather (tooling), make tatted lace (I wish I'd had him teach me...it was lovely) and he once made me a dulcimer...but I left it at my grandparent's house and after he died (with no will) I didn't get anything of his at all. Even the leather tools and the dulcimer he wanted me to have.
Your grandfather just wants you to know he's thinking about you and misses you too. I have dreams about my dad every now and then, and they are usually informative.
The above was left by me...Jenna!
Sounds like a crzy dream!
I rarely remember mine either!
I love that. I, too, have had periods where I couldn't or didn't cry about something that I knew would be healthy to just cry about. Then I'd have a dream like that where I bawled like a screaming baby and "got it all out." It's like our body is saying, "Girl, you need to cry some of this out. So if you wont do it consciously, I'll have you do it subconsciously." Amazing.