Rocking The Boat


Here is another snippet of one of the larger pieces I am working on, working title, The Thunderbirds. You can find more  by clicking on that tag/category. At this point it is not necessary to read these in any particular order, but you can read this as post #2.


The second dream is unpredictable. It is always the same dream but elements change. I dream I as sleeping in a boat on the water. As in the first dream, the light is soft and blue. The world is hazy but as I wake up, in the dream, things came into a sharper focus and the light becomes whiter, brighter, scraping at my eyes a little. I am both an observer and a participant. My vantage changes. At moments I am in the boat. At times I am watching myself from a short distance away.

Rocking gently, the vessel serves as a cradle. I feel cozy, content and slowly I become aware of the arms that embrace me, a warm, firm body at my back curved with mine, like two embryos spooning. I stretch and sit up, turning to face my lover who is also waking. I take in his face. He is younger than I, with the slightly weathered look of someone who has spent a fair amount of time outdoors, but not so much that it has leathered him. He is strong and wiry, with a hint of a beard, a bit of stubble really. This surprises me when I recall the dream, why my brain would invent a bearded lover when I’ve always been repelled by facial hair?But then, these dreams have never felt like dreams. They feel real and also alien, as if there was no way  my mind could have invented them by itself.

In the dream, the man kisses me and asks me how I slept, if I’m hungry, makes all the normal, affectionate couple gestures. I tell him I am concerned. I am afraid we are drifting and I don’t know where we are. He assures me we are safe and exactly where we need to be. His body grounds me, but his blue eyes unsettle me. Every time I look into them, I freeze a little and there is no thought or remembrance of Ally or anyone but him.

We make love. The sex is amazing, even by dream sex standards. Afterwards, the fear creeps back and I find my fingers tangling in his hair as I look into those cut turquoise orbs, my heart pounding against my bones. And he tells me that if my heart keeps beating so hard it will rock the boat.

And that’s when I wake up or go into a different dream.

Sometimes the boat is a nice sized pleasure boat with a galley and a cabin. It has also been a freighter. Sometimes we are drifting in a rowboat in the middle of the ocean. Other times we are sailing down a wide river. The water is serene or it’s  choppy. The man is blonde, sandy headed or his hair is dark. Always we are sleeping  in a boat. Always we wake up. We make love. His eyes are always blue. He  tells me my heart will rock the boat. When I wake, my heart is racing and I have to take a pill to calm it down.

But the third dream unsettles me the most.

-LM 2015


The Blue Dream


Here is a slice of one of something larger I am working on, working title, The Thunderbirds. You can find more by clicking on that tag/category. At this point it is not necessary to read these in any particular order, but you can read this as post #1.

blue dream_landscape

In the first dream my horse is a white cloud against a smooth blue landscape. I sit on her back gazing out at  the wide expanse. I once read in an off-world magazine that humans couldn’t always see blue or at least they couldn’t describe it. What would their ancients have made of this vista with its strange light, blending sky into mountain into desert prairie? I wondered about my own ancestors language and experience. I knew little of my history so I had created my own.

Stretching out for miles, the sky and land were almost seamlessly one, simply different shadows of that cerulean light fading in and out of each other, flat as a photograph. At first glance it was ordinary, but the feel of it was alien, peculiar; at once the view that confronted me daily and something I had not noticed before.

Curiosity and trepidation danced in my stomach. I was compelled to move forward, but I didn’t know why. It seemed foolish and dangerous, neither my cup of tea. I wanted chamomile. I looked ahead and all I saw was thistle. I could be riding toward my demise. The flatness ahead left no cover. Anyone that might be hiding in the hills would see me coming long before I saw them and that made me nervous, more so as a lone traveler.

In the dream, there was little of the familiar. There was no Easy, no Alli, no memory of anything coming before. Only a sense of loss and deadness. This was not my country, but ahead even less so. The great unknown looming at the end of a great flat plain. It was not really my choice to be here or to go forward but I couldn’t go back. Forward was mystery that made no promises. Backward was dust and bone.