Sunday, June 26, 2005

Bad Dreams

I have a reoccurring bad dream. I don't know if there's a beginning to it - all I ever remember is finding myself being held by an exboyfriend I strongly dislike. I push at his sticky pink flesh telling him to leave but he's stronger than me. I station my back against my bedroom wall - my left arm hot against my yellow linen sheets. Positioning my boney red knees beneath my chin, I thrust my feet against his chest and still no movement. I'm caught in a stagnant struggle losing the energy in my muscles until white light finally slips into my room shining through my navy blue curtains and naturalizes my bedroom walls back into that annoying Terra Cotta colour my sister had chosen a few years ago. That exboyfriend is gone and I find my body tucked against the corner walls. A haunting residue lingers on my mind. I feel dragged and dispirited; I disliked this guy even when we were dating. Then I look at my walls and as usual, my morning mood quickly turns into a bitter huff. I hate Terra Cotta.

One of the teachers at work, Dave, asked me today, "So do you know any stories?" He was probably expecting a lighthearted anecdote.
"Actually, I have a problem you might be able to help me with through your wisdom." I replied.
"Oh," he didn't have to say that part, his mouth already mimics a perfect 'O' shape. "What is it then?"
"I have this reoccurring dream I really want to stop having. It's about an exboyfriend who won't leave me alone no matter how much I try to get him to leave."
"Do you know you are dreaming when this happens?" he asked, but I had to think about it a bit because my attention had already swam sideways into imagining Dave growing rounder, rosier and grayer until he became the perfect Caucasian Santa Clause anyone would ever know. (First of all, Dave is the jolliest person I know. Second, he is a bit round naturally. Third, he never stops smiling. Fourth, his high, round cheekbones are always rosy.)
"Yes." I said finally.
"Well, do something different."
"Like what?" I have the attention-span of a lollypop six year old girl entranced by the fringe of her green-laced skirt.
"I don't know. Just something different." he said while walking backwards before he turned to follow his piano student up the stairs. "It's your dream. You can do whatever you want with it."
I pondered at the reception desk what my plan of action should be. I could turn this exboyfriend into a chicken, but that might bring back a dream I had that I gave birth to a chicken and then worried that the children at school will make fun of her not because she is a chicken but because she also comes from Mexico and therefore she might be teased by the other kids for her Mexican accent. Maybe I can turn him into a watermelon and eat him. Maybe I'll create a hole in my bed for him to slip through and never be seen or heard from again.
If you have any suggestions or comments, let me know.
Sharon

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