At a certain time in my life the library was my favorite place to be. As a child, both my parents worked long hours and since we were too small to go with them or it wasn’t allowed, when it was necessary, we were dropped off at the library and had to basically stay there all day. Some children would hate not being able to run and play, would hate having to whisper all the time. I didn’t, because I loved to read. It was like being in Wonderland.
Finding a quiet corner in the dim aisles with a stack of books by my side, I was happy. Or I would go to the multi-media room where, then, there were bins and bins of records to play. And on a little individual record player with those huge headphones weighting down my head, I’d listen to music for hours. So at a young age I introduced myself to classical music, Bach, Mozart, Mahler and more. Yet the international tracks were my favorite: the poignant love songs of Spain, the solemn yet stirring music of Germany, the otherworldly drama of Kabuki.
When I was older, had my own car and was suppose to be in school, I’d skip classes not to go to the mall or off with friends for mischief, I’d go to the library. At that time, the international section was my favorite. Except for ex-pats from other countries, usually only a single older man who came to read the newspaper or a couple of Asian ladies, there was me. Other areas were usually close with people who no longer understood it was considerate and polite to speak in low tones so as not to disturb others. On the second floor, it’s huge windows facing south, with one very petite and quiet caretaker whose French accent was brilliant, we had our own world inside.
The first dream.
When my dream began, this is where I was. All those players in place. I found myself surprised and pleased inside my dream, and found one of those well-cushioned chairs to relax back into. My peace and well-being was not to last. Two men appeared, conspicuous in leather jackets and hats. They moved in a curious pattern, criss-crossing each other in a small square, eyes roaming looking at everyone with a slightly contemptuous air. One of them focussed on me.
He begins to jeer, making derogatory remarks and then laughing. His “friend” agree with his comments. I watched the play-by-play as they fed off each other. I am familiar with the immature goading process, and I normally don’t respond, but they were being disruptive to the others. I speak up. Ask them to stop, then tell them to do so. They only laugh. I realize it’s my prescence that will keep it going since they have no other aim except to attempt to provoke me. I have an appointment elsewhere, soon enough anyway, so I stand and leave, walking to the elevators. They follow. As I try to step inside the opened doors, they jostle me, keeping me from entering. They’re still laughing as the doors close, and it’s announced the next car will arrive in seventeen minutes. Too long to wait. I’ll take the stairs.
“Bet we’ll reach the lobby before you do!” one says.
Irritated, I accept the challenge. There are two doors, one to each side of the elevator.
“Choose which one is right,” says the other.
They should both lead to the same place. I choose the left, enter and close it behind me. I am not in a stairwell. I find myself in a warehouse of some kind. Auto work is going on around me. The sliding metal door, which faces west, was open to the afternoon. It’s golden and beautiful. I see familiar housing, and realize where I am. It’s approximately 2.5 miles away from the library though still in the downtown area.
I am angry at myself. Because of my succumbing to their provocation and dare, I allowed myself to be diverted. It will take me many moments to walk back to the library and my car. I will now be late for my appointment.
The next two dreams are extremely similar to each other. In both I am at an event, one was an awards ceremony, the other is an art show. Nothing of menace in either. Even in the first dream, there was no true dark theme, just an unnecessary situation by the two antagonists. I am interacting with the other guests, having canapés and champagne, telling stories and ancedotes to amuse others, laughing at jokes and witticisms. I realize it’s time to go, I’ve another place to be.
In each, I then head out into the night in search of my vehicle, a car park and a parking lot. As I walk among the waiting cars, I realize I don’t remember what level I’d parked mine on. A couple of people see my distress, so they try to help.
What does your car look like? I don’t remember.
Shall we call someone to help you? Yes, my mother please.
She’ll know. But I can’t remember her number. In turn, I can’t remember where I live. Then, more terrifying, I realize I don’t know my own name or who I am.
These dreams need little interpretation. And upon waking after the third, they all occurred within days of each other, their meaning was clear.
A week ago today, Angel Martinez posted a blog entry, “In Defense of Red Haircrow” at Goodreads.com. Follow the link for the full post, but quick synopsis is, although my article “My Thoughts of Female Writers of M/M” was not directed at anyone in particular, some took it personally and have been criticizing and making negative remarks about me. Since I don’t move in M/M elcusive circles, visit blogs directly about the genre though I do have several online contacts who do write it, I’ve not observed the behavior firsthand, though I see the “after evidence”. My only reply:
One of my quotes: “You don’t have to disrespect and insult others simply to hold your own ground. If you do, that shows how shaky your own position is.”
— Red Haircrow
Angel and I had a brief discussion in the comment section of her post, about honesty, and yes she agreed with some of my thoughts. This was on my mind as well, obviously.
A week ago, I also decided querying agents about my memoir would be a good idea, a judge of it’s character so to speak. This is the only thing different in my normal schedule that I’ve changed. I set about writing proposals and researching agents, and actually sent three out. Then I started having the dreams.
Who or what might be diverting me from a better or wiser course?
Am I allowing myself to be provoked into unwise actions? What are the forums for these actions?
Loss of self.
Am I letting myself change to meet other peoples requirements? Am I losing the individuality of my nature and path?
Were the dreams a warning or merely a caution? Were they simply showing my fears, or attempting to provide me an invaluable lesson?
I’ve had many dreams which gave me a foretelling or warning, such as I described in my entry “Dreaming of Bear and Wolf”, but whatever the questions or considerations, clearly, these particular dreams are telling me to reexamine myself, my motives, my direction. They are advocating me to choose the right battles, ignore the empty provocations. I must not lose my way in ultimately empty displays to try to match the equally empty posturing of others. I must not forget who I am, where I came from, and who helped me become the person I am today.
4 thoughts on “Three Dreams & A Decision”
I loved spending time in the library when I was a kid. We definitely had that in common. Reading this blog was like a stroll down memory lane for me.
Whenever I visit a new city or country, one of the first things I like to do is find a library to sit in. It’s like orienting myself somehow. Certain sections are now bare, the old musty tomes, photo books, newspapers, while the DVDs or CD areas are packed with chatters. I like those lonely, yet memory filled places.
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