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- 11/17/2012
- 975 Words
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
I dreamed of Meg Ryan - 1. Chapter 1
I dreamed of Meg Ryan.
Again.
It doesn’t really matter.
But we were at ballet exercise, all because of her current crush. Always with the crushes and the exercises.
Normally, I don’t dance that much. I do occasionally dance a box step or two with the refrigerator. This is cause and effect… results, always and only prompted… from an old song, suddenly listened too… much too closely… with the heart… in the moment. Holding on to the handle of the frig can be the next best thing, especially when you are all alone. Mores the pity that people are not much like refrigerators, or are they.
I was wearing my favorite boots at ballet exercise class. So I was making some really amazing thumping sounds with every tippy-toed hop. This explains… ? Why the music is always loud at the ballet, covers up a whole world of thumping. Not that thumping is bad. I think modern dance incorporates the thumping. Doesn’t it.
Dreams are so real, if you believe.
Meg hates being the best friend to my starring role… I am hot in this one… in my dream world. But honestly, she gets all the great dialogue.
I saw myself covered in blood.
The other day, in the world of real blood. A two by four fell out of the sky and struck me bloody red and dead.
Was it a bad way to go?
It’s hard to tell, cause it didn’t keep. I came back. Or I dreamed I came back. Or I only dreamed I died. Which, is a topic I don’t wish to discuss with a doctor. Unless he looks like a doctor who could sing or dance or drives a Rolls Royce. Don’t laugh. I knew such a doctor. Once.
Doctor Stone.
Was a very busy man.
When I was a young man.
Where I was young man.
My life has been shaped by houses. Maybe more than people, relatives.
My parents’ first house.
My grandparents’ antebellum farmhouse.
Aunt Frances’s huge, brick and glass 1950’s modern ranch.
Mrs. Robinson’s house on the hill.
All the houses that lined Sixth Street.
My parents’ second house.
Aunt Maude’s farm house, she left to me.
The house I bought.
The house that burned down.
The house I built.
Makes me wonder. If the cars I have driven… define me in some way.
A 1939 Chevrolet pickup.
A 1949 Beetle.
A 1968 Beetle.
A 1980 fancy Beetle, Scirocco.
A 1970 Chevrolet pickup, I went retro.
A 1994 Limited Ford Explorer.
A 2005 Limited Ford Explorer, I am still driving.
I am still driving.
I am still living.
I am still bleeding.
My important dates in history.
Her mother called my mother and arranged the whole thing. A day at the Zoo. We looked made for each other. Picture perfect.
Perfect.
I was six and she was six.
Meg morphs into “Miss Boo”.
As she often does.
She is singing in French. Does it matter. It is the same song as always and is always different as always.
The light comes into my bedroom. It is a southeastern exposure. So it comes strongly into the room from two sides. All those trees do nothing to block it, as it is well into fall and all those leaves and tree trunks only act as a stained glassed framework for all that light. I am dreaming awake. Or sleeping with my eyes open. But I am under the sheet, now. Hiding from the light. Funny how the sheet changes reality. The perception of it.
Miss Boo is a painter, an artist. An eccentric. In her youth a scarf framed her perfect face and now a shawl frames a perfect face. She offers us… champagne. To Spot and I. Spot is her cat of course. Of course. How this amuses me. There is a cake in a box.
Always.
To be happy.
Her place is a long place. A room that goes and goes. Like the longest hall. And her paintings line the walls. Hundreds of tiny paintings. Miss Boo has only painted the smallest paintings. Would you call them miniatures ?
I met Miss Boo, in childhood. And then grew up into something.
I have a view. Of my own. From the window that is mine. I can see all the way to the fence. It looks tiny. So far away. The past can be far away. And the future can be far away. But yesterday is close as pain and the future is closer than death. Did Miss Boo tell me that ?
Why ?
Explain, that Miss Boo is some kind of dream icon ? Why? Her name is Lorraine. Am I a man to her or some creature like her Spot ? Or am I Spot. If I was Spot that would explain a lot to me. Maybe not to you. I mean if Miss Boo is really Meg Ryan, then it follows that there is a possibility that I could be Spot.
I am not her can opener… clearly… that is her neighbor who can punch his finger into cans, but he only loans actual can openers to Miss Boo.
I walk thru Miss Boo’s world. The one she created and maintains.
And this is only the beginning.
She tells me.
I am the architect.
It is hard to except. My feline side. After all, I am a dog person… all the way.
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5
Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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