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Indigo Vales

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Indigo Vales

Tag Archives: dream

Soon?

15 Tuesday Dec 2020

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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December, dream, green life, growing, insomnia, life, long dark, Solstice, soon

The neighbor’s bathroom door slammed.
He’s a very good slammer.
My eyes opened and saw Christmas cactus silhouette
on the windowsill, echevarria’s sawtooth lump,
prayer plant’s leaves erect as they are not during the day.
It was a miracle I slept between then and then,
I dreamed, and hated the dream and
wanted to call you and tell you I’m sorry even though it was
just a dream about your fish in a tank, saltwater in fresh,
giant in small, and that you just didn’t seem to care.
I catalogued my pains and knew I would not sleep anymore.
Loud footsteps cross downstairs.
His microwave door thumps closed: breakfast of champions.
Nurse shadow passes my window, bundled.
It will be light soon? I asked swaying bare branches outside.
The laptop is so cold on my wrists; I turn on the heat
and hope it will satisfy the plants on the sill whose magenta faces
press desperately to the cold pane.
It must be light soon. It was dark at five, surely the sun will come soon?
Where is that cool cobalt that cancels coal dark,
sherbet palette on the way? Now? Is it now?
These are the long nights of winter in this hemisphere
5PM and the timers kick on the courtyard lights
6AM they’re still glowing
When the light finally comes I see crows flying west
as the dragonflies did in late spring, certain.
The crows of Middletown flew west late in the day,
I could tell the time by their flocking
as I sat near tall windows, chatting on the phone about nothing.
Cars dripping dew awaken, Navies on their way.
The sun’s trajectory short like patience.
My plants drink, hungry, and I use my indoor voice to say
“Good morning” and I rub their leaves gently.
I dread the night.

dreamsong

30 Friday Oct 2020

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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dream, love, Mom, moment, poem, song, womanly things

Standing at the kitchen sink
in a tiny log cabin
cold orange light slanting in
Washing washing washing
Bruce Springsteen behind
watching me
wash with a rag in the big white sink
singing an old bride’s song

It’s a song about rain on one side of the day
blue skies in the morning and waking cold
middle of the night
unsure if I did all the washing
The blankets you made are heavy and tell me
everything’s all right.

I’ve got rain on my mind
fog in my eye
Lavender in every breath that happens
Mom said she loves me
I already know
because it’s about to rain on the other side of the sky.

March 14, 2020

14 Saturday Mar 2020

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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childhood, dream, home, message, morning, no pain, sunlight

Before I opened my eyes I could feel the light on my lids.
For 10 seconds I thought I was in my bed at my parent’s house.
When I opened my eyes I expected to see the 6 panels of cold glass,
peeling paint
in a bed a little too cold but pillow deep
For 10 seconds my body felt no pain, and my mind did not reach
for the usual noise.

When I did unpeel my eyes I was a little surprised to be in this bed,
warm, safe, no peeling paint, and no fear.
Strange my self reflected on that time and place I have no love for.

I do not believe dreams are random. They come for us.
I was sent 10 seconds for a reason. A reminder. A connection.

This morning I take note of the message: 10 seconds without pain
or fear: safe, secure, and OK.

A Daughter Floats Away

03 Wednesday Oct 2018

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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Asian flower patterns, black velvet, breathe, conflict, daughter, display, dream, mirrors, mother, wind

My eyes open in my dark room. Moon white through window blind slats illuminates the garnet underleaves of the prayer plant. Breathing the last dream I had.

A small girl wears great, wide, long sails of black velvet. Asian flower blooms edged in gold float on her capes that she wears on her tiny shoulders. She is to be my daughter soon. Everywhere we walk there is wind, no, strong breezes, the kind to fly kites in that won’t be pulled out of your hands. She spends all her time trimming and gathering her “sails” so her capes will flow out beautifully, so the flowers can all be seen and be pretty.

We are in a small room, antique, ornate, silent. The room is crammed with mirrored shelves with cups and plates on display, cups and plates edged in Asian flower blooms and gold. The room is difficult to walk in, there is little room to move about without bumping into a display, and there is a woman in here now. She is the girl’s cruel mother, and she won’t give her to me.

Universe, Fingerpaints.

26 Wednesday Sep 2018

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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aliens, border, cars, children, dream, fingerpaints, fishing, Hoya, justice, life, music, ocean, peace, potted plant, questions, rain, son, sunrise, Universe, writing

I wake up at 0400, I don’t know why.

My Hoya plant climbs and changes direction all day, pushing out leaves that start out maroon then turn green, looking for something cling to, I guess, but I don’t know how. They don’t care why.

Somebody’s gorgeous, imperfect black Mercedes 350 D sits in the parking lot, and I don’t know who it belongs to. Should I do penance for coveting?

I had a dream and you were in it and I was awful to you. Should I apologize?

My son shivers under a pile of covers every few weeks and nobody knows how to fix him. When will we find the answer?

Who will tend our nerves and muscle, spine and hips, and tell them stand down, the money has come, go and get well, healthcare has come?

What does an unaching body feel like?

Where does music come from?

Why are those finger-sized fishes jumping out of the bay into the air?

Where did my pouch of flash drives go?

What will my next best writing look like, and who will tell me “Yes, we want this.”

Are you the one tapping on my window at night when it rains, sounding like somebody is dropping berries onto my windowsill from the roof in the middle of the night?

Who’s going to put all this stuff away, and wash laundry, and take the garbage out, and pay bills, and wash the car?

Does anyone else hate the fact that Greenie’s is gone and wonder what will replace that beach bar that the mayor said yeah that was nice but it’s time to move on?

How many children are still without their parents at the border and will they ever see them again?

Peace in our time?

Are aliens shunning us?

Who made the first fishing net?

I dunno.   It’s all just Universe painting, I guess.  Meanwhile….who can think with all this going on…  20180926_070410

You Deserve Better Than Your Name

08 Wednesday Nov 2017

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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bats, dream

I opened my eyes and looked down at my body and the covers on my bed. I felt alive and aware and comfortable, if not happy, but at least content, you know, that moment when you’re not here or there, in dreamland, but everything is happening in my bed.  The room was bright. Above me, by my knees, was hovering a few black specks that I named fruit flies. There were only a few hovering high above my knees in a well-lit room. But more came. And then more. And more. I was surprised at how many of the dark specks were hovering over me, and I wondered if it was because I hadn’t taken my garbage out promptly.

Then, one by one, some of the fruit fly specks grew into larger specks, then larger, and they revealed themselves to me as little bats. The bats were hovering over my knees as I was covered in my bed.  I wasn’t afraid, they gave me no reason to fear or worry, but I was perplexed at why they were in my room and what to do next.

I got up out of bed and now I am surrounded by tiny bats. Their bodies are the size of my thumb. They bombard me not with wings outstretched, but bodies, little brown furry bodies clinging to me. Once, when I was a teenager, I came upon bats in an attic, and their winged movements, climbing up the wall horrified me.  In this dream, the bats do not horrify me.  I feel like they are present and needful and I’m not sure what to do. I got up and opened my bedroom window, then lifted the screen window hoping to entice them a way for them to leave, leave, leave, go!  I am covered in little bats, in my hair and my clothes, their tiny fingers clinging. I work hard to gently pick them out of my hair, to pick them off my sleeves, I’m working gently because I do not want to hurt them, but I feel they just cannot stay stuck to me, and the dream is specific as I gently pick each claw from my hair and my shirt one by one and shoo them out into the street.   Each one I pull off me I toss outside beyond my window and they fly away, unharmed.

There is a larger story about these bats that came to roost in my hair. Maybe it began that day we trespassed on that mansion in the back like all teenagers do.  All I know is, I spent a long time grossing out over bats, but now, today, I embrace them and appreciate them in ways I never could before. The next time someone suggests I’m batshit crazy I think I’ll wear that like a badge instead of shame.

Pop Pop, I Dream You and Miss You

08 Wednesday Nov 2017

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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alarm clock, childhood, dream, grandpa

“Nah, nah, nah, what the hell are you doing?” he hollered at me. A little kid. I wasn’t doing something the right way.  Pop Pop ran up beside me and told me for the third time how to work the foot controls and the hand levers to keep the race car he made on the lawn and not run into the flower beds. It was called the MudSlugger.  He hollered any time I did something “dumb” but it wasn’t a painful admonishment. It was just how he talked.  My mother’s father, Pop Pop, meant a lot to me as a kid.  I loved wandering into his garage and smelling the smells of old gasoline, oil, and everything in between, his shelves neat, his jars and drawers neatly labeled, my aunt Ruthie’s artwork hanging here and there.  To this day I wonder where their Plymouth Fury, the sea-green one with the push-button transmission has gone. I wonder where the pigeon he kept in a house outside his garage has gone, the one he healed and helped survive its injury. So many tiger-lily, mimosa, lightning bug, captain crunch, super salty roast, leave the dogs alone memories are with me now and I wonder where they’ve gone.  I miss his white Ford pickup, the one with green highlights, clamshell hood, the one he covered in dark orange carpet and hand made a tool shed in back, where we sat on the way to the grocery store.

Last night Pop Pop came to me.  The dream was me in the back of a something, probably a truck, leaning over a tailgate.  The truck was connected to that trailer, the one made of old grey wood that will flip up when the weight is unequally distributed.  The truck was pulling the little trailer, and my son and Pop Pop was sitting on the trailer.  My son was happy.  Pop Pop was as I remember him. He was kneeling, wearing a dark blue down vest over a plaid shirt, his wire-framed glasses on his wrinkled smiling face, and both he and my son were happy.  I took pictures of them with my camera phone from the back of the pickup.  I leaned over and showed them the picture.   My son saw that my phone had a broken lens, and he somehow, I don’t know how, made the cracks disappear and the phone’s pictures felt magical.  My son and Pop Pop were sitting together on a trailer being hauled by Mike.  Pop Pop was with me, and I know few will understand what that feels like and that’s okay, but he was.  I miss him. I want to remember him, his fastidiousness, his devotion to creativity but his desire to keep it all in its place. I miss those mimosa blossoms, visiting my aunts, carrots that were terribly salty and yet I loved them.

Pop Pop came to me last night, and I cry because I feel so blessed to see him again.  I cry because I hope his creativity and fastidiousness won’t be lost on future generations.  We should all be so lucky to have a Pop Pop who made things, who learned, who worked part time right up until the end. He taught me so much.  Meanwhile, I’m looking for a giant clock they kept in their bedroom that you could hear anywhere in the house, ticking, a pink double-alarm ticking, that comforted me in ways I am still looking for.

Preamble to Orpheus

08 Wednesday Nov 2017

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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dream, life, meaning

Waking up from a beautiful dream is a blessing. First because you’re waking up and second you have something beautiful to remember, to hold.  I believe all our dreams are precious and important, no matter how disturbing, distressing, uncomfortable, strange, or nefarious they might seem.  Gifts wrapped in satin or barbed wire, they are gifts nonetheless. We think about them on the way to the can as we relieve ourselves, in the shower reveling in hot water, wondering. We examine them and call up their minute details on the drive to work, in between emails, distracted, bemused, unsettled, wondering.

No one has the magic answer that decodes our dreams. They are studied and we’ve learned so much about them, and I appreciate all the effort and time that so many have put into understanding our sleeping selves. In the end, our dreams are personal. We have many docents who guide us to keep our hand on the prickly rope on our journey down into the dark as we seek the secret minerals that glow in red and green, blue and what is that at night.  Everyone will experiences their own journey, and I believe it’s important that no should define a dream, that midnight walk when the body is paralyzed. Guide, but do not define.  Suggest, offer a hand, but only the dreamer knows what it means.

I know when I dream I am healthy. My mind is unlocked while my body heals from the day.  When my dreams are absent I do worry.  My sleeping habits are not great, so it’s no wonder my dreams aren’t faithful. That’s okay.  The misses remind me to do better in every way.  Now for two dreams that will mean little to anyone except for me, one little and one a little bit bigger in two different posts.

Tiger Wrangling

18 Wednesday Oct 2017

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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bearcat, dream, fight, relocating, white tigers, wild, woundings

A steep grassy hillside in daylight, a long narrow sandy area below.  I was instructed by I don’t know who to get the animals into their pens now.

I doubted that I could accomplish the task in this dream, but what I notice as I sit in waking daylight is that I wasn’t afraid or overcome with doubt. It was more like, I can probably do this, I’m not sure how, but here goes.

It’s not easy wrangling white tigers when they bury themselves in the sand, only a small part of their face showing and that’s how I found him.  It’s a dream, so who knows how they they got themselves in the sand but one sprang out at me from the sand, he was only me-sized, strong and hurtful, he toothed and clawed me, long deep wounds in my arms, but I got my hand in his collar and started dragging him towards the plane.  He turned over on his back, front and back legs up, struggling and fighting with me like a stubborn dog that did not want to go in the house but I never lost grip on his wide, old, soft leather collar.  We fought and I dragged and eventually he got to his feet and I was able to get him up and inside the DC-10. Once inside, it was well-lit and there were pens ready for the critters, small affairs made of old plywood with dubious latches.

I went back out and found another white tiger hiding in the tall grass. This one was stubborn but not fightful, dull like his blue eyes, it allowed me to drag it up into the DC-10 and shove it into a lower waiting pen.

I went back out and found a bearcat, or a binturong since this dream wants to be specific. Long and black and heavy and feisty, like carrying a 40-pound ferret that wasn’t mean or terrible, just sleek and busy, nicking me with his claws as he climbed all over me.  I tucked binturong into his pen next to the first white tiger and closed another dubious latch.

The pilot came down dressed in casual blue, long sleeves and slacks, headphones hanging around his neck and he tiredly told me I had to get in my seat we’re leaving now.  We were leaving before all the pens were filled, but I knew this was it. We were headed elsewhere, a sanctuary of some sort.

I don’t know the reason I had to uproot wild and active creatures, put them in pens, and take them somewhere else. I know I wasn’t certain I could do it, and I was bloodied in the process. I wonder if those creatures are wild and free and satisfied. Few of my dreams give me the final word.

Feeling Cold In A Warm Sun

02 Monday Oct 2017

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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death, don't give up, dream, guns, hope, life, peace

The underground building and garage is labyrinthine, sharing arteries, paths, walkways like conjoined twins. Some shortcut paths we (the workers) weren’t allowed to take, those were designated for certain people only (perhaps the kind that wear heels instead black, tarry workboots.)  The building is brand new, the cement floors painted clean gray and bright yellow. It is loud and echoey in here. I’m the only woman in here, and the men aren’t nice to work with.  At my right shoulder is a man I used to work with.  He stuffed five pages of faxed copies of his records in my hand, and he’s appointed me the task to help him with pointing, grunting, and broken English.  He is Asian, his name hard to pronounce. (Mister H?)  No one wants to help him.  He follows me through the long halls that seem to lead nowhere, through bright tunnels where workers are laughing, smoking, fooling around, and definitely not helping.  He points to a name and phone number and wants me to call this man (the top man, the boss) and get Mister H help.  Most of the dream is me on a cellphone making a series of phone calls until I can get as high as “they” will let me to demand medical care for Mister H who was hurt on the job. He is out of work, no one will help him, it says he’s eligible right here on the forms, YOU signed it, what’s the problem, then?

It’s past sunrise and I awakened to a messy room.  I stand up, wobbly, because my right hip grumbles at me when my body is still for too long. I drink a cup of cold water from a Starbucks Seattle mug a friend gave me. I wonder how her night went, knowing, but still hopeful.  And then I read the news that comes from Las Vegas.

I can’t believe my eyes, and my heart cycles through broken, angry, sad, who cares, looking for fault, finding a reason, then starts all over again.  I light a sage-scented candle, something strong and clean to try and purge the sickness from my two little rooms. I’m too warm but my bare feet are cold, and it’s an October morning for sure. Another day I don’t understand and I know I’m not asking the right questions or speaking the right words. For now.  Someone posted a terrible verse from Isaiah on Twitter to the effect that god don’t care for your thoughts and prayers because your hands have blood on them.  Well okay, then.  While I wash the blood and shit and dirt from my hands, I will look for ways to be a vessel of peace, an instrument of giving, a la St. Francis.

If I close my heart, I’ve already failed.

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