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death, duende, and Dream: 3.25.15

March 25, 2015

Monday, I remembered to put away the rest of my “trip spending money”. I spent the remainder of my ordinary-weekly money on the second cup of coffee at my writing & coffee date with myself yesterday. It’s very unusual for my wallet to be completely empty, but today it is. I won’t go to the bank until tomorrow at the earliest.

When I stayed up all night, I re-read my blog post, 1990: Year of Traumas. I marveled again that I lived through that dreadful year. I thought again about resonances between old relationships and not-so-old ones.

My knit hat — that I bought on the business trip to Greater Washington DC in January, 2006, from the Torpedo Factory in Alexandria, VA — has wandered off yet again. I think this time it’s gone for good.

Yesterday I received an email from Smithsonian Folkways about various music CDs they have coming out. I went to their website, searched on “Lithuanian”, and ordered the 2 I found, along with one (of the ones in the email) of New Orleans Brass Bands.

Later, I realized I needed to take (another) Ritual Shower — I’d taken a previous one while in Kentucky. I used my special rose soap (handmade), and washed my hair with a different bar of handmade soap. I changed into the blandest/most-unsaturated clothes I own: a sleeveless shift dress, in beige; beige socks.

I spent much of my day thinking about interconnected griefs, tangles from people old and new.

Only after all of that did I realize my blogroll needed to go away. That I needed to let go of more relationships, more interconnections, and this was a tangible way to do so.


Last night, I had a bunch of jumbled, tangled dreams; when I awoke, I didn’t want to bother with trying to make sense of any of them.

Spouse left for work. I fell back asleep, and had another dream.


Because I’m in a Ritual Death period, all my usual ways of coping with things are… unsettled, incomplete, dissatisfying. I don’t have to be bound by the past… that’s the Whole Point of going through all this.

For dreams like this one, I have tried… all sorts of… ways to think about them. So I can stop having them, because omg. I’ve begged and pleaded with my unconscious to change the metaphors and characters; I’ve ignored the dreams; I’ve (slowly, painfully) picked my way through them, fighting the Shame Spiral the whole time.

None of those approaches have worked.

For this time period, right now, I’m “dead”. The whole week is infused with loss and grief and letting go of things I never wanted to let go of. Death severs all bonds. There is no shame.

What if I needed all of this… to be able to see and feel this kind of dream, properly? To maybe, finally, understand it?


Today. The remaining flowers and greens from the bouquet I bought for Spouse on 3.4.15 {St. Casimir’s Day} have been disbursed to various containers (mostly compost-related). The waters have been ritually dispersed — to Wendy, the seedlings, the windowbox plants, and the water tray, all in the potager. The vase has been washed; upside-down on the sill, it’s drying.

I dressed, reluctantly, and went outside. (Wearing forest green over sky blue.) It’s rainy and cold.

I’ve emptied out the compost cup. What would have been my second cup of coffee (with the last of the ground beans), I added to the empty compost cup, and released that into the wild, widdershins. Also, released was the organic soup from 6 weeks ago, and the wizened organic blueberries. The unbleached coffee filters to compost.

I emptied the garbage can, but did not replace the bag. I walked over 2 bins of recycling; the bag of garbage.

I touched 3 crape myrtles on the skin, transgressing a circle of stones, incurring mud on my shoes.

The fungus complex that is my only nonhuman friend here is dying. I will miss it.


I am as emptied of old obligations, of expectations, as I can make myself.

I am afraid. I resist myself. I begin.


I’m in a large hall/auditorium, with a lot of other people. Many activities are going on, with lots of groups, but I’m there for a gift exchange with a bunch of people I vaguely know from some group I was tangentially involved in.

JM is there, is part of the gift exchange. He’s shorter than me, blonde hair, looks young. Shines from within. It almost hurts to look at him, but I can’t look away. No matter where in the room he is, I know it; I feel it.

The group is in a different location. I’m lying on a wooden floor under a bed, watching others, watching JM who is across the room, also on the wooden floor lying under a bed. I want. With every fiber of my being, I yearn. But… he’s not interested. I know that too. I’m bigger, older; I could make him. I think to myself, “That would be rape; obviously I don’t want that! I have to be strong and respect his lack of desire for me.”

The floor plan of the house? we’re now in is mostly open. I’m in a smallish room, with another girl; JM and a second girl are there too, but involved in other things. The girl with me is trying to tell me something very important to her, and I’m listening hard. She realizes before I do that JM and the other girl have migrated over to us, and are eavesdropping. She’s annoyed. I suggest to her that we “go up into the attic, for privacy”. {I consider explaining that I mean the third floor, not the attic in the closet, but that seems too involved. The ‘attic’ I’m thinking of is in Gramma’s house, but the place we were in didn’t look – at all — like Gramma’s house: open-floor plan, airy, lot of light; minimal furniture, Shaker or Arts & Craft-era style; dark cherry wood floors.} The girl I’m talking to doesn’t want to have to go upstairs for privacy; she wants JM and the other girl to mind their own business, even though we’re in their midst.

In a different setting. The gift givers are walking the gifts over to their recipients. A girl I had confided in turns out to be JM’s recipient; as he approaches her, he brushes up against me, but never even looks my way. The girl recipient is outraged on my behalf. As she and I walk away, {I want to say to her that ‘JM is like my lung’, but I decide that doesn’t sound… essential… enough, so instead} I say, “He was like my liver, like my heart”.

= = =

JM sees me watching a fanfic show that my friends are performing in, on a handheld device. He’s interested in Rose, a girl in the show, so he wants to see what I’ve got. {He could watch it with me, or ask to borrow it later, but both would require talking to me.} He manages to somehow sync our devices, and surreptitiously copies the files. I know he’s doing it, but I allow him to think I’m oblivious; I grieve again.

Later, I’m on “lawn seating” at an outdoor show. People in the row ahead of me have lawn chairs that create a sort of canopy that I’m lying under, with my blanket. The girl who received the gift from JM comes over, asks if she can sit with me. I’m surprised, but I say, “Sure”. She crawls under the blanket with me. {She wants to be seen with me.}

JM and his guy friends are across the way, having a good time, but soon I’m not thinking about them at all because this girl next to me is so amazing, funny, and unpredictable. I feel something poking around near my foot; when I look over at the girl, she says she’s taking her clothes off. When she’s nude (except for red shoes), she throws off the blanket. We both laugh. We’re having a lot of fun together.

At the very end of the dream, I receive my gift. The giver was a girl I didn’t know, and we didn’t meet and talk; she left the gift where I’d find it. It’s a length of Lithuanian linen, mostly a warm almond color, but has a dyed design incorporating (real) indigo. Apparently she drove all the way to this little place in Pennsylvania where there’s a store selling imported ethnic costumes, textiles, and music. They had a section for Lithuanian stuff.

As I’m unrolling it — it’s very long — I’m wonderstruck at the effort she went to, to find something I would love, that would be meaningful and significant, but also beautiful.


Ordinarily, I would… get all caught up in how much of the things in this dream echo real things that happened with the real-JM.

Not today.

As I ground more coffee beans, spiced them, and brewed a second pot of coffee, I let my thoughts and feelings drift.

I realized something significant: I DON’T NEED OTHER PEOPLE TO EMBODY ME.

= = =

Historically, when I’ve dreamed of Gramma’s house, it signifies my own soul, my deepest self. Apparently, “behind the scenes” some remodeling has been going on! The new place is bigger inside than it looks outside. There’s more light; there’s room to really move. I could dance throughout the whole house.

The only colors I remember seeing were white on the baseboards, and the dark cherry wood of the floors. I think the furniture was honey-colored wood, but there wasn’t much of it, and I never seemed to see it head on; it was always out of the corner of my eye, where it seemed seen-and-unseen. Maybe it’s only fully there when it’s needed.

Dream-JM may have been physically radiant, but his actions don’t reflect well on his moral development. Perhaps he will grow into his own best self, when left to his own devices — without dream-me yearning after him, just as he is, every moment.

Honestly, I think dream-me has outgrown her own desire for dream-JM.

{Death dissolves all bonds.}

The dream-girl who wanted to be seen with me was way more fun. And way more like me, the way I am now.

= = =

The gift of Lithuanian linen, dyed with indigo (one of my sacred colors), intrigues me.

Flax fiber; indigo. Weaving. Traditional Lithuanian culture, but interpreted anew. Never unrolled all the way, so “the rest is still unwritten”.

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