Waiting for the phone telling us to run

[sovay]

In my one dream last night that was not a nightmare, I went to the library. It was not a library that exists; it resembled aspects of the BPL, the pre-renovation Cambridge Public Library, and the tiny branch library at the end of my childhood street that is now a community TV studio. No one was masked or distancing and it felt natural to me, from which I conclude it was the next timeline over where all we had to worry about was the politics, which are really quite bad on their own. Upstairs was a display of books in memoriam of a famous editor and reviewer who had not existed either; downstairs in the children's section one of the murals was a timeline of Jewish history in Boston and a young man—college-aged, red-headed, wearing a beat-up vintage flight jacket—was lying on his elbow at the base of it, running his fingers back and forth across the text and the stenciled photographs. Hebrew letters the size of sparks flew off at the contact and drifted under the surface of the wall before fading. It reminded me of a similar effect in Lights (1984) and I told him so, after which I had to explain the TV special to him because he had never heard of it. Some kind of lecture was going on upstairs and we were hanging out by the stairwell, trying to stay out of the way of the lines for the restrooms, when he asked suddenly, "So what's your type?" He was looking cocky and hopeful, but he had to repeat himself, "You know, who does it for you?" before I realized I was being hit on by almost certainly somebody's ghost or some other supernatural creature that, even if it had been human, was of an age to be my child, and I laughed. That was the dream I woke up from. It was nice. Awake, I am in extreme physical pain and an unsurprising amount of emotional distress from both my personal circumstances and the slightest awareness of the world and I am getting so much runaround from the system in which my doctors are embedded that I keep reminding myself that arson is not an appropriate response to American healthcare. I would like something good to happen and nothing seems to.

Comments

[asakiyume]

Hmmm, well, I guess if he's the young side of "college-aged" and/or you were young when he was conceived, you could be his parent. But ghosts are timeless, and so is your spirit.

I like the Hebrew letters drifting off where he touched. I don't like that you woke up in pain and emotional distress. (Sharing in the distress...)

[sovay]

Hmmm, well, I guess if he's the young side of "college-aged" and/or you were young when he was conceived, you could be his parent. But ghosts are timeless, and so is your spirit.

Heh. Thank you. I was probably fertile from the time I was eighteen, so at this point the full college bracket is within the realm of biological possibility—so he could have been a hundred-year-old ghost or a three-thousand-year-old Aramaic demon, but he looked like someone who was hilariously too young for me even to think about considering.

I like the Hebrew letters drifting off where he touched.

It was one of the few really striking images I've gotten out of a dream lately that wasn't horrific.

I don't like that you woke up in pain and emotional distress. (Sharing in the distress...)

*hugs*