Censorship, and Other Historical Blunders

Actually, I have very little to say about historical blunders. We all know what they were (the Holocaust, the A-Bomb, and even that’s open to debate, Darfur, the imprisonment of Nelson Mandela, the burning of witches, etc…you get the drift). Now it appears we intend to follow suit and err yet again: censoring tweets, fining and imprisoning those who speak out about injustice whether it be corporate, crimes against humanity, whatever.

We can’t even be serious. So if a corporation basically rips you off, steals from you, lies to you, whatever, it can then IMPRISON you for complaining publicly about it? Is this even for real?? I mean, what? Is this the fucking Hitler era? Big Brother? If we imprison people by keeping them in cages for crimes they didn’t commit and then try to deny it and would actually succeed were it not for the recordings secretly obtained showing otherwise…this is to be outlawed? (It just started hailing…for real.)

Telling the truth has become a crime.

 

Two In One Night

I had a nightmare last night. It was so frightening to me that my entire body shook, one tremor so deep, it was felt from head to toe. That, combined with the moaning in terror, woke me and it was then that I noticed the wee Spike had moved and that he was looking at me as if he didn’t know me. This is what terror does to people: it makes them unrecognizable.

In my nightmare, I was dressed in a hospital gown and was locked in the courthouse, the Supreme Court building in New Westminster no less. I was seated in the bathroom doing what most people do when they’re seated in a bathroom. There was a window next to the toilet but it had these greyish-yellow drapes, drapes that prevented me from being seen but through which I could see the hallway on the other side. Beside that window, a door, a door no one ever used and for some strange reason was never locked. Still, no one ever came or left through that door, not even myself, or even attempted a sideways glance at it. I often wondered about that. It was as if I was not really there. How composed, I thought, how dedicated were these people, to not even give in to the urge that must have been there, to glance at the door which held me. Of course, I could have left at any time. The option was there; the door, open. Truth is, deep down,  I was afraid of the consequences. I was terrified of being found guilty of  this crime I was unaware of having committed. I had assumed that the people who worked here, the judges, court clerks, records clerks, were good, decent law-abiding people and that I was safe here. I was in good hands. This was, of course, a belief that was about to expire as most beliefs do, in a very ugly fashion.

I was aware that this day was the day of my release. I had been here, held captive, while the government examined and studied and tried to poke holes in my reason for existence. I had no idea what it was I was supposed to have done, what crime I had supposedly committed, but they must have. They were responsible to me during my stay, providing me with meals, a television, cleaning my room (which, in this dream, was a black empty area fading into nothingness, over there, across from the toilet.) and offering me books to read. The books contained large, glossy photos of wildlife: polar bears on northern ice, giraffes galloping across an open African plain, toucans completely incapable of camouflage poised in Amazonian trees. I couldn’t get enough; I looked at these photos for hours. I imagined the smell of the crisp northern air, the shrill squawk of the toucan in his leafy home. That was all there was, really, to my life: these photos…and, this bathroom.

Staff entered my area from the other side of the bathroom, opposite the window. I had looked in this adjacent room several times, in my bare feet, shuffling along the walls for a few feet before heading back. I thought no one had ever suspected; I didn’t know my every movement was recorded. I don’t recall feeling anything at all about my stay here, only this constant excitement inside, an inner satisfaction, barely containing my pleasure at the thought of my imminent release. Today.

On this most important day I was perched on the closed toilet lid, watching the comings and goings of courthouse staff. I did this most days and I was pleased that no one could ever see me. But on this day, and all of a sudden, someone detoured from their hallway route and walked right through my door, right into my bathroom. I was so surprised I almost fell off the toilet. I was also immediately afraid. This felt so not good.  The woman, a total stranger to me, was bent at the knees crouching, as if she were about to spring to attack me. I found her stance absurd and almost burst out laughing. In fact, everything about this moment was absurd. Absurd and horrifying. I knew what was coming.  In that moment I knew they would never let me leave.

She lunged at me and I pushed her. I pushed her and I ran. I ran around the corner and in and out of the rows of book shelves that stood in the room next to mine. As I ran, the room became lighter and I could hear the sound of people talking and their heels on the hard-waxed floor. All of a sudden, it was as if I burst onto the scene and people stopped walking and talking. They stopped dead in their tracks, shocked at the sight of me sweating, wild-haired, arms held out in front (for protection and to keep my hospital gown from falling off the front of me).

“I never touched her! I pushed her, that’s all!” I shouted and my shouts echoed and bounced off the walls of this huge place.

The moment these words left my lips, I regretted saying them. I knew that, to these people, this self-righteous bunch, I HAD touched her. Oh yes. I had touched her and now it was too late. I was never leaving this place and that dark, dead thought covered the whole of me, like thick, black smoke, even before the unknown woman whom I had pushed came around the corner with a small but nevertheless bleeding gash on her cheek wearing only her slip, now torn, her whole look disheveled. I had done this. I had indeed touched her, anyone could see that. Her finger pointed straight at me and she cried out with a shaking voice, “Grab her! She attacked me!”

I began to fight sleep at this point, and swam for the surface of the real world. But not before I frightened my wee dog and kicked the life that had escaped my body into a dark corner of that cavernous room as they dragged me by my arms back to my room.

Then, I was awake. Awake and glad to be awake.

I comforted Spike, who by now was whimpering slightly and checked the time. 3:05 am. Too early to get up but I didn’t want to go back to sleep until I felt sure that I wasn’t going back there.

I realized my son was up, getting a drink of water, himself unable to sleep. We didn’t speak but I felt very comforted by his presence and fell asleep almost immediately after seeing him.

I began to dream again, but…wow…strange.

I was working for Gene Simmons and Shannon Tweed, tutoring their son (who was blonde and about 7 years old, and also a genius). Shannon wanted Gene to fire me. Her exact words to Gene were, “Yeah, all you need is someone ELSE relying on you.” I really didn’t want to be involved. So, I walked out of their home, my youngest daughter in tow who was about 7 years old as well, stole a firetruck that was parked at the side of the road, drove down the road, was suddenly driving in the other direction (aren’t dreams cool?), pulled a 360 in someone’s front yard, managing to run over a small child who was covered in grass and dirt (which, incidentally saved his life and was a set of circumstances the authorities never questioned but ones I wondered about) before returning the firetruck, which I parallel parked easily.

Upon questioning, I denied knowing why I stole the truck, and because the child had survived with nary a scratch, it wasn’t even pursued. I was helped out of the firetruck by a handsome fire fighter, his hand in mine. Damn, that firetruck was my chariot.

K, I’m going to take a shower.

peace.

The Car Is In The Drink

I shouldn’t be awake right now. I was up until 2 am, it being New Years’ Eve and all and not only that but with a few chocolate martinis under my belt. I should still be twitching and giggling in my sleep. But I just had a dream so real, it woke me up. Well, what actually woke me was the sound of my own voice as I was describing the dream to…well, who knows? Everyone else is still asleep.

In the dream, I’m enjoying a second date on the same day as my first, just later in the day and with someone new. (This was my first clue that I’m dreaming.) I’m in the passenger seat of a small domestic vehicle, seated next to Nick, a fellow I once worked with. We’re laughing and talking, I’m smiling and the date is going well. I know this because I feel younger. It’s a beautiful day, hot and sunny. There are a lot of other cars on the road, this being a weekday. (Who dates on a weekday?) I have no idea where we’re going and I don’t really care: it’s a gorgeous summer day, the music on the radio is loud, the company is fine and I’m enjoying this moment.  We crest a hill and I suddenly realize we are going way too fast. It’s not a sudden realization, more an emerging one, as I take in the particulars: the hill we’re traveling on crosses an avenue at the bottom. I say ‘crosses’ in the sense that, if you’re a commercial vehicle loaded with goods for the Fraser River Wharves, things like tar, or railroad ties or boat parts, or even possibly a dead body you wish to dispose of in the river , then yes, the bottom of this hill ‘crosses’ an avenue and becomes a dirt and gravel road. However, if you’re a couple of people on a date on a sunny Wednesday afternoon, then no. You must turn either right or left at the bottom of this hill and I realize we are going way too fast to do either of those. This thought crosses my mind in neon: we’re not going to make the turn. Not only are we traveling upwards of 80 mph, we’re also now airborne. I look quickly back and around because I can’t believe this current situation. I take a split-second to adjust my seat belt; this landing is gonna hurt. We sail across the four-lane and I look over the cars traveling on the road beneath us, almost perpendicular, and I can tell by the angle we’re flying at that we’re  going into the river. The car bounces a couple of times, turning the front bumper into a flattened accordion  as the third bounce lands us into the drink, nose first, and deep, like a dive-bomb, right off the bat. I think to myself, ‘thank god this is a convertible’.  (Of course, it wasn’t when I got into it, but that’s the great thing about dreams.) My next thought is for Nick and I shout to him to undo his seat belt. We are sinking fast, this being a convertible and all, windows down, no air pressure to keep us afloat. I whisper a silent prayer in that moment: “god, let Nick be a smart man and realize that his only hope of ensuring a long and hopefully fruitful life is in undoing his seat belt and making a beeline for the surface.”

I feel the icy water creep up over my knees as the car, (in the beginning a beat-up, shit car but now a convertible Mustang, yellow with black racing stripes) sinks into the Fraser River. Higher and higher the water rises…my knees, then my thighs, my waist, my chest. I’ve got my hand on the seatbelt. Any second now I’ll push in that dang button and break free. I take a deep breath as I feel the water reach my chin. My head goes under. I open my eyes and all I see is murky green, mottled with debris, kicked-up sand and gravel from the impact. I don’t look over at Nick. I have no idea what he’s thinking and this next thought startles me (this is possibly the thought that wakes me): I don’t care right now.  Right now, this moment, is a life-and-death moment. I must survive. If Nick doesn’t break surface right after me, I’ll go back in for him. I’ll dive back down and drag him up. But right now, I need a breath. I. Must. Have. A. Next. Breath.

I swim for the surface. In fact, I swim like a small outboard has suddenly replaced my lower limbs and my entirety is focused on that point where water becomes air, where elements transform. I see, no, I feel the water thin out and stretch into thin glass. I break  the surface like a rocket, gasping for breath, and I look immediately around for Nick. I see that his return to the land of the living is nothing like mine. He is floating  slowly to the surface, face down, an enormous gulf between us, an eternity.  He’s going so slow I begin to wonder if he’s going to make it at all. I dive into the water and realize he’s only feet from the surface. I grab him by the waist of his jeans and pull him upwards. He’s incredible heavy…waterlogged.  He reaches the surface on his back so I roll him over. He’s much lighter now, floating. and I can pull him easily. I gather him into me and call his name, over and over, pulling and pushing him, anything to make him snap out of it. He feels warm despite the cold water. I wonder if it’s just the sun that has warmed him, and I fight off the the very real possibility that he may be dead. I call his name again, ‘Nick!’ and the sound is very loud and I realize I’m angry at him. Still with the waist of his jeans scrunched into my fists, I push him, exasperated. A small sputter of water erupts from his mouth as he spits and chokes a little. Gratitude and renewed energy, this is what I feel. I look around to orient myself. I’m treading water with one hand. The other hand holds the waist of Nick’s jeans and he floats  beside me, coughing a little and moving his arms, doing what he can to help. The footings of the wharves are only a hundred yards or so from where we are so I swim toward them, dragging Nick. The sun is incredibly warm and bounces off the water like diamonds. Any other day, this refraction of nature’s light would fill me with pleasure; as it is, I’m irritated by the glare.

As we approach the shore, Nick becomes much more animated. He is complaining of a sore wrist, but clearly and definitely, firmly among the living. We both scramble up the gravel to the  embankment. A woman is sitting there, a dark woman with dark hair, perched on an ice cooler.  She’s wearing a khaki uniform and I think she must work here.  I ask her as I struggle with my breath to please call an ambulance. She looks vacantly at me. Her look says, “Do you think I’m an IDIOT? I just watched your car sail across the four-way, bounce a few times, and land in the river. Of COURSE I’ve called an ambulance!” Still, I feel distinctly uneasy and I want to put as much distance between this woman and myself as possible but close enough for the paramedics to easily spot us.

Nick hasn’t mentioned the car and I don’t bring it up. He’s not saying anything at all, just breathing hard and looking around, probably in shock.The ambulance is taking a long time to get here and I’m becoming increasingly agitated; it’s very hot, the sun is beating down on us and we don’t have the energy to just get up and walk away.  I know that Nick is in bigger trouble than I am.  I mean, whose car was that? Was it even his? He almost died, does he need medical attention? Is his wrist broken? What about his state of shock? I suddenly have this great desire for privacy. I need to get us to a place of safety and shelter from this sun, from this woman sitting on the cooler, staring deadpan at us. I need somewhere to think. I have this thought that the world we came back to is different from the world that was when our car entered the river and I feel dread and panic. I see a small shed aways in the distance; perhaps it’s used for storing supplies to maintain the wharves. That, and most likely rats. I head for it, Nick limping along behind me.

When we round the doorway, I see there are people in the shed. I wasn’t prepared for this. And these people, peeuw! They smell bad. I think they must be homeless and we have just invaded their shelter. Nick is standing behind me and I turn to look past him, to see if the ambulance has arrived. Nothing. As I look back, I see this woman approaching me. Her brown hair is matted and her teeth are bad. She’s dressed in soiled jeans and a sweater and she tells me she’s going “out there.” She drops her purse at my feet. Her. Purse. At. My. Feet. Well, this is the last straw. I cannot fathom why this woman would leave her purse at my feet. I snap at her,

“Hey, who do you think you are leaving me responsible for your purse? You didn’t even ASK me? You just assumed I would take responsibility for it? You just drop it there and LEAVE me with it?!”

It was around this time that I heard mumbling, incoherent rambling and giggling. I awoke to hear myself relating this dream, in real time, to no one in particular.

Happy New Year, everyone.

peace