A Tale of the Monday Morning Nightmares

The Tale of the Monday Morning Nightmares:
From Dreaming to Daylight

As told on a tired Monday night.

I suppose this is going to push my image closer to its unfortunately destined profile on mankind’s overall mural; closer to the less gentle stalker. I don’t want that because I will always be the gently obsessed. Without bad intentions. Only stigmas attached to parts of me that I do not understand and cannot change.
For only I am witnessing my aftermath. It cannot keep in this way. I must cast forth my burden because I have run out of ideas. Occasionally I will relate my concerns to a confidant. But only I know the cold sweats. Perhaps my lover has a clue.
Time and time again these dreams come to me. From the time long ago after only a couple words had been spoken over a telephone. An apology if this sounds dramatic. A pixie from beyond had cradled my affection. Then like a demon in reality’s mist; she stole away with that part of me.
Hanging up the phone; I walked out the doors of my adolescent home and split wood. Staring vacantly into the rugged white forest of the property. There were two people with me. I couldn’t think of them or the task, or look to them, because my mind was searching desperately for that piece of my soul this creature had removed.
At the first moment I saw her I could not differentiate her from her twin. But as I became involved in the same extracurricular activities as her, to be close to her- I didn’t even know my motivations at this fragile age- I figured out the twin I loved from the other.
Deep set dark rimmed, often bagged, blue eyes and blond hair that sung from its Pony Tale. Her name sounded like my mothers; my mother who has an unusual name herself. She was so quick witted; a cunning creature that behaved and thought in a dimension beyond the ones you and I exist in. This drew me to her, and only her, and it became my obsession to seek her out, to try to get close to this always fleeting and barely interested pixie.
I dated her in the tenth grade for four months. I let her toy with me, and tolerate me with only mild interest. I on the other hand was wildly enraptured and terribly naïve.
This girlfriend was my first girlfriend. Since then, many have been more prominent and important. The girls I date all share a common ground in that I truly love them. This was clearly the case then and I can tell you that it is the case still. I don’t date girls I don’t love. Also I get dumped and date a lot. I find myself floating on clouds of 2 to 16 month relationships. Always falling to the ground like a raindrop; only to rise again in an endless cycle of love and love lost.
The terror of love lost is what brings me to the keys today. Love lost. I know who took my virginity. I dated that bitch for EXACTLY one year. She tore my life apart. She tore everything apart; my soul, my heart, my mind, my friends, and my home life. Amor fu. Much like another after her.
My dream pixie, however, did none of these things. She simply took a piece of my heart and kept it. Lost, truly lost, I wandered from high school to a private hippy commune fronted by an unaccredited school. I “graduated” from that place.
Though I cannot remember when the dreams first began.
I know I found one year girl after my first true drug problem with amphetamines and cough syrup. I cut off my waxy dreadlocks and met that girl not worth discussing.
Maybe that was when the dreams of dream girl began. When one year girl tore up my photos of the pixie I kept in my wallet. Along with the sweet words written on the back. I wonder if I have any other written words from her.
I didn’t understand. That picture was important to me. How could one year girl not be ok with me keeping it in my wallet?
Now, I guess I get it.
I started fucking up in some grand leonine fashion. I can’t imagine, in our small town, who took notice. Even less can I imagine who did not take notice. I was out of my mind on speed and hallucinogens again. Always drunk. One DUI. Then another, I wasn’t even 18 yet.
Sometimes I saw her at street festivals. What did I say? What did she think? I cannot know. I put myself in a vulnerable place all those months.
I did things I cannot bring myself to speak about; but anyone who knew of me at the time- whom I cannot disclose- was aware of my shameful acts. Acts, plural because I can think of at least two or three events that could also be categorized that way.
Soon enough I could no longer face the world.
I moved far away. Chasing some girl next door fantasy. She was my best friend and I moved in with her in South Dakota. I was head over heels for the girl next door. But I recovered and landed on my feet. At that point I dated 16 month girl. With a story only a little different from one year girl.
Less amour fu, but really good love. The sweetest I’ve tasted. With 16 month girl I was out on my own with a lot of stresses. This is when I remember the dreams becoming a problem. They coincided with my discovery of personal internet networking on corporate entertainment websites.
I could contact her now. I could see her pictures now. What an old wound, I thought. I’m in Central Minnesota, it’s winter and my window is frozen over. I spend a lot of time alone because at this point my GF lived at college a few miles outside of time. Beyond my window was a yellow smiley faced water tower; but deep in my exile I am also coming into the prolonged escalation of a mental anguish- lost at sea- I had only seen glimpses of at younger ages, and then witnessed the tidal wave of razor blades move over me and crash when I first moved away.
At the point that I realized I could contact dream woman via the web I was far out and adrift. Agoraphobic in the cold.
Later in life I learned that these thoughts and feelings were the first manifestations of some full blown personality disorder I’d rather not name. I was becoming the dejected, and weary, nervous and depressed, trembling ghost I am these days. This ghost with no grip blowing in the breeze. My inner flame all but extinguished as a coal fed only enough oxygen.
The twisted personality was coming through in my interpersonal relations at this point and I did not, could not, notice. For I was lost and afraid. I had been for a while. Still am. I desired the companionship that I found traces of on the internet. I was communicating with others from my past. Where this voice was coming from, and whose voice is it was, people may have wondered. I was haunting them and they could not understand. I was only a cold chill in the air of those others. It did not take long for me, alone and lonely, to find my dream girl; her words, images; her on-line message box.
Oh, the things I said were poetic in a fledgling’s way. And at first she was receptive. I managed to draw forth from her a glimpse of some affection for that piece of me she still keeps.

She was dancing on some exotic hedonistic island in the south pacific that I would magically travel to over the warm ocean. The colors; pure, deep, and animated like a computer would make. Strangers made love all around us. An old friend tried to steal her from me. Perhaps he was successful. She wore tight snake skin pants. And some times she loved me. Sometimes she ignored me. Always she tortured me.

Whether her vagina consumes my skull like so much sustenance. Or she is the most beautiful woman I can conjure; my own personal Madonna of dream worship. It is never more than the endless cycle of my personal torment.
Waking from these dreams caused entire days spent in sorrow.
I could not stop myself from praying for meaning in the dreams I was having. Hoping with everything measure of my spirit the dreams would mean something. I told the pixie about them. Would the depth of my soul please her? It did not. She grew annoyed with the things I had to say.
Maybe I wrote her these same things I write now here. I know I sent her poetry. I may have begged and pleaded.
In hotel rooms I pled the sadness of my obsession and love. She responded with her sympathies. There was simply nothing she could do; for she was a creature of a higher nature than me. It is all so very one sided. She had a life. She was in England for school.
I could cross the oceans on the internet.
In time she did not respond anymore. I continued to send poetry. And eventually she abandoned this network(myspace.com) for the alternate option(facebook.com). To this day I do not go near that other network. The new chronic aching left in my wound acts up if I get too close to that website. Her refusal of proximity to my words conjured the greatest most devastating images of my pathetic heart. Which I knew reflected my mind. As always, depression ensued.
A timeless depression coupled with a rise and fall of content. When for once I accumulated the things I truly desired; a big cheap apartment, good work, friends, a beautiful girlfriend. I lost them all. My imported friends (I had imported friends from home) exported themselves. My work was sick of employing heathens to clean churches. I lost my girlfriend; she was malcontent about god knows what. I was “in my head and spinning.” I had been evicted from the smiley faced frozen window place.
That worked out Ok. I started a commune of imported friends in the new place, same Minnesota town. The task was easy with the very loose management.
When the commune dissolved, I stabbed a stranger in the face in self defense as I slid sideways and alone through everyone else’s upright reality. I found myself in heavy water breaking into the foot of a cliff. Holding my breath I dreamt of her:

Hand in hand we fend off the fascist government created by the merger of Wal- Mart and Disneyland. In the distance is a lightening storm. Fighting our way through the gates on the blue floodlit stretch of super highway; killing all in our way; trying to get to the roof and meet the helicopter. We make love in a cold stairwell and I know rapture. As we break through the door to the roof I am shot in the gut by a man who she shoots and kills thereafter. Laying me to the ground she kisses my lips and runs and leaps onto the rung of the evacuating helicopter. I am left dying in the harsh wind under lightening skies.

My friend -call him Patcher or Laser or Dexter- comes to South Dakota and to my aid and rescues me from the metaphorical deadly cliffs. He pulls me to safety and home again after so many years. Where I proceed to do the only thing I know how to do in that town; get wasted, get a DUI, live a fucked up life in a truck cab, abide by no social norms, and slowly and surely become ostracized among my few remaining believers.
For a long while I had no dreams. I was living one.

Concerning a bottle of rum:
An ex-girlfriend from 10th grade whom I hadn’t talked to in years, and whom I have recurring dreams about, actually finished the 21st birthday rum when I got around to drinking it at a party in the hippy bumper sticker factory up the road from my parent’s house. I shared it with all the people on the dance floor that night. Eventually I had danced with everyone but her. And of course I noticed. Finally we danced. It was only her and I moving together to this pop song I cannot remember the name of. She was wearing tight jeans and had bleached her head; she bore a stunning resemblance to the icon Monroe. We had our dance and found our rhythm. Finally I was about to kiss her. I brushed the bleached blond hair away from her face; thinking of Marilyn Monroe and desire six years in the making when the overhead light comes on. Some girl runs into the room shouting, “Where the fuck is that CD?!” The moment was gone. And it stayed gone.

Since then the dreams come every Monday morning. Recently I got fed up and wrote to her. Which I had not done in ever so long. I did it keeping my dignity close. Judge me if you will but this is a part of me now. You are a part of me. No matter what.
Because you see reader, the magic of my dream pixie is she is a writer just like me. Through my obsessive eyes I see in her writing my last chance to ascend to her dimension. I care deeply for her success, as I care for my own, because she may have inspired it.
I will write until I am as important a literary figure as I can be. Through my dreams I chase her to my goal so far away. I suspect she shares the same struggles of this aspiration; this writing is a power uniting us; greater than me and even greater than her.
While her presence in my mind is eternal and she is the keeper of my soul’s missing piece and forever I must strive to become whole again; nothing will change the fact that we may be destined to be forever known as contemporaries, if not as lovers.
The pixie of my dreams appears when life is at its hardest. When the floor falls from underfoot I see her image; blurry in my turbulent dreaming eye.

I have a daydream- a waking ideal- where an author who is dejected and alone, understood by no one, not even his friends, gets on a train to a writer’s conference in a far away city. There the author will find his dream pixie again in waking life. He had been chasing a creature of a different reality for so long and finally he can physically behold her with his waking eyes once more.
The dream ends then.

In my mind I am hoping this will be enough, but by some means I understand that it never can be. I will live and die with an aching hole in my soul.
I will continue to relive the cycle of love gained, for she often loves me by the end of the dreams, and love lost, as again I wake to realize that this is just another day in my eternity without her. Rising and falling in all ways big and small. From dreaming to daylight.

Joke with me in a dream
Astral love longing to be real
Never mind what we both know
Eternal love is ironic now
Salt in the wounds carved by time
Soaked in every other love
And still this love, never to be mine

Take a walk with me…

To connect the dream with the memory/ Sitting here I am still just only/ In dreams picnicking with the indigo pixie/ In memory she walks briskly away/ Blond locks struggle to catch up/ In dreams Gothic pillars crowd the fountain/ We bathe like it were a hot tub/ In memory she hurries away from me/ In dreams her twin and best friend/ Laugh with us and I’m accepted/ In memory those two guard her flanks/ As they hurry away from me/ In dreams we cordially part ways/ Knowing we will enjoy future liaisons/ In memory I turn from the window/ Back to face the thrift store aisles/ Through which they had seen me first/ The crippling paralyzing unthinkable insult/ Falling to the floor I sat against the wall/ Not realizing how often I’d think back on that/ Connecting some new dream of her/ To the same old memory/ This unchanging reality of me

Do you want to be my angel?

Singing dirty blond hair/ In a pony tale/ Blue eyes shine with wisdom/ Her small frame belongs in these arms/ Little black dress accentuates her breasts/ Legs crossed leaning back/ This picture on the internet/ The image of some dreams/ More prominent than broken memories/ These pictures on the internet/ Dreams come half true at last/ Her cheeky smile knows everything/ She stands by a wax Bob Dylan/ She is the pin up at a car show/ An old classmates hand around her waist/ The other holds a beer/ How I care/ Let me make you aware/ Of the way I care/ My dream woman/ I love you/ I always will/ Talk to me or don’t/ I still have my dreams/ Of us/ And our love

A different love for a different girl…

Discover these aspirations/ The result of a twisted creation/ Her I can never have is mine temporarily/ In dreams the wishes of always/ Come true beyond reality/ These used to be a source of resent/ Now my dreams are my only joy it seems/ I have her/ She is mine/ We are in love/ Until I wake up to remember/ The new rejection of forever/ Woman of my dreams/ Every night I sleep only for you/ Every day I wake for the coming sleep/ To embrace this part of my life/ Was a task only to be understated/ Now in dreams/ I make love to her/ I dance with her/ We re-live every year that never was/ She wears little black dresses for me/ She wears what I like for me/ We make love the way we could have/ Can/ And would have/ If…

Eternal love is ironic now…