This has been floating around in my mind for a few weeks. It's just a piece, not the whole thing.

The house is always the same in my dream: large, 12 foot ceilings, 32 paned windows, stairs that are steep and leading to rooms I cannot access: my mother's home in Southeast Oklahoma on a street named for the second president of the United States; the others followed south to Johnson. In this very Democrat dominated corner of the state, Nixon didn't get a block named after him. That's when time and growth stopped in this town.

We moved there the year my brother was born. He was the only heir to the name no one could pronounce but everyone knew. His father had married my mother, an outsider, a foreigner, only after living with her for seven years, then killing himself five months later, leaving her pregnant and neither wealthy, nor the heir to his estate. She packed us up and bought the house on the street with no other children. Behind gingerbread trim, the other houses held tucked-away aging widows bestowed with the same names of the flowers in their meticulously kept gardens: Rose, Myrtle, Iris. Every Sunday the sons would come to either take their mothers to church or to visit on the side screened porches taking coffee poured from polished silver decanters- black, no sugar.

The women who had known her husband in high school smiled politely, then pushed their shopping carts past us, into isle three to gossip by the bread. They couldn't help but compare their own small bosoms and wide hips, polyester pants, frosted-Farrah hair and fake nails to her still young, firm breasts, slim waist, Levi's and polo, blunt cut naturally coordinating chocolate milk-brown hair and eyes, but it was her confident walk and presumption of acceptance that fueled their fire of resentment and jealousy. It was quickly decided that she was there to steal their men or at least bed them.

Night Vision

I dreamt last night that I was sitting in a classroom. Before me was a test that I hadn't studied for, hadn't even anticipated. In fact, I had no idea how or why I was in this place. I had no pen or pencil, but fortunately was wearing clothes. I began to cry uncontrollably, as a child might over something easily remedied.

The previous night my sleep was filled with (and this is frequently the case) my dilemma of either climbing a set of stairs, steep, narrow and without a handrail, to get to the top, or to give into my fear of falling and not see what was beyond. K was once again a toddler, standing at the top and attempting to make her way down. I was unnerved by her fearlessness obviously grounded in seeing me at the bottom; her absolute trust that because I was there, she would be safe. She tripped and fell through the space. I caught her by the torso between my feet and pulled her through. Just as her face emerged above the mahogany steps, I saw another way to reach the top. To my left was a landing, easily managed with a short hop and a stairway secured with support on both sides. I instructed K to hold onto my neck, to wrap her pudgy legs around my waist. A careful measure with my eye made confident my decision to jump. We landed. I then placed K at my side and we climbed to the top, woven together in the middle by entwined fingers, tethered to the guardrail by hands, large and small, with the fragility of paper cut-outs, and the determination of a mother's love and a child's trust.

My Strange Subconscious

I am tired and again had a morning of heavy dreaming. This time it was a novice luge type contraption, except it went up as opposed to sliding down. It was a great deal of fun, until I got to the top, was negotiating this convoluted return down, and some jerk swiped my luge.

My annoyance propelled me to awaken earlier than my body was prepared to accomodate. I don't like the slightly hung-over feeling of not getting enough sleep or awakening during REM.

Blech...

Consuming

I rarely have flying dreams; in fact, I think I can only recall one. I do; however, frequently have dreams in which I am swimming for great lengths of time without having to surface for a breath. The water is always warm and I believe in the ocean.

Houses also come often into my subconscious. They always include a room with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, hardwood floors, over-stuffed chairs, large windows, sunlight. This room is a repeated theme, as well as a kitchen. The kitchen varies, but recently I had one that was so lucid, I awakened pleasantly with plans to incorporate it into the home that R and I want to someday build.

Father Who?

Last night I dreamt that I saved a Catholic priest from drowning in the Pacific at San Clemente Beach. There was a surf contest and Billy Joel was doing an outdoor concert. I don't know how I knew he was a priest as he was wearing a Gap hoodie instead of the collar. When I got him to shore, R started to administer artificial resuscitation. He sputtered and became conscious and then reached into his pocket and offered us something that was obscured. I couldn't see it clearly and was frustrated. We asked if he needed a ride somewhere or if we should call a doctor or 911. He assured us he didn't and I quietly told R to walk him to his car. Instead of a car, he had a dune buggy. R was immediately interested and they talked about it for a minute. Then the priest gave something to R and drove off. When R returned to me, I could see what the previously indecipherable object was- his collar.

R and I stepped off

R and I stepped off the plane into the heat and desolation of Iraq and climbed aboard an old school bus, throwing our backpacks onto the seat next to us. The bus stopped infront of a McDonald's and everyone stepped off the bus and into the little piece of America in the desert.