Posted by: normanlgreen | March 16, 2013

Dream, March 16, 2013 Drawing Attention in the Worst Ways


Dream, home, 5:22am

A woman and her daughter live in a little house surrounded by neighbors in conflict. I am their guest for the night.

The woman is disinterested in me. The less interest she shows, the more important it feels to capture her attention. I follow her from room to room in an attempt to engage her in conversation. Each overture inspires less reaction. She starts with shrugs, but eventually she does not bother to acknowledge my boring talk. She simply leaves, passing me as though I were invisible.

I find her laying on a couch and lay down beside her. Her daughter, seven years old, black hair and eyes, comes into the room and stands at the head of the couch. The little one wants us to pay attention to her, so I get up to help her fetch a glass of water.

In the mean time, the grown son has arrived. He brings a box of printed cards to promote an urban barn dance. His mother gets up from the couch and the two of them leave through the front door. I follow them as they set up a tape player on the lawn of their neighbors. The sun has yet to rise, so the grass is wet with dew. The young man turns on the tape machine at high volume. He and his mother giggle as the dance to the warbling recording from the 1930s hillbilly band.

The neighbors, who already hate my host family, will soon be out of bed. An argument will likely escalate into a physical fight. I drop onto my belly on the front porch and snake toward the front door. Inside, I wait for the fight to resolve. The music stops, but I hear no voices. I wait in the living room, but no one returns.

The sun comes up and shines on the front of the house. I hear someone moving in the bathroom so investigate. I see no one. I look into the vanity mirror and see the reflection of the shower curtain. It moves, and I hear feet in the bathtub. I pull back the curtain to reveal the mother. She stands, fully clothed, in the tub. She appears dazed. I take her hand and lead her out onto the floor. I ask what she is doing.

“I’m just heading out for lunch,” she answers in a dull voice.

“It’s seven twenty-nine in the morning.”

She looks uncertain of her surroundings. Her face is deeply sunburned. She smiles and cries at the same time. I take her shoulders and turn her to face the mirror that has been behind me. She cannot look at herself. I twist her to point her shifting eyes to her own reflection.

I ask, “Are you taking a lot of drugs?”

She crumples to the floor.

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