|
v u l v a l i c i o u s dreams, breasts, and birthdays In my dream last night, I was traveling to get onto a plane. I drove from New York to Ohio in fifteen minutes, flying over highways, afraid I'd miss something important. They held the plane for her, perhaps because I kept telling them that when I left she was on her way out the door, that she couldn't be far behind me. I think I knew that even in the dream she hadn't been following me--she had been talking on the phone to some far away friend, perhaps a former lover that still held pieces of a mutual past. When she arrived, I wanted to talk with her. I would be around her, we would say something to one another, she would lose interest and return to her corner of the large, cargo-style plane. I kept an eye on her at all times, perhaps hoping that we'd get to talk before the flight was over. We flew dangerously close to a bridge, and I looked out the window, staring at the closeness of the suspension cables and the red wing of the plane. We landed, and she was gone before I could say anything. Today is her birthday, and while I want to make mention of it, I fear that it will only make her uncomfortable. Last night, I was thinking about breasts (mine, other people's, anyone's). Breasts are a constant source of discomfort for her; I think she wishes they weren't there. I wrote about breasts, and how I wanted mine to go away so that I could walk alone to my car in the dark, nearly a mile of city pavement and soft southern street lights. I wanted my breasts to be gone so that I wouldn't have to hear anyone ask me if I was wearing a bra. I wanted to record people talking about breasts, cut it with a soundbite of the song "Ass and Titties," and do some sort of strange performance art drag dance strip number to it. I wanted to talk with her about breasts. I want to wish her a happy birthday. Instead, I dreamed of her traveling light with me, ignoring me at key moments, sitting in a corner of the plane talking with people I didn't like. Discomfort is a trade off. |