Tag Archives: dreams

On Fire

23 Apr

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I’m running a temperature so high, I could prob’ly burst combustible  things into flame within 3 feet of me. 

…And my throat hurts.

…And my nose is all stuffy.

This all happened within the last three hours or so.

Until now I have made it through half the castie colds, and people’s at work successfully.  Even the ones I mack on and share sweat with, on stage.

I am on my 3rd Airborn before finally going to bed.

I refuse to have a cold on my fucking birthday.

…Or the entire final week of  the show.

…Or the auditions for the next one.

But I will admit, that at the moment, I feel like total crud.

…Which will be magically fixed by morning.

…Because I say so.

My skin hurts.

I want my pillow.

…At least the Airborn is the orange kind.

Like Tang.

…So I can be like a famous space-exploring astronaut.

…In my cold-med, drug-induced dreams.

So, suck it: cold!

I’ll be all moon walking in a minute! And you can’t come!

~D

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From The Ass-End

9 Apr

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Dear Friends,

I have finally reached the ass-end of a packed-full 17 hour day. 

…And tomorrow certainly ain’t gonna be any easier. 

Such is the life of Tech Week, together with Spring sales promotions and constant Road Shows.

…Also, Boss is gone.

Again.

Am going to put the glowing pad in front of m’face away now, so I can pass out on my hairspray-covered pillow. 

…And dream of things other than build contracts, quick changes, and prop usage.

(she hopes.)

~D

Exploring The Amazon

13 Nov

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Last night I started my Christmas shopping.

…Hours spent trolling the Amazon and watching my shopping cart bulk up rapidly.  I like to give myself zero limits for the first wide pass.  Anything that I happen to see that fits my list of names, makes it in the cart, period. 

…For several hours I freely pretend I’m a zillionaire who can buy all my people anything I bloody well want to.  I picture their, “shut UP, nuh uh!” surprised faces, and me eating the recipes they make from that one cookbook…and games we’ll play, and all inclusive vacation packages they’ll go on…the private parties we’ll have on New Years at the Eiffel Tower or wherever else we happen to be…and how we will be living an independently wealthy lifestyle on some Greek island, in themed bungalows, outfitted with every person’s individuals styles and desires…all of which, I have bought them.

…It’s wondrous!

My spirit of giving would slap you silly were it not for the restrictions of my pocket book.

…But then, at some point, reality starts to kick in. I visit the cart to start paring down the list, one extravagant item at a time…until I have but a small bundle sort of pathetically smiling back at me, hoping to make the final cut.

It seems that every year the pile gets smaller, only cuz the cost of life…in general…keeps getting bigger. 

…But every year, I tell myself, “it is the thought that counts”…and I think my big dreams for my friend’s and family’s biggest desires…and I gift them freely (even if only hypothetically), with my love. 

On Christmas morning, these have all been exchanged for old books, or vintage record albums, or things of wine, or little memory moment nods in the form of a silly reminder trinket.  It’s what I can manage…and only JUST…but it is something.  And I’m confident that they all know, if I had the capacity of endless fundage, their lives would be sweet treats of never-ending pleasure.

…But instead, dear ones: you’ll get this thing.  Some object that is close as I can manage to the greatest thing EVER! You’ll look at it a second and smile a bit, and read it or listen to it or play with it a little, then move on with the rest of your day.  And that will just have to satisfy me.  Cuz it’s what I am able to do.

…Holy cow though, we’d have a hella fun bonfire…partying on our own private island, kitted out in seven kinds of designer labels, eating catered Italian foods, drinkin’ the oldest French wines (just flown in) and served by shirtless cabana boys, while schmoozing with all our favorite bands, who play for us by turn, (and/or whatever specific celebrity of choice you so choose, holding court with you.)

…Whenever we aren’t otherwise busy at the spa, with our own individual masseuses….

…Which is what I REALLY wanted to get you this year.
 
…So, Happy Hypothetical Christmas, all!

And, you’re welcome.

~D

Adventures In Sleeping

29 Aug

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Woke up this morning with the fitted sheet all balled up in the bottom corner pocket, my pillow on the floor, and my mouth guard laying next to me.  I either had really amazing dream-sex or a fight with zombies. I’d like to hope not both, but you never know what may happen. Either way, I don’t remember any of it…which is always weird to me now.

…It didn’t used to be like that.

For a little over a decade I never remembered my dreams at all…cuz I was really traumatized with probably the most horrifying nightmare ever, after the death of a friend in 8th grade. So I did everything I consciously (and unconsciously) could, just to wipe ’em all away. The “good” with the “bad.” And outside of an occasional flicker, I never remembered them at all. Not the theme, not the starring players, not what went down…nothing. Just faded snapshots every now and then.

Turns out, that isn’t really the most healthy thing.

When I started therapy, my Shrink warned that sometimes it can bring on kinda crazy dreams, and I should “prepare myself.” To which I smirked that I had brain-parts of STEEL (obviously, otherwise why else would I be in therapy?), and such things just never really “affect” me.

…So you can imagine my surprise when within a week, floating heads of my dead Ancestors would hover next to me, in a world that looked roughly like something Picasso or Dali would have painted, and all my teeth kept falling out. Totally normal and not freaky at all for your first time dream-scaping since you were 13.

The more we dug and tore at all my problems, the stranger they became. Like constant little acid trips every time I drifted off…which, coincidentally, is the first time I ever developed insomnia. I became literally too terrified to close my eyes. Four, twelve, sixteen dreams would collide all at the same time, all with these intense emotions and circumstances that never made sense…and all with a constant underlying terror at the base of them, which could never be explained.

…Eventually, of course, I managed to work it all out, in the little sorting machine of “strange” up in m’head…and as I got “better,” my night adventures did too. In time I managed to sleep like a human again. Without screaming myself awake. Or finding finger nail digs in the palm of my hand every morning. In time I was flashing back to childhood memories that were the good kind, fantasizing new ice cream flavors, having dinner with my BFF Meryl Streep, winning the Pulitzer, and running for President.

…You know…normal stuff, like that.

Then it calmed down to a trickle…only once in a great while sticking with me beyond that first three minutes or so, after being ripped awake by the alarm clock.

I don’t remember my dreams much anymore at all, now. Only an exceptional few.

…Not because I block them…just because, well…because “I don’t,” I guess. Waking up this morning, and seeing the condition of my bed, just kinda got me thinking: how in the hell can anyone sleep through all that? Then I remembered, I used to do it all the time.

Even when I was “awake,” if you get my drift.

…It’s not that I want to necessarily experience absolutely every trip I go on, every night. My brain prob’ly protects me from any number of horror night-sweats on a regular basis…(induced no doubt from lack of chocolate.)

…But it also means I’m missing out on prime story-telling plot I could really be using right now. Free creative stuff that doesn’t count as “stealing” if the episode is super limited and only shown to the viewing audience in my head, that one time. I’m not saying that I’d want to experience nightmares like a Jack the Ripper attack, or those kind where you’re naked and confused in the produce aisle, looking for butter again. (Look, don’t judge me okay…I don’t make fun of your little “freaknesses.”)

…I’m saying: if it was all about me being a Super Spy, or goin’ at it on some grassy knoll with Colin Firth, and I find out about it? I’m gonna be pissed!

…That’s all.

~D

Hauntings & Old Stuff

12 Aug

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I like old stuff.

…If we’re talking books or booze, photos or furniture, film or fashion …jewelry, appliances, houses or people…I like ’em most of all. I always have.

I was the kid who’d rather love on a hand-me-down doll with one eye and lopsided stuffing than a “new” anything out of a box. The more beat up and “used” a book: the better…and if “nature” had started to take the object back at all to reclaim it, I totally understood the feeling.

When I went to England and Ireland several years ago, I nearly exploded with too much old-stuff-awesome.  Because even the rocks, buildings, and air you breathe there, comes recycled from like a gillion years ago, B.C.  It crosses the “old” and “antique” mark into just plain “ancient.” 

It was ancient. 

It felt ancient. 

It smelled ancient. 

It looked ancient.

…I’d be standing on a heath (for instance) in the middle of nowhere, a once bogged peat land where the Celts had raised a stone circle for their protections and holy workings.  Center of this thing, it was still electrifying with the network of whatever had been infused into it centuries ago.  You could honestly feel the energy of it zapping you like those electric touch-globes they had back in the 80’s, connecting through your fingertips and skin and hair…to something elemental, base…a root network of being.

We’d take a turn in old manor houses…get lost in their hallways…or stay behind on purpose to be the only one left in a room just to feel it out a little.  Like hiccups in time, you could almost swear you could see the Lady of the house sitting at her vanity, applying scent to the  back of each ear and nape of neck.  The nursery was almost spooky with children’s giggles, nurse’s admonitions, and squeek of wood coming from the direction of the old rocking horse. 

…Sometimes (for maybe only a split second), whole dinner parties were sitting at table within the formal dining rooms…candles bouncing their light off the polished silver, under-butlers in black jackets and white cotton gloves attending in silence.  The studies still smelled of cigar smoke and gentlemen’s cologne.  The library’s books, (occupied floor to ceiling with volumes whose bindings you could never touch), once rested within the palms of hands while sunning themselves, or secluded somewhere in the network of impossibly manicured gardens.

…Paintings of previous owners would watch you from the walls, enroute exiting the main floors, retreating to the bowels of the homes where their empty kitchens were still a phantom bustle of activity, heat, food smells and ever-attending duties.  Ghost horses still live within their stalls…trees that had shaded picnics, games of cricket, and formal teas: shading you right now.

Sometimes the feelings were almost overwhelming.

…But then, I’ve always been sensitive to things like that. One part imagination (no doubt), but two parts what Gram and the Great Aunts used to call, “the gift.”  Apparently all the Kelly women have it.  Some more so than others. 

I remember stories from childhood, of experiences they had had…things they had seen, or felt, words they had heard spoken, in laundry lists of eery evokings that frankly scared the hell outta me.  It didn’t, them…they seemed perfectly at peace with it.  Basically because they had to be.  Stretching back into our line as far as we can source it, strange shit has been happening “to” or “around” our family for generations. 

…Sometimes, in the form of hauntings. 
(Any number of us like to come back and visit…which is a “comfort” I never quite understood and frankly wish they’d all cut the hell out. Also, we’re susceptible to seeing and feeling the non-familial varieties.  This doesn’t mean always in a visual form.  Sometimes it’s a voice, a touch, a breath…a general acknowledgment of “not-rightness,” followed instantly by cold sweats and the desire to get the hell outta wherever it is that we are.)

…Sometimes visions.
(Countless phone calls from my Nana would stream in at all hours, day or night, directly after some family emergency had just taken place.   She would know who was the injured party, just how life threatening it was, exactly when it had happened…and upon occasion, even what had taken place. And at least once she saved a life by it. The first words upon the answer of “Hello?” having been, “Get him to the hospital now.  Don’t wait.  It’s worse than you think.”)

…Or, prophetic dreams. 
(A car and motorcycle accident, one leg breaking from falling off a roof, a death in WWII, and one of the creepiest actual preventative stories of Gram as a little girl getting a yellow dress for her birthday, twirling too near a fire, catching light and getting burnt to death. The identical dress was in fact gifted, and destroyed, directly upon opening.)

Some were flat out spoken to.
(In most cases as a sort of “conscience-driven” inner-voice stipulating things needing to be done, or not, or fixed or rendered.  Sometimes: a literal voice, a whisper, a declarative warning. Often mixed in what I suppose you could categorize as “hauntings.”)

…And some just had the uncanny ability to read a person or a room, instantly.
(Bad things “were” or “are” done here. Something about him just isn’t “right.”  She’s hurting a lot, it’s all around her but no one is noticing. There’s something big about to happen…a lot of energy…its “full” right now.)

…Apparently, I deal mostly with the past-tense.  So I suppose it isn’t’ surprising at all that me and old things are attracted to one another.  We are lovers from the past, connecting again.

I’ll forget to actually “read” a book, I become so consumed in touching and smelling it…tracing my fingers over the signatures of it’s previous owners, trying to get a grasp on them. I can’t just “look” in antique stores, I have to skim and make contact…hold the things in my hand and get the weight and history of them in my grasp.  As a kid, I collected buckets full of rocks, and trinkets…not like other kids collect them…but because they had been hand selected, and adopted from places I had been (a camp site, a lake, a hike, a cave) and “felt” things at.  One of my favorite places to visit are old cemeteries…not for the morbidity, but the life and history still wandering around them.  I’ve been the only person in a room full of “others” I can’t see but fully know are there.  I’ve stepped into houses where bad things have happened and know it, with the kind of instant terror they can’t breed into you with the most horrifying Hollywood thriller. I get deja vus like crazy, will stop cold in a doorway or while standing on a piece of land to “listen”…because I could swear that something just told me to.

…For the parts of this that I am “comfortable” with, it’s been a strange life of feeling like I was born out of order and don’t actually belong to this time.  People don’t always understand my consuming fascination of history and “the past,” that I am completely delighted that I have.  For the parts that freak me the hell out,  I fought it (believe me) and tried to pretend it was all a load of fantastical nonsense.  Until I couldn’t anymore.  I certainly do not “encourage” it.

…But what was amazing…what blew my mind those years back on that trip abroad, (and still does when revisiting my thoughts and dreams now and then, as it does from time to time), is that being there in those places…particularly in the oldest outer-reaching ancient parts of Ireland, it was probably the first time I was “at peace” with whatever gifts had been handed down in the bloodlines. 

It was intense, and full and populated with air and energy and presence.  It was jerking in time from then to now.  It was peaceful, then bloody, then peaceful again.  I could almost hear the people’s words in a language I couldn’t understand, and smell the fires that had cooked their suppers.  Tiny cottages and ramble roads seemed like old friends. A rock wall and I could have a whole conversation almost, just sitting side-by-side and though I’ve never in my life smelled such a thing as burning peat…the fireplaces stoked with it brought the kind of memories back that only things like lifelong Christmas traditions do.

I can’t explain the connection with things that I had there. But I “belonged” to it.  I knew that.

…Which goes back to the old man in the pub, in Avoca: a tiny village, where we sat one afternoon over a Guinness, ‘tween ongoing rambles across the countryside.

Old Man On A Stool: “Americans, is it?  And how do you like us?”

Ma: “We love it.  I’ve had this aching pain to come here, as far back as I can remember.”

Old Man On A Stool: “You’re Irish then.  What name?”

Ma: “Kelly.  How’d you know?”

Old Man On A Stool: “Because that’s the way of it.  You can take the Irish out of Ireland but not the other way ’round.  We always find our way home again, else never feel ‘right’ about it.”

Me:  “What do yuh mean?”

Old Man On A Stool: “The roots, girl.  It’s in the roots, in here. (grasping his upper gut)  Can’t escape it.  And you feel it too…don’t you?”

…Only every second I spent on the land, is all.

Being in the “old country” just re-energized everything.  Like coming back to the absolute roots of me and plugging into the network that my blood first came from…fighting battles and building this intense bond with the land, the type of nature, the rocks that built their houses, the people that lived inside of them.  I remember extreme specifics of the places we visited…far out-of-way roads we travelled.  I can remember accidental monuments and churches and villages and homes we stumbled upon.  Conversations with people we met.  Comparing separate experiences we’d had at day’s-end.  I can remember this one turn in a garden path, and that bush over there…the feel of the mossy stone with tiny wildflowers growing out of a ruin.

…When I dream of it, they are always really intense dreams…where I can actually feel the texture of things when I touch them and smell the smells.  I get totally lost in it and wake up a little sad to see I’m not actually there.  It’s very like the opening of “Rebecca,” launching into this singsong, haunting rhythm…

“Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again…”

And last night, I did.

I miss it.

~D

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