Rainy days bring to mind Karen Carpenter, turntables and M&M’s.
The former evokes those haunting lyrics she left us before going away much too soon. As an adolescent, turntables were the only profit of a rainy Saturday morning that caged my restless gallop. I can’t figure how the M&M’s became married to my rainy days. It’s probably about melancholy as well, since the old recipe was far superior in my humble opinion. Except for the minis, which happen to rock of the old days.
Every now and again, a dream behaves this way. It’s familiar, strangely so. It has a definition to it, an answer to its meaning that is always a silver of a close shave quicker than my brain’s forensics lab. Moss grows more thickly than the gloss which is attempting to illustrate the purpose of these moving pictures.
In the dream I am sitting in a makeshift boardroom overlooking a square. The scenery in this dream is fitted as if it were a business trip to some exotic location in which I will never see the light of day before I have to catch a flight back home. And in the dream, my ex. The one who shall never be named. She who inhabits the darkest recesses of my mind where tax audits and dentist appointments reside.
We are negotiating, divvying up our respective emotional markers. It’s business like, completely so. She is approachable and persistent while I tend to the common ground we are foraging with desperate little attempts at small talk. She is having none of it so I finally give in to the idea that this will be our final time in each other’s company. I realize I will not be allowed to retrieve her smile as compensation for the forgettable end she helped to create. And I know she wasn’t alone in torching the thing we had to the ground. The meeting is over soon enough. There are no goodbyes offered or exchanged. Just a fade to blackness.
And the next thing I know I am standing outside my kid’s school. Apparently I have volunteered to switch off the power box which controls the lights once dawn shakes the rust off. Even in the dream the economy is sucking wind to such an extent that manual labor is needed in order to save a few cents on the energy bills.
Unlike my dream about the ex, this one seems random. There I am, standing dolefully outside the gates awaiting the first branches of sunlight so I can do my parental duty. That’s when this couple saunters up to me without introduction. The young man is disheveled. He is wearing a week old beard. The woman is an equal mess, but the moment I see her I wish we were alone. She is dressed in ratty jeans and a black hoodie which is unzipped to reveal her breasts. I am holding a chain in one hand and a bic pen in the other. I begin brushing across her open jacket to agreeable results. And then the man is gone and she is asking me to take her some place safe.
And then I wake up. Dawn is pushing up and the rain is falling and I have a primal craving which needs no explanation. My first thoughts are grasping at cobwebs and my next round of thoughts come up blanks. It’s only after coffee that I find a logical trespass into what it all meant.
I don’t tend to forgive, or forget.