I dreamt the apocalypse was coming and no one would believe me. I kept seeing it happening like a prophetic near-future overlay, fading from present to future and back; it felt completely imminent.
I dreamt I was working at a big pharma corporation and had a secret meeting with two of my co-workers - minions like me - and three children of the company's top executives. We talked about money and privelege. I began disgusted with the existence of the 1% but they debated gamely, all had integrity and came across not like Paris Hiltons but as educated, smart and simply fiscally lucky and I felt somewhat better at the end at least about these particular kids having been born into such economic advantage.
I told them the change was coming fast and it might not matter so much then anyway. We talked in theory about whether it would be better to be in the city on the streets, in buildings or out in the country when it happened. It was universally decided that inside of an office building there are not enough places to hide from killer robots, alien invaders, zombies, or homicidal humans.
The dream changed and now I was a very wealthy young woman. I discovered a file suggesting that my mother had been part of a cloning project, and began to doubt the identity of my father. I searched records, recruiting the help of a few trusted friends. I confronted my mother, determined to understand and expose the conspiracy, but she denied everything and I felt doubly betrayed.
The grounds of my house were like a tropical paradise with faux built pools, waterfalls and gardens; everything was controlled down to the perfect climate and groomed vegetation. You could walk barefoot anywhere and never step on a weed. You could wear a bikini day and night and never be cold. If luxury had an actual lap, I was living in it.
I snuck out and watched some of the events unfold from the vantage point of the sunroof, a transparent better-than-glass barrier that roofed the entire property.
My mother was joined by a psychiatrist and at first it seemed this woman was going to be her ally and possibly inadvertantly mine; they talked about my cloning conspiracy theories and the psychiatrist did not just dismiss them out of hand.
Then a close friend of my mother's returned from a routine doctor's visit with amnesia and a fresh surgical scar over what would be her left ovaries. My mother started to consider that I might be right. The psychiatrist gave my mother something to calm her nerves. My mother fell asleep, the friend disappeared, and I realized the head shrinker was just a plant to keep my mother quiet and controlled.
The company was breeding humans to a purpose, though the end game was still unclear to me. I walked into a shoe store to order a pair of boots. I had decided to permanently separate myself from my old life. I talked with the shoemaker and decided that if the breeding led to a better race of humans that were more in line with my own philosophy it might not be so bad.
I woke instantly, heart racing, 540am, sat up, and my first clear thought was that I was wasting my life, I took a wrong turn, and now it was too late.
Monday, November 26, 2012
Saturday, November 24, 2012
The art of happiness - dream remix
How do we derive meaning?
I woke up with this question, at the tail end of a dream series that could have doubled as a graduate seminar in philosophy or spiritual studies.
My dreams were not unusual - there was an anxiety dream about trying to find a bathroom in the middle of a cactus garden; there was a dream about being on a train tour with writers and politicians and making a plan to seduce the aloof, sensual female author in my sleeping car; I became friends with the woman who showed me a secret entrance to the hotel pool while I was scouting for an escape from our prisoner of war compound.
But all night, my dream experiences were analyzed through the lens of meaning. I was hyper aware of when and why in each dream my engagement and happiness were high and when they were low.
How do we derive meaning? My dreams said:
From our social network - by being part of friendships or partnerships or families
From our experience - participating in adventure or documenting and organize the events of our lives or immersion in art/writing/food/sex
From our contribution - doing meaningful career or hobby or volunteer work or raising families or creating art
The one I missed and thought of on waking - faith
Death, divorce, loss of a job, loss of faith are life events considered extraordinarily stressful. What do they have in common? From my dream perspective, it's all about identity, purpose and connection. When we lose someone we love to death, divorce or some other breakup we lose the meaningfulness of having our relationship to them. If we are disowned or excommunicated, we lose the identity and connection to community. Lose a job, we lose our answer to What do you do? and a concrete daily task list. If we become too sick to work or participate in activities we lose engagement and satisfaction. Loss of faith sends us into a limbo where it is no longer clear how to view and organize the world into meaning; it may challenge the very notion that life has any purpose at all.
My own happiness, sense of purpose, engagement, satisfaction, depends on connections, identity, activities. If I lose a job or a person or an ability, the other things in my life are supportive. But if I lose many things at once, or one thing that is supremely important, it can be hard to keep waking up to the world. It loses its color, satisfaction is replaced by despair and eventually engagement by universal disinterest.
How do we derive meaning?
When I am low, I can't answer this question. I don't see a purpose to being. My little human life is so short in comparison to the lifetime of the universe, my existence unlikely to matter or be recorded, and I am so often caught up in the minutiae of survival and the prison of my own ego that I don't put my energy into the things I'm really good at, that are truly satisfying, or that I believe matter.
Depression is both a medical and spiritual condition. It is certainly physiological. It can be rescued pharmaceutically. It can be brought on by sensory overload, by overwhelming demands, by loss, by trauma, or illness. But it is fundamentally about being able to participate in life in a way that is experienced as meaningful.
I woke up with this question, at the tail end of a dream series that could have doubled as a graduate seminar in philosophy or spiritual studies.
My dreams were not unusual - there was an anxiety dream about trying to find a bathroom in the middle of a cactus garden; there was a dream about being on a train tour with writers and politicians and making a plan to seduce the aloof, sensual female author in my sleeping car; I became friends with the woman who showed me a secret entrance to the hotel pool while I was scouting for an escape from our prisoner of war compound.
But all night, my dream experiences were analyzed through the lens of meaning. I was hyper aware of when and why in each dream my engagement and happiness were high and when they were low.
How do we derive meaning? My dreams said:
From our social network - by being part of friendships or partnerships or families
From our experience - participating in adventure or documenting and organize the events of our lives or immersion in art/writing/food/sex
From our contribution - doing meaningful career or hobby or volunteer work or raising families or creating art
The one I missed and thought of on waking - faith
Death, divorce, loss of a job, loss of faith are life events considered extraordinarily stressful. What do they have in common? From my dream perspective, it's all about identity, purpose and connection. When we lose someone we love to death, divorce or some other breakup we lose the meaningfulness of having our relationship to them. If we are disowned or excommunicated, we lose the identity and connection to community. Lose a job, we lose our answer to What do you do? and a concrete daily task list. If we become too sick to work or participate in activities we lose engagement and satisfaction. Loss of faith sends us into a limbo where it is no longer clear how to view and organize the world into meaning; it may challenge the very notion that life has any purpose at all.
My own happiness, sense of purpose, engagement, satisfaction, depends on connections, identity, activities. If I lose a job or a person or an ability, the other things in my life are supportive. But if I lose many things at once, or one thing that is supremely important, it can be hard to keep waking up to the world. It loses its color, satisfaction is replaced by despair and eventually engagement by universal disinterest.
How do we derive meaning?
When I am low, I can't answer this question. I don't see a purpose to being. My little human life is so short in comparison to the lifetime of the universe, my existence unlikely to matter or be recorded, and I am so often caught up in the minutiae of survival and the prison of my own ego that I don't put my energy into the things I'm really good at, that are truly satisfying, or that I believe matter.
Depression is both a medical and spiritual condition. It is certainly physiological. It can be rescued pharmaceutically. It can be brought on by sensory overload, by overwhelming demands, by loss, by trauma, or illness. But it is fundamentally about being able to participate in life in a way that is experienced as meaningful.
Thursday, November 8, 2012
Write something
My favourite authors write like angels; my writing seems more like Pan. Coyote. A mythical trickster shapeshifter. Unreliable, neither on your side nor against you.
In the 565am dark I woke with this question: what is writing for me?
It's been years (maybe 20?) since I wrote on a regular basis. I feel it beginning to dry up, like my fertility, something juicy and vital that I'm not using, so it's ebbing away.
Writing is a lens - distorting, magnifying, resolving. Bringing focus to my experience. I can shoot the landscape. Wide-angled, I get mountain ranges; close-ups, grains of sand, shards of veiny rock, one rust-eaten leaf.
It organizes my time, makes bullet points of lists, notes in meetings, tracks experiments
then unravels into daydreaming, fantasy, impossible physics and far-fetched desire.
Writing is a sickness, a lucid fever dream. It wakes me dry-mouthed and hungover in the predawn and teases me with turns of phrases lovely or disturbing, smoke signals hanging bright in the gloom, threatening to disappear whether I move toward waking or retreat into sleep.
Writing is a decision, an act of will, to leave the roiling cobwebbed dark, turn on a light, and chase the vapor trail thoughts into words.
In the 565am dark I woke with this question: what is writing for me?
It's been years (maybe 20?) since I wrote on a regular basis. I feel it beginning to dry up, like my fertility, something juicy and vital that I'm not using, so it's ebbing away.
Writing is a lens - distorting, magnifying, resolving. Bringing focus to my experience. I can shoot the landscape. Wide-angled, I get mountain ranges; close-ups, grains of sand, shards of veiny rock, one rust-eaten leaf.
It organizes my time, makes bullet points of lists, notes in meetings, tracks experiments
then unravels into daydreaming, fantasy, impossible physics and far-fetched desire.
Writing is a sickness, a lucid fever dream. It wakes me dry-mouthed and hungover in the predawn and teases me with turns of phrases lovely or disturbing, smoke signals hanging bright in the gloom, threatening to disappear whether I move toward waking or retreat into sleep.
Writing is a decision, an act of will, to leave the roiling cobwebbed dark, turn on a light, and chase the vapor trail thoughts into words.
Sunday, September 16, 2012
Being J Lo
I was J Lo in my dream last night. As I was leaving the stage, a man staggered up to me and tried to say something in my ear. He was tackled but struggled hard and managed to get away. One of my bodyguards received a minor cut from a switchblade. The would-be attacker ran out the main doors, all of us in hot pursuit. From the top of the stairs, we watched him escape into the sewer system.
Police cars skidded up, men in bullet proof vests piled out. Badges, walkies, and dogs were in plentiful supply; a full scale manhunt was assembled. Suddenly I realized I had to pee and there was no time to go back to my dressing room. A sign led downstairs to the rest room. There was a long after-the-show line. Apart from the occasional double take fading to uncertainty no one recognized me. I finally got to use the end stall. It had no door, but was guarded by Kiko, a muscular Puerto Rican dressed in white satin vest and leather pants.
"I'll make sure no one takes any cell phone pictures, Ms. Lopez," he assured me.
To get to the toilet you had to climb a flight of stairs. As I sat on the literal throne, panties around my ankles, the wall on the far side dissolved. Members of a royal dress ball milled into the room, chatting discretely, and sipping champagne from the delicate flutes held in gloved white hands. Three people sat at the bottom of my stairs as I deployed the last square of toilet paper.
For some reason I had taken off my stockings. While I leaned against the toilet for balance to put them on, a white-haired woman in a russet satin ball gown and small half crown took a seat, as if the toilet were a convenient chair.
The woman introduced herself as Edith, the duchess of somewhere-or-other vaguely german-sounding, and related a soft-spoken anecdote about her ex-husband that included historical references to Vatican edicts on marriage from the 1600s-1900s. She spoke in perfect precise syllables - the Queen's english. And she had questions for me - not about my singing career but about my relationships.
"How does one survive a terrible divorce?" "Is it possible to ever trust again after discovering your loved one with the maid?" "What do you do to cope with loneliness?" I was keenly aware of the Puerto Rican traces lingering in my answers.
I took her hand and kissed it before taking my leave, an awkward moment as I realized I had yet to wash my own hands; she didn't appear to notice or care. At the bottom of the stairs a young royal apprehended me and demanded to know why I was impersonating a celebrity. He refused to believe who I was, and left abruptly, after delivering a promise that he would return with the police.
I made my way through the banquet tables, feeling completely out of my element. I tripped on a chair leg and almost bumped into the real J Lo. She was a few inches taller, and thinner but wore a nearly identical outfit; I allowed a moment of pride - surely hers had taken hours to construct whereas mine had been hastily assembled during the 90-minute show - including time to pose and dress figurine dolls of her backup dancers - all from the vantage point of the lighting technician's balcony.
I flushed and stammered, "I love your work so much." She gave an uncomfortable smile and turned away, just as a police officer took my arm.
To get to the interrogation room we had to pass a long corridor where my father, a rabbi, was giving a reading from the Torah. His back was to me, so he didn't see me being dragged past, hand-cuffed and in tears.
The lead detective demanded to know the details of the conspiracy between me and the escaped man. I honestly said I didn't know; I just liked to make costumes and act out doll scenes of various artists' shows that passed through the concert venue. Clearly he felt I knew more than I was telling. He slammed the table. I woke up.
Police cars skidded up, men in bullet proof vests piled out. Badges, walkies, and dogs were in plentiful supply; a full scale manhunt was assembled. Suddenly I realized I had to pee and there was no time to go back to my dressing room. A sign led downstairs to the rest room. There was a long after-the-show line. Apart from the occasional double take fading to uncertainty no one recognized me. I finally got to use the end stall. It had no door, but was guarded by Kiko, a muscular Puerto Rican dressed in white satin vest and leather pants.
"I'll make sure no one takes any cell phone pictures, Ms. Lopez," he assured me.
To get to the toilet you had to climb a flight of stairs. As I sat on the literal throne, panties around my ankles, the wall on the far side dissolved. Members of a royal dress ball milled into the room, chatting discretely, and sipping champagne from the delicate flutes held in gloved white hands. Three people sat at the bottom of my stairs as I deployed the last square of toilet paper.
For some reason I had taken off my stockings. While I leaned against the toilet for balance to put them on, a white-haired woman in a russet satin ball gown and small half crown took a seat, as if the toilet were a convenient chair.
The woman introduced herself as Edith, the duchess of somewhere-or-other vaguely german-sounding, and related a soft-spoken anecdote about her ex-husband that included historical references to Vatican edicts on marriage from the 1600s-1900s. She spoke in perfect precise syllables - the Queen's english. And she had questions for me - not about my singing career but about my relationships.
"How does one survive a terrible divorce?" "Is it possible to ever trust again after discovering your loved one with the maid?" "What do you do to cope with loneliness?" I was keenly aware of the Puerto Rican traces lingering in my answers.
I took her hand and kissed it before taking my leave, an awkward moment as I realized I had yet to wash my own hands; she didn't appear to notice or care. At the bottom of the stairs a young royal apprehended me and demanded to know why I was impersonating a celebrity. He refused to believe who I was, and left abruptly, after delivering a promise that he would return with the police.
I made my way through the banquet tables, feeling completely out of my element. I tripped on a chair leg and almost bumped into the real J Lo. She was a few inches taller, and thinner but wore a nearly identical outfit; I allowed a moment of pride - surely hers had taken hours to construct whereas mine had been hastily assembled during the 90-minute show - including time to pose and dress figurine dolls of her backup dancers - all from the vantage point of the lighting technician's balcony.
I flushed and stammered, "I love your work so much." She gave an uncomfortable smile and turned away, just as a police officer took my arm.
To get to the interrogation room we had to pass a long corridor where my father, a rabbi, was giving a reading from the Torah. His back was to me, so he didn't see me being dragged past, hand-cuffed and in tears.
The lead detective demanded to know the details of the conspiracy between me and the escaped man. I honestly said I didn't know; I just liked to make costumes and act out doll scenes of various artists' shows that passed through the concert venue. Clearly he felt I knew more than I was telling. He slammed the table. I woke up.
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Prison camp for women
I spent the vast majority of my dream locked in a prison camp for "disobedient women". The buildings were made of rough unfinished wooden boards. There was no heat, electricity or running water. Time passed strangely; it might have been days or years.
It was unclear who was holding us or why. I had brief, secret affairs with two of the other inmates. It was frantic and intensely erotic as we believed that discovery would result in some terrible, unknowable retribution.
We made endless attempts to escape, each thwarted and derided as unoriginal, the prison guards' scolding accompanied by a soul-crushing litany of the number of times that exact strategy had been unsuccessfully deployed by a former inmate.
Finally, two of us managed to escape through holes we'd made in the outer chicken-wire fence, only to observe an extraction team descend on the camp minutes later and arrest our captors. The world we were released into was bleaker than we remembered, our victory over imprisonment entirely anti-climactic.
Later I was working in my lab. My printer broke down so I went down the hall to ask another lab group if they had any suggestions for how to fix it. A woman on the couch in the break room said I could use her lab printer instead.
On my way back to my lab, I was stopped by the head of a different lab, our direct neighbour.
She was flushed, her words clipped. "You have your fingers in everything, don't you? You walk around this department using up whatever you like even if it doesn't belong to you."
I stood there stunned, unable to think of an appropriate reply.
She moved closer, put her hand on the center of my chest, and pushed me back several times for emphasis. "This. Has got. To stop."
When I got home, my roommate had let her new Burmese kitten out on the balcony. Rather than play or explore, the kitten sat on the railing of the balcony staring at us with palpable disdain.
A dark shape in my peripheral vision. I looked up and saw my upstairs neighbour's pet, a human-sized flying demon, perched on the balcony above us. Suddenly it leaped into the air, and began a dive headed straight toward us. I barely had time to scoop the kitten out of harms' way. The demon's claws grazed my knuckles, a hot sulfuric wind burned my eyes. It emitted a frustrated shriek and slow-flap-flapped its enormous leathery wings to climb back up to its own balcony.
I woke with dry mouth and a headache. I need to drink more water.
It was unclear who was holding us or why. I had brief, secret affairs with two of the other inmates. It was frantic and intensely erotic as we believed that discovery would result in some terrible, unknowable retribution.
We made endless attempts to escape, each thwarted and derided as unoriginal, the prison guards' scolding accompanied by a soul-crushing litany of the number of times that exact strategy had been unsuccessfully deployed by a former inmate.
Finally, two of us managed to escape through holes we'd made in the outer chicken-wire fence, only to observe an extraction team descend on the camp minutes later and arrest our captors. The world we were released into was bleaker than we remembered, our victory over imprisonment entirely anti-climactic.
Later I was working in my lab. My printer broke down so I went down the hall to ask another lab group if they had any suggestions for how to fix it. A woman on the couch in the break room said I could use her lab printer instead.
On my way back to my lab, I was stopped by the head of a different lab, our direct neighbour.
She was flushed, her words clipped. "You have your fingers in everything, don't you? You walk around this department using up whatever you like even if it doesn't belong to you."
I stood there stunned, unable to think of an appropriate reply.
She moved closer, put her hand on the center of my chest, and pushed me back several times for emphasis. "This. Has got. To stop."
When I got home, my roommate had let her new Burmese kitten out on the balcony. Rather than play or explore, the kitten sat on the railing of the balcony staring at us with palpable disdain.
A dark shape in my peripheral vision. I looked up and saw my upstairs neighbour's pet, a human-sized flying demon, perched on the balcony above us. Suddenly it leaped into the air, and began a dive headed straight toward us. I barely had time to scoop the kitten out of harms' way. The demon's claws grazed my knuckles, a hot sulfuric wind burned my eyes. It emitted a frustrated shriek and slow-flap-flapped its enormous leathery wings to climb back up to its own balcony.
I woke with dry mouth and a headache. I need to drink more water.
Sunday, September 9, 2012
Eggs, bacon and DUI
I went to see Ira Glass and Dan Savage in a DJ-off at the Showbox last night. Dan was chill in jeans, t-shirt. Ira wore a Beetles-era suit and danced around like a five year old on steroids, utterly winning the crowd over with his energy and innocence. He pulled the mainly female audience onstage to dance, tango'd with Dan Savage, conducted the mosh pit and crowd surfed. Twice.
I may not have been 100% sober on the drive home which, as I'm a child of the MADD era, always engenders guilt, even if I'd have most definitely passed the sobriety test.
In my dream, I drove a converted city party bus through the snowy streets of Philadelphia. I had twelve fairly intoxicated and animated passengers. Going uphill through a residential neighborhood at about 60 mph, I hit two pedestrians. It took forever to stop the bus and then it rolled back to the bottom of the hill where the cops were waiting. I opened the doors. An officer motioned me outside and handed me a plastic tube I assumed was a breathalyzer.
"I have never taken one of these," I said. "What do I do?"
The officer told me to bite the top and leave my saliva on the strip. It was a DNA test.
"May I ask how things are going up the road?"
"Not good," the officer responded.
My eyes welled up with tears and my voice was unsteady, "Are they...?"
"Both alive," he said, "one is conscious, just bruised, but the other is on his way to hospital in critical condition."
A crowd had gathered; it fanned out from where I and the police were standing at the door to the bus. I've never had so much evidence that large numbers of humans actually live in suburbia. It was like an impromptu bus stop at rush hour, with me as the first passenger, forever about to get on; behind me collected the rubber-neckers, playing weary commuters, sweating patiently in suits and briefcases.
I only had two drinks last night, over four hours, but I completely forgot to drink water. I'm going to go cook up a greasy breakfast and engage in some gratitude. First and foremost, that I've yet to run anybody over with my car.
I may not have been 100% sober on the drive home which, as I'm a child of the MADD era, always engenders guilt, even if I'd have most definitely passed the sobriety test.
In my dream, I drove a converted city party bus through the snowy streets of Philadelphia. I had twelve fairly intoxicated and animated passengers. Going uphill through a residential neighborhood at about 60 mph, I hit two pedestrians. It took forever to stop the bus and then it rolled back to the bottom of the hill where the cops were waiting. I opened the doors. An officer motioned me outside and handed me a plastic tube I assumed was a breathalyzer.
"I have never taken one of these," I said. "What do I do?"
The officer told me to bite the top and leave my saliva on the strip. It was a DNA test.
"May I ask how things are going up the road?"
"Not good," the officer responded.
My eyes welled up with tears and my voice was unsteady, "Are they...?"
"Both alive," he said, "one is conscious, just bruised, but the other is on his way to hospital in critical condition."
A crowd had gathered; it fanned out from where I and the police were standing at the door to the bus. I've never had so much evidence that large numbers of humans actually live in suburbia. It was like an impromptu bus stop at rush hour, with me as the first passenger, forever about to get on; behind me collected the rubber-neckers, playing weary commuters, sweating patiently in suits and briefcases.
I only had two drinks last night, over four hours, but I completely forgot to drink water. I'm going to go cook up a greasy breakfast and engage in some gratitude. First and foremost, that I've yet to run anybody over with my car.
Saturday, August 18, 2012
Who needs friends when you've got vampires
Yesterday as I was stepping onto the bus, someone called my name. I turned around and discovered two classmates from grad school who I have not seen in a decade; they were accessorized with children who, as they are under ten, I have not met at all. They now live in Maine, making chance encounters statistically unlikely. Sadly the father of one friend passed away recently; they are in town this week for the funeral.
That was the beginning of a day so hectic that I fell asleep at my desk from 7:31 to 7:39, still not finished the tasks on my list. Happily I got the second wind I needed to attend my favourite DJ's salsa dance and was invited to the after party at Fonda La Catrina, a delicious Mexican restaurant in Georgetown that last night hosted a fabulous local Cuban band. (The musicians are local; the music is Cuban).
I landed in my bed at around midnight and had nine glorious hours of uninterrupted sleep. All dream night long I ran into real and not-so-real people from my past.
***
I was in New York city visiting my real life best friend from high school. Her apartment was in a new maze of tunnels under the subway system - all the highrises had been built up as far as they could go so now the city was building down. The advantage to the underground apartments was that they were cheap and very convenient to subway stops; the disadvantage was the rats.
My friend took me into her parlor, a sloping dirt-packed tunnel decorated with a single naked bulb in the shape of a "W". The ceiling was so low that I couldn't stand and look her in the face but had to crouch and stare in her direction, while burning the letter "W" deeply into my retinas. I began to have difficulty breathing and she pulled me out into the main hall where the landlord happened to be standing. "Panic attack?" he asked, his tone matter-of-fact. My friend nodded. "Some people just can't handle the claustrophobia." He sighed and shrugged his shoulders, a gesture I decided to interpret as empathy rather than apathy.
I was a surveyor for a company that was building entire cities in undeveloped, supposedly unpopulated, areas all along the eastern seaboard. I left New York by train, then took a powerboat and finally a canoe to reach the back swamps of Virginia where I was raised*.
The plans I'd seen the night before at my project meeting would have a catastrophic impact on my family's traditional way of life, on their whole community. I arrived at dusk, and was eyed suspiciously by people peeking out from behind wooden shack doors. The only woman willing to make eye contact was from an extended family of deaf-mutes. She recognized me; I signed to ask where my family was now living and was directed to a trap door inside a barn.
When I reached the bottom of the ladder, my mother greeted me with a crushing hug, and began scolding me, "Where have you been? Why didn't you write us to say you were coming? You go off to school and then never return to visit..." then abruptly pulled back, her brow furrowed.
"People are coming to map and drain your swamps," I said, the words piling out in a rush. I felt suddenly nervous. "You need to call a town meeting."
She pulled me into the kitchen. "Why do you smell different?" She sniffed the air and pulled back again, her pupils hugely dilated. I tried to control my heartbeat, slow down the surge of adrenaline. "You smell human," she whispered.
My mouth had gone dry. "I work for Eastern Regency," I said, "and they are planning to build shopping malls and playgrounds on undeveloped land all over the eastern states." Behind my mother, ina huge living room lit by hundreds of candles milled about twenty of my extended family. A few cousins had trickled into the kitchen to listen. I recognized only one of them; I wondered where my father and brothers were.
My mother tried to shoo them out and simultaneously pin me in the corner of the kitchen. I outmanoevered her and walked out into the living room, raising my voice, "I came here to warn you - to warn all of you. A construction company is coming. They are planning to build right here, on this land. You will need to re-locate. You only have a few months before it isn't safe here for you anymore."
Few appeared to be listening to my words. Many were smelling the air. A groundswell of murmuring. I felt so stupid for not anticipating that I would have to address this first.
"I am one of you," I said. "I grew up here; this is my mother -" I pointed to where she stood, in the archway between the kitchen and this huge living room. "I went away for night school and three years ago... I woke up and I had become human."
The murmuring turned into a roar of sound. The circle of relatives closed around me. I saw fangs. Dark pools of eyes. In the cacaphony I distinctly heard one of them say, "How did this happen?" and another, "When do we eat her?"
"Listen to me," I yelled, as loud as I could. The crowd backed up just a little. "I came back to warn you. You are in great danger."
My mother was at my side now, using her broom to shove my relatives to the sides of the room. "We are calling a meeting. Go and get the elders. NOW." The crowd scattered, each going to fetch their parents, grandparents. I breathed a sigh of relief. My mother was senior. My family would not disobey her no matter how hungry they were.
She turned to me, her eyes black, fangs out. "I'm sorry," she said, but her half-smile, the flick of her tongue to her teeth, sent a chill up my spine. My heart sank. I knew she was not apologizing for the family but for what was about to happen. I would not get the chance to tell my story, as a honored guest. Of course not. As a child I remembered they only called meetings when strangers showed up. The agenda was how to divide up the body. Why hadn't I thought about this? Blinded by loyalty? Maybe becoming human had made me soft, forget my roots.
"Please mom," I said, my voice breaking. "I came here to help you. That has to count for something."
She shook her head. "You turned. I don't know how. But I can't change the ancient laws. You are not one of us anymore."
My body filled with a hot sense of injustice, so familiar from childhood, but mixed now with terror. My knees threatened to give in. I fought hard to push my feelings down. I took a breath. I had been at the top of my class in engineering. This was just another in a line of difficult hypothetical problems requiring a creative solution. "There are others with me," I bluffed.
I prayed that my family's ability to smell a lie would be compromised by surprise and bloodlust. It seemed to work. "Others?"
"Yes. They aren't far behind me but we got separated. I need to find them. Otherwise it will cause chaos. Fighting."
My mother nodded. My lie was flimsy, utterly illogical, but thankfully instinct was her strong suit and for once I had the upper hand. I knew how she thought, but she couldn't - never had - understood me. She was hungry and bound by convention, and the thought of some of our community getting more than their share - more than HER share - was unbearable.
Somehow I convinced her that she had to stay and ensure the meeting was organized properly while I rounded up my supposed colleagues. I slipped out of the main room, back through the kitchen, and climbed the stairs. My whole body shook with adrenaline. Outside it was full dark and crawling with vampires on their way to a meeting where they would decide who got which parts of my body. It was a long shot. I had no idea how to get out of this alive. I only knew I had to run.
*I did not grow up in Virginia and none of my relatives possess a drop of vampire blood.
That was the beginning of a day so hectic that I fell asleep at my desk from 7:31 to 7:39, still not finished the tasks on my list. Happily I got the second wind I needed to attend my favourite DJ's salsa dance and was invited to the after party at Fonda La Catrina, a delicious Mexican restaurant in Georgetown that last night hosted a fabulous local Cuban band. (The musicians are local; the music is Cuban).
I landed in my bed at around midnight and had nine glorious hours of uninterrupted sleep. All dream night long I ran into real and not-so-real people from my past.
***
I was in New York city visiting my real life best friend from high school. Her apartment was in a new maze of tunnels under the subway system - all the highrises had been built up as far as they could go so now the city was building down. The advantage to the underground apartments was that they were cheap and very convenient to subway stops; the disadvantage was the rats.
My friend took me into her parlor, a sloping dirt-packed tunnel decorated with a single naked bulb in the shape of a "W". The ceiling was so low that I couldn't stand and look her in the face but had to crouch and stare in her direction, while burning the letter "W" deeply into my retinas. I began to have difficulty breathing and she pulled me out into the main hall where the landlord happened to be standing. "Panic attack?" he asked, his tone matter-of-fact. My friend nodded. "Some people just can't handle the claustrophobia." He sighed and shrugged his shoulders, a gesture I decided to interpret as empathy rather than apathy.
I was a surveyor for a company that was building entire cities in undeveloped, supposedly unpopulated, areas all along the eastern seaboard. I left New York by train, then took a powerboat and finally a canoe to reach the back swamps of Virginia where I was raised*.
The plans I'd seen the night before at my project meeting would have a catastrophic impact on my family's traditional way of life, on their whole community. I arrived at dusk, and was eyed suspiciously by people peeking out from behind wooden shack doors. The only woman willing to make eye contact was from an extended family of deaf-mutes. She recognized me; I signed to ask where my family was now living and was directed to a trap door inside a barn.
When I reached the bottom of the ladder, my mother greeted me with a crushing hug, and began scolding me, "Where have you been? Why didn't you write us to say you were coming? You go off to school and then never return to visit..." then abruptly pulled back, her brow furrowed.
"People are coming to map and drain your swamps," I said, the words piling out in a rush. I felt suddenly nervous. "You need to call a town meeting."
She pulled me into the kitchen. "Why do you smell different?" She sniffed the air and pulled back again, her pupils hugely dilated. I tried to control my heartbeat, slow down the surge of adrenaline. "You smell human," she whispered.
My mouth had gone dry. "I work for Eastern Regency," I said, "and they are planning to build shopping malls and playgrounds on undeveloped land all over the eastern states." Behind my mother, ina huge living room lit by hundreds of candles milled about twenty of my extended family. A few cousins had trickled into the kitchen to listen. I recognized only one of them; I wondered where my father and brothers were.
My mother tried to shoo them out and simultaneously pin me in the corner of the kitchen. I outmanoevered her and walked out into the living room, raising my voice, "I came here to warn you - to warn all of you. A construction company is coming. They are planning to build right here, on this land. You will need to re-locate. You only have a few months before it isn't safe here for you anymore."
Few appeared to be listening to my words. Many were smelling the air. A groundswell of murmuring. I felt so stupid for not anticipating that I would have to address this first.
"I am one of you," I said. "I grew up here; this is my mother -" I pointed to where she stood, in the archway between the kitchen and this huge living room. "I went away for night school and three years ago... I woke up and I had become human."
The murmuring turned into a roar of sound. The circle of relatives closed around me. I saw fangs. Dark pools of eyes. In the cacaphony I distinctly heard one of them say, "How did this happen?" and another, "When do we eat her?"
"Listen to me," I yelled, as loud as I could. The crowd backed up just a little. "I came back to warn you. You are in great danger."
My mother was at my side now, using her broom to shove my relatives to the sides of the room. "We are calling a meeting. Go and get the elders. NOW." The crowd scattered, each going to fetch their parents, grandparents. I breathed a sigh of relief. My mother was senior. My family would not disobey her no matter how hungry they were.
She turned to me, her eyes black, fangs out. "I'm sorry," she said, but her half-smile, the flick of her tongue to her teeth, sent a chill up my spine. My heart sank. I knew she was not apologizing for the family but for what was about to happen. I would not get the chance to tell my story, as a honored guest. Of course not. As a child I remembered they only called meetings when strangers showed up. The agenda was how to divide up the body. Why hadn't I thought about this? Blinded by loyalty? Maybe becoming human had made me soft, forget my roots.
"Please mom," I said, my voice breaking. "I came here to help you. That has to count for something."
She shook her head. "You turned. I don't know how. But I can't change the ancient laws. You are not one of us anymore."
My body filled with a hot sense of injustice, so familiar from childhood, but mixed now with terror. My knees threatened to give in. I fought hard to push my feelings down. I took a breath. I had been at the top of my class in engineering. This was just another in a line of difficult hypothetical problems requiring a creative solution. "There are others with me," I bluffed.
I prayed that my family's ability to smell a lie would be compromised by surprise and bloodlust. It seemed to work. "Others?"
"Yes. They aren't far behind me but we got separated. I need to find them. Otherwise it will cause chaos. Fighting."
My mother nodded. My lie was flimsy, utterly illogical, but thankfully instinct was her strong suit and for once I had the upper hand. I knew how she thought, but she couldn't - never had - understood me. She was hungry and bound by convention, and the thought of some of our community getting more than their share - more than HER share - was unbearable.
Somehow I convinced her that she had to stay and ensure the meeting was organized properly while I rounded up my supposed colleagues. I slipped out of the main room, back through the kitchen, and climbed the stairs. My whole body shook with adrenaline. Outside it was full dark and crawling with vampires on their way to a meeting where they would decide who got which parts of my body. It was a long shot. I had no idea how to get out of this alive. I only knew I had to run.
*I did not grow up in Virginia and none of my relatives possess a drop of vampire blood.
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