Tag Archives: D

Dream of the week #1

dream house...

Here’s some background info first: I’ve been sick for a couple days. Completely rundown. Actually, all my whining about being rundown from sheer pleasure has been a little inflated compared to Sunday night and yesterday. I truly hit a wall. This, after a weekend of excessive fun and pleasure. Oh, poor little hedonist and her rough life. 

Anyway, I have been veering off my daily routine. Not myself lately. And it’s not that I am complaining. I’m not! But my subconscious is, in a sad, lost soul kind of way.

All that being said, here’s the dream:

I was with my family in a big house on a hill and at one point, I went to go to my own house, which was at the bottom of the hill in this little town of multi-colored row houses. I’d been many times before, but honestly, it seemed more like an old shanty-looking,  vacation home. So, I grabbed the key from my parents’ house and headed down the hill to see some of the stuff that I had stored there- namely, my journals. 

When I got to the row of houses, mine was completely gone. Erased. And via eavesdropping on some of the residents, I learned that the owner of the town had burned down the house and took over the land to build his own place. He felt my house had been vacant too long and decided it was abandoned. 

I cried hysterically and ran back to my family home, sobbing not so much over the loss of the actual house or my other stuff, but for the journals. When I told my mother what had happened, she said, “you go back to that man and tell him you want your things back. He owes you! He stole your property.”

So, I went back to go yell at him but before I got the chance, I came upon a resident who told me that the owner had saved my journals and that they were still in the basement (foundation), in the part of the house that wasn’t burned. On that news, I headed down into the basement, which was more a crawl space. I moved through cobwebs and dirt and darkness and there to the right was a huge, green incinerator filled from top to bottom with unburned books of mine, ready to be set afire. At the very top, as I climbed into yet a tinier, but brighter section of the crawl space (there was a window, though dirty), there I saw all my journals, safely preserved and painted gold. 




For the past few night or so, I have been dreaming incessantly of sex. Not the usual, missionary kind of sex. Not even the unusual dirty, kinky kind of sex that oftentimes accompanies some sort of physical follow-thru on my part. No. This stuff is just plain bizarre. Three nights ago I had sex with my cleaning lady. And though I love her dearly, there’s something about an overweight, diabetic black woman who wears a wig and a false tooth that, in reality, I just don’t find very attractive. But apparently, in my dream, she came at me hot and heavy and I said, “What the hell.” 

Two nights ago I dreamed I had sex with my ex-husband. I actually find that slightly more disturbing than the cleaning lady. Although, I have to admit, he resurrected some of his old moves, and I might have even had a little dream-gasm. 

Last night though was by far the strangest. I was lying in bed atop white sheets and all these animals hopped up onto the bed and started licking me all over. I realize that, to some, this may seem freakishly erotic. But a dog, a cat and a mouse? I mean, what the hell would create in me the need or the desire to have sex with a mouse? I can maybe understand a dog. But a mouse? A cat? 


So, I broke out my dream-analysis book. And not surprisingly, there were no entries on “sex with mice” or even “sex with cleaning ladies.” Fearing that I was on my own in my interpretations, I started to combine entries. For example: The cause and or source of sex in dreams may be “a direct result of your own thoughts, desires and wishes that you are aware of; but at times there can be hidden or suppressed desires you don’t care to admit.” Harboring secret fantasies for Delores is highly unlikely. However, the book goes on to say, “Since everyone is highly telepathic, especially while in the Alpha state, it is not at all unusual to find yourself involved in a sexy dream with someone you do not even care about.”

OK. Fine. That explains Delores and the ex. But what about the animals?

I skimmed through the book for an entry, and this is what I found:

“The animals we find in our dreams often represent the animal instincts, urges, habits and aspects we attribute to them which are also found in ourselves [or others]. That would include the good and the so-called “bad…” Cats and dogs can both represent strong sensory powers and telepathic abilities as well as faithfulness, loyalty, and disciplined behavior. Cats are intuitive, aloof and detached…sensual and sometimes uncaring…dogs represent loyalty, protection, courage and companionship…”

This makes sense, and yet, I think it’s a little simpler than all that. I tossed the book aside and came up with my own theory:

I’m not having sex. I haven’t had it in a while. But it’s hovering over me.  Right around the corner. Inevitably on its way. But D and I have pretty much made a conscious decision to wait. All very exciting. I’m very much enjoying the wait in a sort of imposed painful way. Yet there is something that bothers me on a deeper, more buried level. I’m honestly afraid that our notions of sex, or rather, our sexual needs are vastly different. In plain language, I’m worried that I am too wild for this particular man.

The reason I am probably having sex with women and exs and animals in my dreams is not so much who they represent as “what” they represent. They are all taboo in the realm of what is normal and acceptable in matters of sex. Not to me, of course. At least not subconsciously. But in my mind, I worry that simpler things are highly taboo to D. These dreams, then, serve as guilty triggers to remind me of who I am and how I am perceived. 

For the record, I don’t like sex with animals. Nor would I probably ever “do” a  full-figured black women or my ex-husband. Not so much for reasons of morality as much as preference. However, I am far more liberal and experienced than D and this has me vexing about it, even in my sleep. 

Am I wrong? Am I dirty? Am I bad? Will I be perceived in a dark, evil light? These are all the things I have begun to question about myself. And why on earth do I see him as so pure and innocent and unsullied? Because he tries to come off that way (which he is not entirely, by the way)? Or because I see myself as such the opposite extreme. I hate this about me. I hate that I am this way at times. I am ashamed. 

And yet, I’m not. 

When D and I began talking about seven weeks ago he mentioned that he wanted to “exorcise” his “lust for crazy women,” and that sometimes he chooses “purity over happiness.” I barely knew him then, but I quickly shot back, “I hate to be the bearer of great news, but having/wanting/craving sex and/or falling for crazy women is not evil or impure and therefore NOT the polar opposite of “goodness.” It’s (surprise!) synonymous with goodness AND purity.” This then led him to tell me, among other things, that he doesn’t equate sex with impurity, but by then, it was too late. I had already formed my opinion. 

I need to state something here, which may not be entirely obvious: I am discussing the SUPERFICIAL. None of this has anything to do with matters of the heart. To me, there are many realms of sexual expression, all of which I enjoy and desire; that which arises out of a deep connectivity between two people in love, spiritual sex, tantric sex, enlightened sex; plain old missionary sex and quickies that tend to be self-serving but fulfilling; passionate sex, make-up after a fight sex and so on. The sex I am talking about here is the edgy, experimental, psychological kind. The kind of stuff at which you arrive when you’re curious about the underworld of sex. Ambiguously taboo stuff. Even more so, the kind of sex that you “suggest” one night in the bedroom only to be met by a comment like “aren’t people arrested for stuff like that?”

The kind of sex that drive feminists to institute laws protecting women against it. 

You get my point.

At any rate, here I am, seven weeks later, dreaming of sex with animals and trying desperately to believe in the purity of my own lasciviousness. Hoping there might be a middle ground between his perceived innocence and my so-called…experience. Hoping too that I am not running the risk of seeming weirder than I actually am. The more you draw attention to something the bigger it becomes. Right? It’s at this point that I wish to exhume all my old boyfriends and say, “Can you please help me out? Tell D that I’m not as strange as I’m making myself out to be,” to which they all reply, “you were a little bit crazy, but definitely hot.”

That’s the gist of all this. I’m hoping D thinks I’m “hot,” not weird. Among other flattering things, of course. Is that asking too much? I just don’t want to give up my fetishes, that’s all. I mean, wouldn’t it be great if there were a guy out there who accepted even the darker, more questionable side of my nature? Wouldn’t it be great if someone said, “give me what you’ve got, Tracy. I’m not afraid…” 

He and I have talked at length on this subject. Maybe not enough. Whatever the case may be, there’s really only one way to set my mind at ease and purge the guilt and fear. And that’s to do it. To have sex and lots of it. And after months of doing it and learning about each other and experimenting and talking and crossing lines and pushing envelops (or shall I say buying dildos, renting movies and breaking out the Catholic School-Girl outfit?), I will either be satisfied or I won’t. Plain and simple. Until then, I suppose I will remain the victim of guilty, animal dream sex and the telepathic lust of my cleaning lady. Let’s just say I’m hoping this issue is resolved quickly.

Gray day

I’m so damn tired. Run down. My body has been crushed under the weight of massive amounts of pleasure and now, I feel broken. Good broken, though. Like the kind your body feels after hard labor.

I had a very guilt-ridden dream last night that my son and one of the girl’s from his class were snooping around in my room and found all my lingerie and sexy bras and panties. They brought them to me and threw them down in a pile at my feet, completely disgusted with me, tears in their eyes. “Is this who you are? Is this the only thing that you have to offer the world? Is this what you are teaching you’re children?!” I stared down at them and the pile, dumbfounded and somewhat ashamed. I tried to come up with some smart response. But nothing.  “Stay out of my stuff” I said. And I locked myself in my room. 

I’m assuming this comes after a talk I had last night with D. I often think in terms of black and white when it comes to intimacy. I sometimes see ideas and “acts” as tarnished  or pure, dirty or clean. Nothing in between. But is sex so black and white? I hope not. I hope, after all these years of living under the oppressive beliefs of  the Roman Catholic church that taught me to think this way, that I can overcome this type of thinking for a more Taoist one. I’m surprised at myself for not having overcome it yet. I do believe that virtually anything can be seen as good and beautiful when there are huge amounts of love and trust between two people, as well as a shared interest in the same kinds of stuff.

But anyway, the dream very well may run deeper than I’m admitting. I suppose more or less I am questioning the very fabric of my being. Who am I? What do I have to offer the world? What am I teaching my children? Hopefully I am worth more and giving more than the sum of my underwear drawer. 

oh pleasure. oh guilt.

The lawyer and the barista

You are not normally self-effacing.

Until you push past the carts.

In a black suit.

Against a dichotomous background.

On your way to the Cafe

To buy  black coffee

Circumnavigating the aisles of Whole Foods,

Where you obviously don’t belong

At two in the afternoon

While there’s work to be done

At your desk;

Your glass office

Some ordinance to file.

You are

Linear and finite

Braving a sea of amorphous,

Communal, leftist, hippies

Who brush past you with their flowered dresses

And canvas tote bags

And downplay their superiority,

Just so you can catch a glimpse

Of your girl’s smile.




Night at Johnny Brenda’s

  The Morning Benders

Monday night I went to see Dawn Landes, The Submarines and The Morning Benders at Johnny Brenda’s in fishtown with D. I have to admit I hadn’t been “out” to see a show in months and months (Bubble House doesn’t count). And this was so last minute. And so much appreciated.

There is something to be said for a smaller venue. I typically cannot tolerate bigger places like the Tower (though i will be going to see Ray LaMontagne there in April), and massive headliners at places like the Spectrum or the Vet (note the use of obsolete terms here– both stadiums have either been renamed or demolished–that’s how long it’s been since I’ve been there) are completely out of the question.

I’m a Khyber girl. A Tin Angel girl. And now a Johnny Brenda’s girl. I like intimacy. Atmosphere. I like old city buildings with brick interior and romantic red velvet seats. Hardwood floors that lead to curtained back rooms with sofas for kissing. I like the smallness of a crowd that huddles around a bar drinking local beer next to the stage. I like a balcony. And the flicker of a dim blue light. And in a perfect world, if the experience of going “out” is to be truly amazing, I also need there to be good company and good music.

Monday night was it.

D was dreamy. The visuals were charming. The music was fantastic.

I am a poor critic of talent and sound. But Dawn Landes has one of those balmy, little girl voices that when paired with the harsher strum of a guitar (that she’s playing) make you want to gush with emotion. Quite beautiful, smooth, yet at times quirky delivery. And what is it about a woman in a little vintage red dress and strappy heels, playing a guitar that’s just so damn sexy? No doubt the image triggers my previous life. You see, I was a lounge singer that only wrote one hit tune and sadly performed a washed up show to a washed up audience night after night at some rundown bar in Center City. When I see women performers like Landes, it summons that old life of mine and makes me appreciate how hard the girl is working.

The Submarines were great as well. I was mesmerized by Blake Hazard’s ubiquitous smile. And gosh, she’s so bouncy and blond. Not to mention quite talented. Beautiful, tinny voice. Thing is, she was the band’s only source of energy (except the drummer, to an extent, who reminded me a bit of Animal from the Muppets. No joke). She’s bouncing around, smiling, cracking all these jokes, and yet her hubby never makes eye contact with her or cracks a smile. He’s just slumped over his guitar with this angst-ridden expression of deep preoccupation. Like, just do your job, honey and leave me alone. It made for a nice yin and yang. But I couldn’t help wonder how the hell she gets a rise out of this guy when they’re in bed at night (they are husband and wife). I imagine she’s the one on top.

I guess what felt best was that I was OK to watch the show and be silent. I’m not typically one to enjoy sitting (or standing, in this case) along side someone, facing out, watching something else that’s going on– a show, a band, a movie, a reading, staring at the decor on the walls… Someone did a study once and determined that men talk this way; side by side, facing something else (like someone else working), whereas women talk to each other face to face. I definitely feel the need to talk and listen and have that sort of exchange, face to face. But this was new and different and nice and comfy. I actually liked having someone by my side so that my senses were free to focus on the surround.

Anyway, the night was wonderful. It’s good to know that I am still seeing and experiencing the newness of life, still turned on by little things. I hope to never be desensitized. So many people I know have faded away. I did that for years, they say. It bores me now, they say. I just think of Blake Hazard’s smile and Dawn Landes’ voice and brushing indiscriminately against D’s blue jeans with my hip and I am awash with giddiness and life.



I remember listening to Weird by Clem Snide, driving through Indianapolis some summers ago. How the sun kept playing tricks on me and how the landscape changed like a slow twirling kaleidoscope, reconfiguring the horizon with sparkly newness the farther west I drove. Indiana sunk behind me, back into itself- into its own drabness, and I was glad to be rid of all 275 miles. It got me thinking of love and sex and relationships and how everything forward comes from nothing, just like us.

If someone asked me six months ago if I thought you would be in my bedroom with your shirt off, sitting on the edge of my bed, listening to Dawn Landes tunes on my iPod, I wouldn’t have believed it. Not you. Six months ago was August. It was August sixth. I was with the other guy, writing things like: “You love your man, Tracy. But he is struggling. He is trying to pay down his debts. It has nothing to do with you…He’s just tired, Tracy. That’s all.”

See, you’re driving and driving under easy conditions, a few bumps, but mostly flat land, miles of green field. And then all of a sudden you hit this drop and the world falls away like nothing- and you’re left, undone, holding onto to the steering wheel for dear life, just trying not to crash and burn.  You no longer trust the road and you’re looking for god on the hills. In the clouds. Hoping something out there will save you. But all you’ve got are these weird, bulbous pea green and yellow hills that make no sense.  Even the air out by Ocoama is different.

I remember imagining the landscape as a soul, once I reached the canyons. The deeper you go, the closer you are to being reborn.  It’s like the land gives you this second chance. That’s how it feels now. I am driving toward you, through you, and I have no idea what beauty or ugliness you’ll spring on me, but I don’t care. Where there’s a turn in the road. A curve. A drop. I’m driving not because I need to be somewhere.  I’m driving because I’m on the road. Because I want to see everything. Because when you’re through moving you’re through. And I’ve learned to trust myself. And because the only god I ever found was the one who never showed up to rescue me.

Or maybe he did. Maybe he was the road.

Your hills and valleys. Your forests. Your empty space. Your source, your sink. I stop and I rest and I make peace with the newness of your sights and sounds and smells. It’s all so new. Like the first time I parked and inhaled the dust of red rocks in Moab, felt the heat, touched the old earth… saw nothing but felt the entire universe, and knew I wanted to stay.