|House of Dreams
||[May. 29th, 2004|12:19 pm]
Last night my dreams again centered around a location I’m starting to think of as the House of the Past – a place where all of the skeletons in my closet reside, all the ghosts in my attic. These years, it is taking the form of a big, ramshackle Victorian, with many coats of paint covering the worst areas of ruin and decay – the middle of the house, where I seldom go, is in much better repair.
In the dream, I was collecting the remains of a life long since abandoned in storage – moldy old clothing, plus back-pay for time spent whoring (this had something to do with Greg, which I suppose was a sell-out of sorts). There was a heavy aura of melancholy about the whole thing – dredging up the past. There was such a haunted feel about the place; even the landlady was ancient, dying, fading away.
I dreamed of a classmate; he and I seduced each other. Uh oh. This is a bad sign. I don’t like it when my waking life intrudes on my dreams! While I do like and respect the guy, 1) he smokes, and 2) he has a girlfriend (perhaps it’s not the happiest or healthiest relationship, but they’ve been together since – what, second semester?).
In the dream, it mostly began as talking enthusiastically. I had been waiting for some reason, and was watching the television, when a news report came on about San Francisco – it showed my house, and a couple of neighborhood landmarks above it. It was exciting to point out my old haunts. Gradually, the talk became more personal – about dreams, fears, goals. Which progressed to holding each other, which is as far as it got, but god, it felt good. (I also felt guilty when his girlfriend came to find us, because the group was going out to dinner.) We were all going somewhere where Raiston (a friend’s local boyfriend) was the chef; they all swore high and low that it was terrific (I had never been there.) (Note: Raiston isn’t a chef, in real life.)
I felt strange whenever I looked in his direction, all day.