Same as the old year


I met someone a few months ago and she mentioned a MySpace account, in passing. For some reason, I have been obsessive about reading her posts there. Most have been relatively blasé, about celebrities or concerts, or what have you. But today she posted an entry about unrequited attraction, and it was filled with such melancholy longing that it took my breath away. I felt guilty for reading it, even though it is posted for God and country...

Saturday, January 06, 2007
 
Self indulgence at its finest. 
Current mood: loved
    The other night, after a somewhat disappointing and reluctantly melancholy NYE, I went home and pondered the end of 2006 and the beginning of 2007. It's five years exactly since I left Dallas for Alaska and I almost feel like a different person. Almost. It's said that the human body regenerates it's cells every seven years and I wonder at this because, if this is true,  I am literally almost a whole new person.

    When I slept that night, halfway between 2006 and 2007, for the first time in years I dreamt lucidly, as an active participant and decision maker. In the dream I was struggling with feelings that were troubling me in my waking life because, while it is hard to admit, I like someone more than he likes me. 

    As I swam through a sea of burnished landscapes, forested riverside, murky feelings and Victorian cottages I came to an old pier-and-beam soup kitchen in a rustically finished out barn. Glasses clinking, laughter and the gruff sound of fishermen filled the air and I found myself seated at an enormous sawed-off tree trunk.

    My girlfriend Anna appeared and we discussed romantic sentiments turned forelorn and inconvenient amour for reluctant suitors. As we talked, giggled, and commiserated I noticed that I was dreaming, that I wasn't sitting on anything but, rather, I was levitating. I grabbed her hand and said, "Anna this isn't real. We can fly now."

    The rest of the night passed drifting between states of consciousness, between sleepland and awareness, flying through the universe and revisiting a part of myself I thought was lost forever, a sense of, "Oh, there you are. I missed you."

    As a child I believed I could fly because I had vivid, magical dreams slipping colours, and I flew often. This nighttime life continued into my adulthood, but several years ago I stopped dreaming and thus I couldn't fly anymore. I chalked this loss of dreamlife up to the cynicism of adulthood, the uncanny ability of adults to discount the intangible. In other words, I forgot myself which is something I seem to do often, and with fervor.

    At four years old I flew every afternoon during my naps and later, at night, when the moon hung high above. A scar on my forehead reminds me of this because, at five years old, I got into an argument with a neighbor (a 5yo boy) who had the audacity to disbelieve my off-ground abilities.
"No you can't," he said, meanly.
"Yes. I . Can."
"No. you. can't."
"Yes I can. I do it every day. I fly."
"Then do it."
"Okay," I said, closing my eyes and thinking really hard. 
Nothing.
"Well I have to get up higher," I said, looking around for something to stand on and resting my gaze on an air conditioner unit that was almost taller than I was. "I have to go over there."
    He followed and said, "You can't do it. You're a girl and you are going to hurt yourself."
    Huffing, I scrambled up onto the air conditioner, looked at my sneakers and said, "I won't hurt myself. You are just scared. Here goes." Closing my eyes I inhaled deeply and then dove straight off, head first.

    The doctor said I had a concussion and the eight stitches would cause a scar. I looked like frankenstein, with ugly, swollen black railroad tracks marching meanly across my forehead. It took years for the knot on my head to subside.

    That scar was the first of many childhood battle wounds, all won in the ongoing saga of playtime and embarrassigly abundant clutziness, but it was the only flight-related incident. I have more scars on my face than any girl I know and while they are faint and most people don't notice them, I know they are there, ever reminding me to fall deeply, fall hard then dust myself off and try again.

    And sometimes, on the very first day of the year, I stand before the mirror after a night of dreaming and flying. Contemplating the night's rewards, I am reminded that my friends have always outlasted my lovers. Peering deeply at the reflection, my fingers tenderly trace the path of each one and I know that lovers are sometimes better left as friends. Then as I find the faint mark on my forehead, I smile softly and remember that I can fly if only I allow it.

Posted: Sat - January 6, 2007 at 10:14 PM        

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