Tuesday, September 30, 2014

The dream is of being on a plane taking off.  The airport is in a city.  The plane heads into a bronze tunnel weathered into brass color, and this is the runway, and it is beneath the city, below street level.  Enough lateral and vertical space has been engineered for the plane to pick up speed, an opening at the end where the runway ends where everything must go perfectly for the jet to make it over buildings the size of the UN.  Everyone sits in silence on the plane, and then the whoosh of rushing engines, and the forward motion, inevitable.  The plane now is heading down the runway, picking up speed, beginning its joust with the smaller winds before it lifts into the air.  There are flashes of daylight, buildings rising above, something like you see from the tunnel into Penn Station, shining glass skyscrapers, daylight above.

The plane goes down the runway, no turning back.  it takes faith to believe the plane will rise, but it's all professional and apparently has been done before, so into the gleaming corridor and the engines gun and the plane fits with its wings out into the wind, then the last rising of the engines and the jet sways up into the air.  The plane shakes, it rises, it yaws and the jet engines are gunned to their max.  Seconds go by.

Where the plane is going is not clear, but up into the air and the light safely.  But it always seems, just barely.  Though people do it all the time.

The plane must climb steeply after take off.  In the dream there is fear, but usually, remarkably, a surprise from doom's edge,  the plane rises from the city successfully, if alarmingly, into the open sky, lifting its passengers

I grimace as I write, drink tea, make breakfast of merquez sausage, the heat coming from the broiler filling the space in front of the oven.  A clutter of shoes in the living room.  Two shifts I've worked, and the therapist session in which embarrassingly I don't seem to know my goals, nor maybe my own values? I don't know.  I take the bike off the stand in the living room and roll it to the hallway, to open up from the clutter.  The grimace is from a stupid guilty feeling, one's a bad student, a bad subject for therapy (well, define bad), a bad adult male, kitchen clutter, laundry pile, mail and note pile on the desk, book piles, stringed musical instruments, an amplifier, a Shure microphone on a stand.

Oh well, c'est la vie, and at least you are up early with time to do a few loads of laundry and assessment.  Think of a Sherwood Anderson's old bartender who, as the stories of Winesburg, sees the psychological side of people, the shaking hands, the defeated dreams and wishes, the brave faces, humidity on the back as you sit and eat breakfast too quickly, hungrily, not having done yoga yet.

Well, you can't be a bad person if you admit to therapy, as if to say, "fuck, I don't know..."  How long have my relationships lasted?  What did I want from or offer them?  Did I have the expectation that people eventually go away?

And is the earlier part of my dream, the suggestion of being around a judgmental family around the holidays, being a re-utterance, a recapitulation, "why can't you be nice to me," or, "why can't you say something nice about me and not all negative..."  Jesus, where did that come from?

L-Tyrosine.  Allergy pill.  Holy Basil.  Astragalus, three.  B-Complex.  Ginseng.  What was that yoga magazine in the waiting room?  Head-stand like looking at things new, like a child would; which chakra a mountain pose lights up:  should one wear underwear beneath yoga pants?  Gone with the Wind last night as I rode, unwinding.

Tending bar requires a fair amount, spatial skill, dexterity, a malleable personality, an ability to read people's needs, the conversational element, the philosophical element.  A wise customer compares one to a sculptor or a painter or a musician, that such often work well into their nineties doing what they do.

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