120908 07:57 house dream
Not often but when I do dreaming of Susan, the bride of my youth, I see her differently from while we lived together and then in strange houses. Awake now I am bewildered for within there was a disheveled room like the one I write in; the bed unmade for days covered with blue towels my shorts for dirty feet.
Yet otherwise the house was home the furnishings neat and tidy modest middle class but . . . oh . . . it seemed vast populated by Susan, Randy and Jodi . . . all seeming well and at peace. Randomly we discussed upon this and that, Randy and I, upon the living room floor with a silent radio between us.
Suddenly he turned it on to some such rock n’ roll I’d never heard before. Rising I left him since I detest distraction of any kind and roamed the rooms unfamiliar and saw that the children had separate rooms nicely appointed astonishing me for at the end of Randy’s life and before Jodi abandoned me they slept in the same room in a poor communal Christian group home we in poverty as I am now.
I often dream of Susan with strange children never with Randy or Jodi knowing her differently better possibly more a friend than a spouse. Time meaningless then save for my profession freelance whatever carpenter photographer had I begun to write? Always near a telephone attached to the wall or my belt unknowing the police etc including Google would know my every move had they cared, then or now?
Suffocating in sadness I arose just now remembering we’d begun after 20 something years more nearly 30 to be friends. Intimate in sharing ourselves.
What fell upon me that impelled from her embrace like a piano unexpected falling from the sky? For all that we’d been through together I’d told her; “I want a divorce and it is nonnegotiable whereupon she fled to cry alone above face down in the attic where we sleep no heat in winter nor cool in summer vast open loft wood rafters . . . when did she say tearfully first ever actually no tears for Randy or Johanna at internment; “I want my husband!” . . . watering Johanna’s ashes entering the roots of the rose upon my grandfather’s grave the latter on me hyterical beside my son’s
I well remember, always, the sharing and the anonymous ‘husband;’ who me? No. Never though the vows renewed twice than thrice I never sensed husbandry to the silent woman she remained throughout.
But now I am wife/husband/lover/pet/slave to God like Rumi only he said and says it better. Yet occasionally I return to she who became a priest and I a beggar mendicant naked in the desert remembering the love I had having me now for her still.
Such a love for God having me having the Beloved is no excuse for I disbelieve in divorce even if I am married to God.
For me love has always been a passion more nearly a rage savage changeable and volatile not a tomb to rest in. Or of such do i define myself now . . . forever? . . . blest in peace no matter what how or why i live or die in God. Home at last! . . . my tears still falling undecided sadness or joy both i guess
and Annie when she sees hearing me cry vocalizes newly her comfort for me laying upon the keyboard of my life
. . . synchronicity? No discourse become dialog
© 2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved
