Conversations in Dreams

Usually, I try to avoid digging into my old journals, because the content tends to scare and embarrass me. Good Lord, I used to write about boys (and booze) a lot. It is downright terrifying how often the subject matter was about a boy. What also scares me: Sometimes, looking back, I don’t quite remember what person I was even writing about. Sheesh. But, considering my love life was always kind of chaotic, it makes sense that I was constantly writing about it.

In the midst of all that boy talk, I also over the years have documented my consistent and frequent dreams about my mother. These dreams are so vivid, and so poignant, that I seriously considered—and still do—writing a book about it all. I have recounted all of these dreams by starting with the same sentence:

In my dreams my mother is still alive.

I wish that I had a written account of each time she’s visited me in my dreams, but even those I haven’t written down, I still remember rather vividly. However, until I read this one tonight (from January 2009), I had completely forgotten about it. To me, now, it is kind of hilarious and makes me happy. At the time, it was really telling, and I felt as though my mom was trying to scold me about something. I can't tell you what, exactly—that's between me and her.

This is what happened.

In my dreams my mother is still alive. Sometimes she is kind; sometimes she is harsh. Last night she was harsh.

“Alison,” she said, looking at me over her reading glasses, “I don’t approve of this place. I don’t like it one bit.”

She was sitting at a table drinking a glass of Merlot, eating a salad with enormous strips of bacon on top of it. She looked lovely.

I was waiting tables, and for some reason, there was an incredibly high rooftop where many people were sitting and drinking. My mom was sitting on the ground level below. I looked up, and my boss was leaning over the edge of the roof, yelling at me. Before I could reply, she tripped, and toppled over the edge, landing directly next to my mom’s table. Although the fall should have killed her, she simply stood back up and walked over to the bar.

My mom looked at her, looked at me, took a big bite of her salad, and said, “I don’t like this place one bit.”

I woke up that morning and immediately thought: “Did Mom drink Merlot? I hate Merlot.” Then I felt kind of evil for dreaming my boss fell off a rooftop.

But that doesn't really matter. Mostly, I like to think of my mom looking at me over her reading glasses, telling it to me like it is. It's a wonderful thought.

Coffee Shop Liberation

Felt like moving this from my journal to the interwebs. Don't be scared. Okay, be a little scared.

Coffee Shop Liberation
written October 21, 2010

They are playing Cat Power in this coffee shop. Or this cafe, whatever. The table I chose—because the sun was streaming through the window on it—is too bright for me to open my laptop. Irony, perhaps. I probably should be using my computer to apply for those jobs I don’t really want. I probably should be organizing my finances that don’t really exist.

I could probably just move to a different table.

A couple tables away there is this boy, I mean, a man, reading a book. He has been here even longer than me, and I have been here long enough. Long enough to read almost an entire New Yorker, for the sun to move across the sky (and across my table), and long enough for my tea to go from smoking hot to nothing.

When I got here, and stepped in line, I saw that man who is now sitting near me, reading. (What IS he reading?) He looked at me and blinked, harshly, like my face stung him. It was so intense, I had the crazy notion to apologize. For my face.

I have been here long enough to write three letters, and to realize maybe that’s a strange thing to do, write correspondence at a coffee shop. Everyone has computers in front of them, but what are they really doing? I am writing in a journal, and that cannot be hidden. Nor could I hide sealing, and stamping, envelopes, at this table with the sun glaring on my face, exposing my every ill-placed hair, every line, every freckle.

Earlier, a man at the table next to me was making one phone call after another, talking loudly in Spanish, completely oblivious of everyone around him. He was so oblivious, in fact, that the barista had yelled out that his hot cider was ready so many times, she was about to give it away for free to someone else. Finally, she spotted him, and brought it over to the table. He barely hesitated in his conversation, nodded at the woman, and kept talking. I found him to be completely obnoxious. But I envied him, in a way. It must be nice, being so unaware of the people around you. At least three times, he started a new phone conversation with, "Hola, mi amor." Was he calling the same woman over and over? Was he a pimp? I hoped he had unlimited daytime minutes.

WHY am I so worried about what everyone else thinks? Every day I fret about all these different things, and it is so silly and infuriating. From strangers to my family, I worry what they think. My mother never gave a damn what anyone else thought. That used to infuriate me. Now I am jealous. I worry how to order my tea. I worry about what my grandma thinks about my move back to Chicago. I worry about reading my New Yorkers in public when I should be on my computer.

I worry, I worry.

So, to get over myself, I am sitting in the sunniest fucking spot in this coffee shop, doing exactly what I want to be doing. It is liberating. Even though, quite possibly, no one else in the world, and more specifically, this coffee shop, notices or cares.