I cry tears of tequila and I be crackin' skulls

It’s Friday night and I’m dancing on a riser completely worry free. Saturday morning comes around and I wake up in a bath of endless tears.

***

On Saturday January 24, 2009 at approximately 8 am I became aware that I was in the process of waking up from a dream. I had already been up once at 4:19, had eaten a Subway-serviette-full of ripe red cherries, and checked the Newyorktimes.com. Still tired, I curled back upon my sister’s bed, pulled the duvet over my head and fell fast asleep once again.

Fast-forward 3, 4 hours later and the reel of my subconscious continued to project images across my minds eye and yet it was desperately attempting to stir my body from rest. And although it was a seemingly desperate attempt, in retrospect I feel as if it wasn’t me consciously trying to wake. It wasn’t ME, or my conscious choice. It felt borderline supernatural; and I often associate connotative meanings of dreams to supernatural parallels which makes dreaming for me that much weirder. But this isn’t the weird part. The weird part is that as I was waking I was crying both in my dream-state and in reality. My eyes were still closed as tears literally flooded from my eyes and smeared down my face onto my pjs. Sizable, caricature versions of teardrops.

Eventually I squinted my eyes open to the dim room, blinded slightly by the white light streaming through the split in the curtains, and the first thing I felt was the cool wet trails down my cheeks, and the taste of salt on my lips. Still whimpering, my eyes focused and I realized my sister had been hovering above me asking me why I was crying, not understanding at that point that I wasn’t crying, but the me I was in my dream had been inflicted with pain. Mental pain, emotional pain… which leads to physical pain - and thus even more of a triggering cause for the tears.

I wiped my wet eyes and runny nose on the sleeve of my Ceremonial Snips hoody, touched my sister’s arm and told her “I’m fine. I’m fine.” And then proceeded to repeat to myself how fucked up the experience was.

My dream I guess was a nightmare that I’ve analyzed to reflect the anxiety that I have about the fact that there isn’t much stress in my life right now and am therefore ever-wondering when there will be again. Fear about the anticipation of anxiety if you will.
...And hence my immediate subconscious anxiety ensued. Weird. That and it was also weird that it was the first night I was sleeping in a location far away from the dream-catcher that usually sways just inches above me.

***

That night\morning my dad, who was also there, had no idea what had happened or that I was even crying for that matter. I won’t over-analyze this fact to mean anything more than it is. However unconventional and untraditional our father-daughter bond, we have quite the strong relationship and I rightfully blame his oblivious behavior to his numbing senses, and all of the other spoiling fruits of old age.

Perhaps he doesn’t see or hear as mindfully as he used to, and I more than often catch him staring into space as if in a deep sleep with his eyes open… but lately I’ve been doubting my accusations. Maybe when he looks as if he’s awake and sleeping, he is actually paying more attention to seeing other things I cannot (or care not to) see. What if there are parts of our subconscious that we become more in tune with as we get older – like seeing our dreams play out in front of us as we are awake? And what if when this happens we just call it crazy rather than take it for the signs we can interpret them to be?

Just last night my dad had asked me a question about whether or not I noticed something about someone that we had both been in the company of just a few days prior. His observation seemed to come from nowhere, as at the time it was as if my dad was off in space, observant of nothing… just the glass of wine in front of him, it’s pungent and dry taste.
The observed detail (which I choose not to disclose on an open forum) was rather acute, but what my dad had associated this detail with and what it would mean, would have been an obvious thing to notice about a person. When I told him I thought his observation was wrong and crazy, he told me I was – that he knows what he saw and therefore believes what he saw to be as true as blood is medium-rare red. What if he wants to believe something so bad that he saw it? We do that sometimes don’t we? - Want to believe (or believe in) something so bad, we convince ourselves? But what if we want to believe so bad we can MAKE it true? Make it real. ...I think that happens sometimes.

What if I’m convinced that I had been in a dream and I was crying because of what had happened in my dream and that everything is fine… but really what was in my dream was actually reality and everything is not fine? Who can really be sure? How do I know what’s real and what isn’t? And who decides?

I think for the most part I equate belief with a want for that belief. A want for something that may or may not be there, but for whatever reason we want it, or perhaps need it to fulfill something indiscernible inside of us. ...But then again, I was once told starting any thought with “I think” implies doubt and lack of belief and should be, therefore, completely denounced. And I think I believe that too.

I know nothing is concrete. Everything that actually exists we cannot see, we cannot think – we can only feel.

Xo LO

If I were any song by a punk-metal band with a brass section I would be: Fuck with the Rose.