Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Change of Seasons

I have this recurring dream of finding windows open, usually in my mother's house, and making a point of closing and locking them. No doubt it is significant that my mother passed away 9 years ago. In last night's dream I felt particularly worried about her, and a bit frustrated that she couldn't seem to remember to close her windows.

What does this mean? Any armchair Jungians out there?

Another dream I have on a recurring basis is one wherein my mother is cogent again and able-minded (having died in real life of Alzheimer's disease). This, in the dream, is always disconcerting to me. It seems vaguely silly, even wrong--jarring in the face of the scenario I had been accustomed to.

What are these dreams trying to say to me?

. . . .

Our new exchange student is Hassan, from Saudi Arabia. (Roy and Abdul have gone the way of all exchange students; i.e. to an apartment and back home respectively). Hassan is a prince among men. We love him. For one thing, he can actually speak English rather well, which in turn means that we can actually converse with him! Secondly, he is not just polite, but genuinely friendly. Thirdly, he does not run from, fend off, or otherwise freak out when confronted by our dogs (although he does draw the line at sleeping with them, which is reasonable enough).

. . . .

I feel so free now after having been freed at last from the evil powers of the Oregon DMV. This is not to say that the matter has been concluded--oh, no. I must still file with the circuit court in order to secure the return of their ill-gotten treasure, but at least I have my license back and I need no longer try to hide from police cruisers, informants, snitches, and such like.

. . . .

Now the season is turning. Our patio begins to shiver a bit, and to pull the fallen leaves about its shoulders. The wind has pushed the umbrella post skilly-whompas, and the chairs increasingly reserve themselves for puddles and pine needles. The customers at Starbucks come inside, stand coveting the occupied chairs, caught between lurking in the corners or returning to the chill outside.

One more turn, one more winter of wood smoke and thick sweaters, of wet shoes, coats set to dry on chair backs. One more, the same, again, and still no word from my long lost love, still no breaking of the broken heart, still no relaxing of the past's grim hold. And yet I am happy.

Go figure.

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