Posts Tagged ‘grandma’

Dream Drinking and finding cubed elderly

May 10, 2009

The past couple of days I’ve remembered a couple of my dreams beyond those first few moments of consciousness when the two worlds of our perceptively real and perceptively unreal mix and have their boundaries blurred. Often when I dream I reach this point, and the few moments after, and I remember the dream and then it slowly fades into the ether. But now a couple of days later and they are still with me to some degree.

in one dream, I started telling time with the old movie trick of repeating an action over and over while changing details to denote the passage of time. I was buying liquor. One bottle at a time I dreamed of going in and buying a new drink.  Bottle after bottle the shelves were gradually emptied. I don’t know how much time supposedly passed in my dream edits but it was a fair amount and I remember occasionally looking into my wallet and seeing a fat stack of cash thinned down to scraggly bills. And the hell of it was that I wasn’t even buying liquor I liked. It all looked like vodka and gin and I don’t care for either of them. Even in my dreams I just buy the cheapest drunk I can.

then in my second dream, the events were actuially fairly short but it felt as if the dream pulled out for hours. We couldn’t get my grandma on her phone so my mom and I went over and I got out of the car and walked up to the door and when I opened it I wasn’t really shocked as I saw exactly what I expected to see, only the form she took was a bit different. Grandma was dead in her chair but she looked like some cubist reconstruction of death, her body contorted andshaped in ways she would have never been capable of in this real world. And she was wearing yellow which I also found fairly odd. And that is where the dream ended.

I’m not sure if one caused the othe and the stories were told out of order or what. Or if one is a bizarre premonition of something that is to come, though I can’t imagine myself drinking a lot of bad liquor for no reason. I don’t know. But there you have it. My dreams lately.

Diaries, steno books and phlegm

October 30, 2008

yesterday I was at my grandma’s and I was helping her clean out closets. Grandpa died in April. We’ve been trying to get her to pack everything up and to get ready to move out but it’s like pulling teeth so wanting help cleaning out the closets was welcomed progress. one closet held a bunch of stuff that’s typical of old women. Old little baskets for fake flowers. Plastic junk, trinkets. That foam stuff you cram into flower pots. Bits of cloth. Etc.

The second closet was interesting, though. There was an old yellow pinto and a radio. Greatgrandma, grandma’s mother, owned a real yellow pinto which she bought soon after the brakes in her Chevy went out. The radio was just a radio. Then came a couple of boxes which got placed into a larger box on the floor. And then came the album after album after album. Some were photo albums. Some were scrapbooks. Big things. Old things. With the rope binding at the one end, tied into a knot in front. they go into a box. Grandma pulled the box over and started going through them. I pull more down from the attic. she starts talking about the pictures and scraps pasted in.

Grandma’s talking and I’m leafing through another album. Then I open one of the little boxes and I look inside. Grandma glances over and says,  “Oh, more diaries. I’ll have to pitch them, too.” Some months ago, a year ago maybe when Grandpa was still alive, there was some consternation over finding that Grandma had secretly burned a bunch of her mother’s diaries. These had been hidden away in the cupboard and she had forgotten about them.

Knowing this history, I grabbed them and kept them with me. When it came time to go, they left with me. Grandma glanced at them. I asked if she wanted to look through them and she said no, it was okay. I could read them. So I’ve brought them home and I read them a bit now every day.

They are nothing overly special. Just little notes on the day. Temperture. Something that happened. They only cover the last 15 years or so of her life and take up next to no space. I see my name mentioned occasionally. I wish I had the ones that hadn’t been burned so I could see other names mentioned. But these little notes on the day is really not so different from the poetry I write. I read what she writes and I see in it the familiar. The effort of noting something. Of laying down a mark.

Every once in awhile I keep a little stenopad of poems that I try to work on every day. Fill it up, move on to the next. They probably all suck but they’re really not much different from what great grandma was doing  and I wonder if it’s really different from the majority of poetry-recounting the time in some way. Trying to find that special nugget of existence.

Unfortunately, I appear to have lost a recent notebook. I can’t find it anywhere and it’s already been through so much. It was submerged into a pool and had many of its pages washed clean. It was wrinkled and crackly as I would hold it my hands and a lot of the pages no longer had lines to write along. And I feel like a part of me is just gone now. I’m happy greatgrandma didn’t have to know her daughter would burn her diaries. And I’m fairly certain I will never burn one of my own notebooks, regardless of how embarassing and/or poorly written it might be,

I’m trying to write more. But I’ve been sick lately. Hacking all of the time. I find it hard to write when I’m not feeling well. Blah.