Select Page

Dreams.Wake up, you’re dreaming?

poppies lead to dreams

the god of dreams


It’s been a bit since I have given myself to you. I have been spread thin. I am tired. Broke and lonely. It has been even longer since I have dreamed. These are not dreams. These are nightmares…….

I have had horrible dreams lately.

They have been about my mother…These dreams all start happily and innocent.

Then I’m speeding through dark dirty streets.
Naked and a mess.
Dirty and fucked up.
I think I’m about 7 or 8. Around the age when the rapes started. I have my dog with me but he is always by feet curled up in a ball. He never moves. Is he dead?
Suddenly the daylight is pushing through my eyes. I am lying on a beach. The dog is with me. He is still curled up in that same constricted position. I am wearing a Speedo bathing suit. I still have grime all over my legs. I’m emaciated and sickly.

There are naked fat men everywhere, clucking around the beach, they remind me of chickens or seagulls. They are always touching themselves.

I hear my mother call to me. She is angry.

Some of my interpretations or thoughts about what is happening here-

  • The tone she uses when she would yell through my bedroom door, on Saturday mornings.
  • I think she was scared to come into my room without  asking permission.
  • Did she respect my privacy or was she just scared to see what she thought she would she?

“John? John? Get up! What are you going to sleep the day away? You bum. Get up. I have to clean. I can’t was it around for you to grace me with your presence. You are such a little queen.”

I’m still on the beach and here her saying, “…but they are such good looking boys. Why do they do that with each other? They could get any girl they want.”

More interpretation-I do not see her or the person she is talking too. I know it is my sister and we are vacationing in Cape Cod. One night we were in Provincetown and my mother was pointing out all the guys making out with each other. It really confused her. It really excited me. Will I ever tell her that I am gay?

Thinking back- why does she not understand they love each other. I am like them, mom. Positively sure of that fact, mom. I don’t want any damn girl! Mom, I want a boy!

It’s cold. The naked men are coming towards me. Circling me. These men grope each other. All of them hug and kiss. They are fat and gross. Their fat shakes and jiggles. They are breathing heavy and very sweaty. Here comes Kacky (my mom’s nickname). She is screaming, “Stay away from him. He needs to come home and behave.”

Flash. Out-of-that scene-and into this nonsense.Everything is slightly off.

I’m back in the car. She is driving. It’s our old Ford Gran Torino. Charlie is gone. My clothes are in a bag at my feet.
She is yelling at me. She says, “I’m dirty. I’m disgusting.”
Another interrogation, “Where did I learn such vile acts?”
Mother exclaims, “You will stay naked for a month and every time you touch it, I will hit your hand with a wooden spoon. We are Catholic and Catholics don’t play with that!”
She shakes her head and yells, “You dirty little pig!”

Flash. Here I go again. What is she trying to tell me in this place where time just does seem real?

It’s winter and we are driving by a cemetery.

“He is in there right, mom?”
“Yes. You know he loved you so much.”
“No, he didn’t. He beat me up.”
“He never touched a hair on your head. You are such a filthy liar.”
“Yes, he did. I hate him!”
“You are gonna go to Hell for saying such things about your father.”
“So.  Mom, you are lying, too. You love him more than me and he’s dead.  Fuck, you love everyone more than me. I wish I was never born. You hate me.”
“You’re a little shit. Is that how you talk to your mother on New Year’s Day? If he was here he would slap your mouth.”
“Yeah. He would do more than that. He would take off his belt and keep swinging until I was too tired and hurt to cry.”

Flash. Back in that old car, but now this makes sense. It’s the heroin.

Driving. Naked. Needles everywhere. Drugs all over the car. I can’t open my eyes. I’m drooling and puking.
My mother is chasing the car. Everyone is laughing.
“Please stop I want to go home. I don’t want to be like this. Take me home.”
“You have no home. No one wants you. You’re dirty. You’re a mistake.You are a disgrace.”

There is a moment of clarity. I’m happy. I walk out a door and there are flowers everywhere. She loved flowers. I think, I must be at Jan’s farm.

I’m in the car again….speeding. Dope bags. Spoons. Needles are filling up the car. I am suffocating. Choking. I can’t breathe.
The car crashes. I wake up.
I’m older.
And my mother’s dead.

I wake up. And I’m crying.
I’m crying now.

I called my good friend Jan about this dream this morning and she is in touch with the metaphysical way more than me and she has a totally different view and interpretation to these horrible memories revealing themselves in dreams and trickery over and over and over and over.

She believes that my mom is trying to apologize to me for not believing me or protecting me from my father. Jan feels that she is doing this through my dreams. It sounds nice and all but I am skeptical. I tell her that some of this dream really happened for example the conversation on Chrsitmas morning driving by the cemetery.

I think it is my subconscious trying to tell me to forgive myself for my past.  Like to just let go of all the pain and agony. Maybe I am accepting the fact that life was what I made it and there is notjing to do to fix. We all spoke words. Words that hurt one another, but maybe, we didn’t mean those words. We were just trying to hurt one another because this is all we knew.

We were the epitome of dysfunctional family.

Now she is gone. I cannot tell her how I felt, so I must just forgive all the pain, all the hurt, all the lies. I will never know how she truly felt about me and I know that even if she was alive she never would have told me the truth. Does it matter? I don’t think so. She loved me in her own way. She provided for me the best way she knew how. I was a terror. Reckless and angry. There was nothing different that could have been done to change the way we interacted with one another.

She was my mother and I was her son. Nothing more.

year of the johnny

Bad Johnny Art