Maybe I should rename this blog “Pattern and Despair”?
Nightmares have moved back in.
They dogged me for the first thirty years of my life — vivid and terrifying. After years of interventions (therapy, Rolfing, hypno-therapy, rebirthing, sessions with psychics, trauma journaling), they stopped. It seemed their job was done.
I am walking along the edge of a frozen pond when a hole opens up and a man with a male teenager emerges. In the dream that’s not weird. The older male is holding a clipboard and pretending to need directions. I nearly instantly understand that he is trafficking in humans and turn and run. He yells after me, like what is my problem. “It’s the teen aged boy!” I yell back, hoping I can out run him.
I am participating in what is a normal ritual, carving hunks of flesh off of Jennifer Aniston. It’s not clear if there is a purpose or significance to this, but in the dream its ordinary and not life threatening. She’s wrapped in cloth and it’s hard to see. There are three or four of us at it. She feels her breast after a while and asks me, “Did you take my nipple?!” Turns out I did but I hadn’t meant to. I just couldn’t see where I was working. Now she is damaged.
Woke to NPR and honestly the first five stories qualify as waking nightmares.
I hope this is the flu talking. Today I will walk the dog and make dinner, which is twice as much as what I did yesterday.
Update: the beech against a blue sky is really something.
And, even though I’m machine piecing, takin’ it slow with C’s quilt.