I dreamed I was married to…Denis Leary

Tall, light and handsome Denis Leary

 

I dreamed I was married to…
Denis Leary

 

What is this?

The first in a series of dreams where I am married to a famous person was with Denis Leary. Dreams are a surreal forum. These are real dreams dreamt by me, a real person.

My dream book tells me that when a famous person, such as an actor, appears in your dream it is your subconscious relieving itself from boredom.  It is a sign that your life is too boring, not stimulating, and it finds stimulation by sprinkling a bit of fantasy hook ups into the REM.  I will write about them and try to examine their meaning.

Am I Bored?

My radio is in-between seasons, I’m in-between boyfriends, my poetry book is printed and launched and my work at the mill is repetitive.  I suppose I am a bit bored.  Bills are slowly, very slowly, getting paid after a six-month layoff in December.  Order, the everyday humdrum order of living is entering back into my life.

 

Dream #1

So my first dream in this series, I am “partnered” with Denis Leary.  I’m unsure if we are very close friends, or romantic.  The intimacy in the dream is rated PG, which is endearing.

It is a bright weekday morning, about 9 or 10 a.m. in a quiet city loft.  The walls are brick, wood and plaster, Denis Leary and I are in bed together, fully dressed in loose sleep wear.  It’s a bed big enough to hold our work, laid out over the down bedspread, with laptops, pens, paper, books.  Our legs stay warm under the comforter.  We are relaxed, yet focused on the projects in front of us, we’re drinking coffee, low morning-funk is playing in the living room, the only light is one lamp and sunshine coming through our corner unit windows.

“Wow. Look at this.” I lean over to Denis

“Where?”

“Right here.” I point to a spot on a page. He takes it and reads the short paragraph.

“Well that is a surprise,” he comments

“Right…” I add. Stretching my legs, “Luv, would you like some more coffee, I’m getting up”

“Is there juice? Also, what about those danish things we got yesterday?  Any of those left?”

“Not worried about crumbs?”

“Cheese if it’s still there”

“Itchy crumbs.  Remember that cookie from last week”

“Babe…just a nibble.  On a plate. How about a plate?”

 

We talk, read and work quietly together and in our own headspace. The dream was more of a sense of place and spirit than actual conversation. A glowing dream about a moment, like minded people, sitting close together in bed and talked about nothing and everything.

 

Possible Meaning

Judging by the mood and clues in the dream I’m guessing I miss having a connection with someone I view as equal, an intimate equal.  The sense of place and comfort level, of a rich intellectual life full of music, good food, peace is a lifestyle I hope to obtain.

Meditating on the dream, I remembered Sunday mornings at my childhood home.  My brother and I were kids, like elementary school aged, someone would grab the Seattle Sunday Times from the porch (the newspapers were physically thick back then) mom made coffee for her and dad.  All four of us would sit on my parent’s king sized bed in our jammies and robes (dad still under the covers, legs crossed) and read the sections, passing around the funnies.  We would share interesting headlines and talk about the news. A very casual warm family moment.  I don’t have that right now.  Perhaps one day it will return.

 

Thank you Denis

 

 

Almost 8

Morning offering of beer bottles gather on the last 
step laid over, laid up, slept past last call
My coffee in too small a cup sits 
with me at a table that limps
Construction worker walks from sandwich shop to truck, 
early enough for the dirty professions, still too 
early for the clean, those bleached-sterile 
by fluorescent preserved in recycled air
Trash in the bushes, empty cup rolls 
along in this morning wind
will it be enough to push over clouds
 that fill this window
There’s my man!  A Hamster: suit and soft shoe, on his bike, 
backpack full of papers, phone, protein bar, water.  
He navigates through intersection of Railroad / 
Chestnut, the traffic light a suggestion
*A “Hamster” is a person who lives in Bellingham, Washington.

Poetry: Coffee for One

Laboriously she enters
the coffee shop
hair up, make up on,
clothes clean, ready for war
Always orders coffee for one
Holding herself up
on a push chair
forearms flex with each step
as they carry the familiar load.
She hugs her history,
heavy with disappointment,
on each hip
Sits alone at a table for six
coffee served
shoulders back, chin up
awaits a conversation
that never arrives
Surrounded by activity
of writers, students,
business people, musicians
at tables hugging the walls
talking, sharing, sipping.
Others only donate
a quick glance to her cause
Like an infant bird
still in the nest
she waits for
a greeting to be
thrown into her mouth
Sorrow hangs over
her head like a sign
alerting others to keep distance,
like the bright colors nature paints
that which is poisonous
She looks disgusted to be sitting alone
What did she expect?
Woman with a Hat (Madame Matisse)
Private Collection
Henri Matisse, 1905

The Coffee Ghost

Thinking of my dad today; this little story from 2010:

The Dream
lake in the morning shone like polished glass. Looking around, the sun was peeking through the trees, shooting rays of light through the ground fog. Above, the clouds were changing colors like a slow moving kaleidoscope. Taking a deep breath of that full fresh mountain air, I knew this was one of the best sunrises ever witnessed.

Disturbing the symphony of the bird’s charming mating calls; my boots seemed so noisy and rude…

*crunch* *crunch* *crunch*

…walking out of the cabin and down to the car on the gravel driveway. The noise seemed so out of tune with the rest of the events I knew I’d have to compensate later with a quiet book reading in the chair on the covered porch that faced the lake. What a fantastic punishment. Taking the keys out of my flannel jacket was like a symbol clashing, but I was committed to reach the trunk and retrieve the items their in.

The key turned and inside the trunk to my surprise were kittens! Fifty happy furry little kittens. “Oh my goodness! How did you sillies get in here? I told you to stay home.” The kittens over took me and soon all fifty-one of us were on the ground playing and purring up a storm. Could this morning get any better?

And then I smelt it. The most beautiful smell in the world. Emanating from the cabin was this incredible ambrosia-like smell of coffee. The best coffee in the world. The smell of warmth and love drew me, seduced me, and called to me like a siren to a sailor. Someone is up and is making coffee, I thought, oh the fragrance from heaven!

Awake
My eyes opened to focus on my bedroom ceiling, the beam and a ceiling fan staring back. It was all just a dream, just a wonderful dream. But, a quick inventory of sorts made me realize part of it wasn’t a dream. Coffee?! I quickly looked over at the clock. It was 4 o’clock in the morning, why did my house smell like wonderful coffee. My mom was staying over that week and I’m telling you she is a true fan of that java mixture of champions. Before her arrival I had purchased plenty of beans and cream to help make her feel welcomed. The coffee pot in the kitchen was set up, and timer ready to go on at six. Hmmm… let’s go take a look-see.

Using my toes as radar I crossed our dark living room, weaving around some furniture but walking a straight a line as possible in the quickest fashion towards the kitchen. Locating the coffee pot with ease thanks to a night light I discovered that the coffee pot was NOT on. “Interesting.” Oh well, back to bed. Moving in the opposite direction that I had just arrived to that corner of the house, I found the warmth and comfort of my bed and quickly went back to my trunk full of kittens by the lake.

The next morning, in real life, the family found themselves gathering around the kitchen table making morning small talk. Without going into too much detail for fear of seeming strange I causally mentioned that I woke up in the middle of the night to the smell of coffee and thought the coffee pot had started brewing two hours early.

“That’s interesting Shannon,” my mom said, “I did the same thing.”

With a quick chuckle, my husband, said, “You know that IS funny. I got up and checked the coffee also.”

“Wow, I wish I had a cup of what I smelled last night. It was the best coffee ever. Our neighbor works the night shift I bet it came over from their house, or something.”

This was my mom’s second visit to Arizona so we had a nice agenda of places to see and visit while she was in town. Summer was just around the corner and the perfect time to be in the desert. Not too many Washingtonians can handle the 105 degree weather that the summer brings; it takes a while to get acclimated. Prolong exposure to the heat also destroys the webbing between the digits, a real pain to grow them back.

It had been over a year since her first visit, but I had recently seen her at dad’s funeral in February. In 2005 my father John had passed away, after struggling with lung disease. Dad had a wry sense of humor and a cutting wit that could catch people off guard. On family road trips he would alert the family “Looks like we’re close to Coffee Mountain.” Why dad? “Because we just passed a sign that said “Doughnut Pass”. Groooaannnn! “Dad!” He’d sit up there behind the steering wheel and chuckle at his own joke. He was a real character, is greatly missed and long remembered.

After lunch mom and I found a sunny spot in the front of the house and started to chat some time away while we waited for the kids to come home from school. Drinking coffee of course. Stopping myself in mid sip I raised my hand to my eyes to keep them from popping out of my head. Behind my mom, through the window and mingling among the Oleanders was the most beautiful Pheasant I had ever seen. We had lived in that neighborhood for over three years; the most exotic birds were flocks of grey doves’ coo, coo, cooing in the yard all day. “Mom, there’s a pheasant in the yard!” We went outside and watched as this laid back fowl just took a Sunday stroll around the corner and down the street, never to be seen again.

“Mom, I think that was dad.” Mom’s eyes stared at me; over the rim of her glasses with the look only mom’s have the power to give. “No I’m serious. The coffee smell and that bird- I think it’s dad saying Hi.”

Since that “visit” the coffee ghost continues to come by, at random moments, in the middle of the night, waking us from our dreams. I no longer race to the kitchen to check the dysfunction of a kitchen appliance, now I just roll over in the warm bed and smile.

Poetry: Reinhart’s Cup

A green cup
A handle for holding
Ridges? Simple decoration.
Held eight ounces easily
This was your Grandpa’s cup.
He loved that cup.

The coffee doesn’t taste right to me
Defected glaze, mother said,
Don’t try to drink from it.
I used it to hold my pens.

She removed the pens and scissors
That had been stabbed into place
She turns it upside down
A paper clip on the bottom shakes out
Here, you can have it,
If you want it.
Yes I do

Objects from loved ones
Transmit on a frequency
Like a radio to the past
Grandpa drank his black
Leaning against a tractor step
Two hours of work already put in
The sun not even half way to noon

A Minnesotan neighbor made the cup
Hand thrown with love
Fingers shaping the shell to life
I’ll take it, thank you
Better than a cup of any ol’ Joe.
Reinhart’s cup is welcomed here.

photo credit: http://www.fieldstonehilldesign.com/2011/03/object-hand-thrown-pottery-mugs.html

The Coffee Ghost


The Coffee Ghost

The lake in the morning shone like polished glass. Looking around, the sun was peeking through the trees, shooting rays of light through the ground fog. Above, the clouds were changing colors like a slow moving kaleidoscope. Taking a deep breath of that full fresh mountain air, I knew this was one of the best sunrises ever witnessed.
Disturbing the symphony of the bird’s charming mating calls; my boots seemed so noisy and rude…
*crunch* *crunch* *crunch*
…walking out of the cabin and down to the car on the gravel driveway. The noise seemed so out of tune with the rest of the events I knew I’d have to compensate later with a quiet book reading in the chair on the covered porch that faced the lake. What a fantastic punishment. Taking the keys out of my flannel jacket was like a symbol clashing, but I was committed to reach the trunk and retrieve the items their in.
The key turned and inside the trunk to my surprise were kittens! Fifty happy furry little kittens. “Oh my goodness! How did you sillies get in here? I told you to stay home.” The kittens over took me and soon all fifty-one of us were on the ground playing and purring up a storm. Could this morning get any better?
And then I smelt it. The most beautiful smell in the world. Emanating from the cabin was this incredible ambrosia-like smell of coffee. The best coffee in the world. The smell of warmth and love drew me, seduced me, and called to me like a siren to a sailor. Chris is up and he’s making coffee… I thought, oh the fragrance from heaven! Chanting Coffee, coffee, coffee… I floated towards the cabin door.
My eyes opened to focus on my bedroom ceiling, the beam and a ceiling fan staring back. It was all just a dream, just a wonderful dream. But, a quick inventory of sorts made me realize part of it wasn’t a dream. Coffee?! I quickly looked over at the clock. It was 4 o’clock in the morning, why did my house smell like wonderful coffee. My mom was staying over that week and I’m telling you she is a true fan of that java mixture of champions. Before her arrival I had purchased plenty of beans and cream to help make her feel welcomed. The coffee pot in the kitchen was set up, and timer ready to go on at six. Hmmm… let’s go take a look-see.
Using my toes as radar I crossed our dark living room, weaving around some furniture but walking a straight a line as possible in the quickest fashion towards the kitchen. Locating the coffee pot with ease thanks to a night light I discovered that the coffee pot was NOT on. “Interesting.” Oh well, back to bed. Moving in the opposite direction that I had just arrived to that corner of the house, I found the warmth and comfort of my bed and quickly went back to my trunk full of kittens by the lake.
The next morning, in real life, the family found themselves gathering around the kitchen table making morning small talk. Without going into too much detail for fear of seeming strange I causally mentioned that I woke up in the middle of the night to the smell of coffee and thought the coffee pot had started brewing two hours early.
“That’s interesting Shannon,” my mom said, “I did the same thing.”
With a quick chuckle, Christopher, said, “You know that IS funny. I got up and checked the coffee also.”
“Wow, I wish I had a cup of what I smelled last night. It was the best coffee ever. Our neighbor works the night shift I bet it came over from their house, or something.”

This was my mom’s second visit to Arizona so we had a nice agenda of places to see and visit while she was in town. Summer was just around the corner and the perfect time to be in the desert. Not too many Washingtonians can handle the 105 degree weather that the summer brings; it takes a while to get acclimated. Prolong exposure to the heat also destroys the webbing between the digits, a real pain to grow them back.
It had been over a year since her first visit, but I had recently seen her at dad’s funeral in February. In 2005 my father John had passed away, after struggling with lung disease. Dad had a wry sense of humor and a cutting wit that could catch people off guard. On family road trips he would alert the family “Looks like we’re close to Coffee Mountain.” Why dad? “Because we just passed a sign that said “Doughnut Pass”. Groooaannnn! “Dad!” He’d sit up there behind the steering wheel and chuckle at his own joke. He was a real character, is greatly missed and long remembered.
After lunch mom and I found a sunny spot in the front of the house and started to chat some time away while we waited for the kids to come home from school. Drinking coffee of course. Stopping myself in mid sip I raised my hand to my eyes to keep them from popping out of my head. Behind my mom, through the window and mingling amongst the Oleanders was the most beautiful Pheasant I had ever seen. We had lived in that neighborhood for over three years; the most exotic birds were flocks of grey doves’ coo, coo, cooing in the yard all day. “Mom, there’s a pheasant in the yard!” We went outside and watched as this laid back fowl just took a Sunday stroll around the corner and down the street, never to be seen again.
“Mom, I think that was dad.” Mom’s eyes stared at me, over the rim of her glasses with the look only mom’s have the power to give. “No I’m serious. The coffee smell and that bird- I think it’s dad saying Hi.”
Since that “visit” the coffee ghost continues to come by, at random moments, in the middle of the night, waking us from our dreams. I no longer race to the kitchen to check the dysfunction of a kitchen appliance, now I just roll over in the warm bed and smile.