When I Die
The magic in Lynbrook was far more potent that any other location I’ve been in. Not since I was a young child in the attic, this beautiful desiccated place smelling sourly of age and dust, had my mind been so clear, so like a canvas that all sorts of visions came out of the dark. Now I can look back and say I was channeling what would have been the future then, the present now, what is quickly becoming the past.
I flung myself into all sorts of roles, from aerials to personal training to pilates. Then there’s the fascination with forensics. Crime. Why stop there? We have metaphysics and animatronics. How to create a cartoon on the computer. Kumihimo. Handmade jewelry and art. All of the things.
Waves of inspiration rolled faster towards the shores of my mind than I could convey into action. This stasis still persists. It’s okay, because hopefully I can see patterns in the wet sand, pebbles and shiny shards of the sea. Like shredded glass.
What the hell was I talking about? Oh right. So I had went to bed one night, dreaming of the future. Apartments and houses remotely kept away from busy streets. Sometimes snowy, sheets of frosted white, surface glitters under a cool sky. And I’m always half-naked, tugging my shirt below my bare ass and pussy like my life depended on it. In the basement of one of these high-priced homes, a spider hung from the ceiling, as big as a heavy bag, watching me with rows of black orbs for eyes. Like it’s judging me. Like it doesn’t understand me at all. The people in these homes always dressed beautifully. Always in elegant dresses and black suits. In one dream the floor was made of ice. The well-dressed people awkwardly slid and slipped, some falling right on their asses.
After I finished trance dancing at Woodstock (Welcome back to the waking world, people), I returned home and fell into another one of these dreams. It was a dream that foretold my death.
I was on a plane high above an ocean so blue that it reminded me of a painting. Saturated and lush. An explosion, low and rattled. The force of gravity grips us and pulls us down into the dangerous water. Dangerous because I cannot swim. I cannot survive this.
The impact popped my ears. Made the water fizzle like soda. And down I dropped. Just like when I was a 12-year-old land lover. A swim teacher told me to jump off the deep end. Don’t ask me why they asked. Don’t ask me why I did it. But I did. I immediately sank straight to the bottom. There I remained, not yet to the point of panic of distress. It was only after the water exploded above me, the hands waving low and heavy, hoisting me up from under my arms and carrying me to the surface. Here I was, yet again, plummeting, only this time it was to the lowest depths of the ocean, too far from where anyone could reach for me.
But someone did.
Two pairs of arms by my side. They pull me with a miraculous strength, effortless enough to make it feel like I was flying. I had traveled so far down into the ocean, consumed by darkness, the first breadth of light on my skin was blinding and burning me. But it felt fantastic, nonetheless.
Needless to say this dream had a deep effect on me. I canceled my trip to Italy. For some reason that won’t reveal itself until much later, when it will make sense, I flung into nursing school only to drop out months later. My world had been rocked yet again.
Now that I look back, the dream can mean so many things. And yet it can only really me one thing: I’m going to die. And I’m coming back. Literal? Metaphorical? Don’t know. This is one event that is out of my control.
You would think that getting on a plane would be the last thing I’d want to do. Instead I have no greater impulse. Because something has to happen, and I can’t fight whatever that is. Some things are simply inevitable.