Add A Dichotomy To Me

March 3, 2007 at 10:50 AM | Posted in Journal | Leave a comment
  I had a dream last night–or this morning.  Most of my dreams are in the morning.
  I was walking along with my Easter basket, and as is traditional, I had it full of colored goose eggs.  These were gigantic goose eggs, about the size of a Nerf football, and multi-colored.  I was met by Roxor Chan, a young Chinese boy I knew. 
  He had an Easter basket, but it was empty.  He convinced me to give him one of my eggs.  I said, "Okay, pick one."  Of course the one he picks is the bright red one.  Not only my favorite one, but also in the very bottom.  As I allow him to dig into the basket, some of the eggs fall out, and the yellow one with a blue ribbon tied on it cracks.  Finally I get tired of him trying to get this one egg, the bright red one, and I hand him one that was more of a dark red.  "Here.  Just take this one.  It’s all you get."
  We walk to the house where the Easter celebration was, and I end up sitting at the table with the kids.  I didn’t see any other adults around, but I knew they were there.  One table was decorated with springtime flowers.  My 7 year old grandson Ryan climbs up on the table, so I take him off and drop him on the floor.  He cries for a minute but no one pays attention to him, so gets up and leaves.
  I sit at the table admiring the center pieces, wondering where the food is.
  This is typical of my dreams.  Not recurring, not even similar themes, but just a series of events playing out.  Whatever happened next was not apart of this dream, so this is where this one ends.
  Also, I dream in full, vivid color.  I’ve heard this is unusual, especially for a man.  I can’t recall ever dreaming in black and white.  Some sepia tone, maybe.

  I was riding with Derek, a friend of mine.  He just recently became a truck driver.  He was driving his truck, at night, and I was with him in the cab.  I was actually behind him, which was strange.  Someone else was in shotgun.  I watching the road as he drove.  We were in the mountains in Tennessee.  I could see the reflectors in the road.
  Then we stopped in this place that was in the middle of the highway, a place that I know to be between to different cities.  There was a carnival, and a giant ferris wheel.  It was unlike any ferris wheel I had ever seen.  It was incredibly huge, and it had two wheels, together like duals on a truck.  But one went clockwise and the other went counter-clock wise.  I rode it.  It went around once.  But we could see the people on the other wheel, going around the other way.  Too far away to touch. . .

  But the dreamworld is not the real world.  Here is the real world:  I get home last night after an easy day at work, sitting at my desk making the world safe for high-speed imaging, and then a just-under-an-hour drive home, and Detroit greets me with a hug and a kiss, genuinely glad to see me.  Mac is too.  To be fair, the dog is a retriever, and happy for just about everything.
  But Detroit is home, so she is making dinner.  Not a female-wife-slave thing, but a decision she made, because she was going to be home.  I cook as well (although I think she might prefer to just because for some reason she thinks I make a mess when I cook.  Whatever.), but she took this upon herself.
  We eat, we talk.  A typical evening is watching a show or movie that we like, and talking, kissing, hugging–looking into each others’ eyes like a couple of lovesick starstruck horny teenagers.  It’s sickening and disgusting how much we love each other.  We go to bed, and there in the bedroom, we experience more togetherness, more closeness.
  I have always thought, or always tried–or always thought I tried, anyway–to be a caring, giving, thoughtful lover.  Take the other person’s needs into account.  Of course, sometimes the heat of the moment gets away from you–but usually I do.  Try, at least.  But now I am with someone who tries also.  Someone who thinks of my needs, not just their own.  Trusting in me to take care of her.
  All I can say is wow.  So that’s how it’s supposed to be.  As with so many other things, the difference for women is more complex and multi-layered.  But for a man, it’s subtle, and it took me a while to differentiate.  For a woman, you can have sex but not fulfillment, or fulfillment but not sex, or a wide variety of . . .satisfaction in this arena, and experience different levels of orgasm, or so they tell me.    For a guy, it’s either yes or no, on or off, did you or didn’t you.  Satisfaction, or not.  Orgasm, or not.
  But to experience it with a person, a woman I love, really and truly–one with whom we have shared so much, opening our hearts and souls, blah blah blah–I have experienced a new level of. . .satisfaction.  For instance, I have a level of fulfillment, or happiness, even if I don’t cross the finish line–and being an older guy, occasionally this will happen, if I’m tired–as long as she does.  It makes me feel like a woman, for crying out loud.
  But when I do. . . cross the finish line (and to be perfectly clear, it is at least 90% of the time; I’m no slouch and I’m not that old.  Things happen.  Dig?) it is more intense, more amazing, more complete than I remember from my previous existence.
  She looks me in the eyes when we make love.  Right at my face.  It was unnerving, unsettling at first.  Threw me off my game, quite honestly.  But it is a truthfulness, an honesty.  You can be sure they aren’t closing their eyes and imagining you’re someone else, that’s for sure.  It is you, and them, and that’s all there is, at that moment, in the world.
  Unless the phone rings.

  We weren’t in the middle of anything, exactly, when the phone rang.  Detroit was watching American Idol, and I was on the computer.  My cell rings.  Caller ID says, "The Storm."  As a reflexive reaction, I instantly go into panic mode, prepared for fight or flight.
  "Hey.  Where are you?"
  "I’m at home."  Home.  Yes.  My home, my place of peace.
  "Can you come out to the car dealer here on the highway and sign the title on this car?"  Apparently she was trading a car in, buying a new one.
  "Yeah, I’m not doing anything right now."
  "Okay.  Bye."
  I put pants on, put shoes on, and drive out there.  Detroit elected to stay behind, the sissy.  I walk in the dealership, and I am directed to the correct salesman’s office.  The Storm just sits there.  The salesman smoothly handles the procedure, producing the title.  I look at it, sign it, print my name.  He says, "And that’s really all we need.  Thanks for coming in."
  I look at The Storm.  Poker face.  I say, "Well, I’m glad you’re getting a car–"
  Nothing.  Not a thank you, a fuck you, a kiss my ass.  I turn and walk out.
  By the time I reach the exit, though, I am laughing to myself.  I smile and wave to the receptionist as I walk out, chuckling.  She probably thought I was nuts.
  What a fucking rude cunt.  Whatever.  Before, when she would have treated me like that (Oh, and trust me, she has.  And worse.) I would have been crushed.  Crestfallen.  Heartbroken.  Beaten myself up over what I did and what I could have done to make it better.  Not anymore.  Now I know what love really is, and how it’s really supposed to be.
  Love is a two-way street, not a one-way dead end.


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