Skip to main content

Shopping/Supervillainy

 Posting in response to Carrie's bonus prompt "Let Your Dreams Be Your Wings." 

Here are the threads of a dream,
Catalogued at 5:55 am; before the alarm chimes:
I saw Dabney Coleman in a shopping arcade
In some district of Houston that doesn’t exist,
Just as my husband avoided entering a store
Full of clothbound books and menswear.
I said nothing.
I stopped to admire a necklace—
A gold and pearl cross that echoed the silver one
My mom had loaned me and I had broken
In high school.
Dabney and his wife (the lady from National Treasure,
Tiny as a gymnast in dream life) asked the jeweler
To make us open the outer door and greeted us.
Then, asking us to wait, Dabney hurried off.
I tried to explain the cross, our anniversary weekend,
My mother’s call that there were too many people
And we should skip breakfast in the city to his wife.
I kept a mask crushed tight in my fist.
I tried to explain the perfect pictures of a light Texas snow
I was going to post later, the ones from the empty place we stayed in
Just…well, not too far…from the city. Further away.
At least another small city away.
Dabney had hurried to the executive inner tube spa nearby
And was hassling his father-in-law to get out of the water
So that everyone could have breakfast.
I haven’t thought of Dabney Coleman in years.
Awake, I wonder.
How badly do I want to be out amongst people again?

Comments

  1. Carrie Van HornSeptember 21, 2021 at 7:31 AM

    Dreams can capture so many moments of memory and throw them into one mall or place that either exists or does not. This is a wonderful capturing of so much of that Chrissa, from the necklace to Texas snow, and masks in hand. I think the answer to your powerful question at the end, is yes. It is yes for many of us these day. Thank you so much for participating in the bonus prompt my friend!

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Treacle Season

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse #190 ,  hosted this week by Carrie. Keaton was great in that show—the one with wings— Where he was constantly a [man]child on a ledge  dreaming an angel who became a superhero.   She was a sarcastic (fake?) angel—it was the 80s— But always good, on time, her lessons easy, Easy as it would have been for him to fall.   The metaphor so obvious...but I didn't get it. Nor the easy and obvious good. (/s)   I watch the TV movie every other December Remembering believing in easy And crushing on this character, that city...   Angels should be sweet, sarcastic figures, knowing (like nurses and social workers) we prefer Sleeping on the ledge, reckless to call for "heroes." To clear up any confusion:  there is no Michael Keaton movie we watch every holiday season. Although, if there were...I'd probably watch it.  -- Chrissa
16 comments
Read more

Turn Away

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse , for #193. Turn away, like the moon, listening... Listening to the planet that rumbles with a hundred million slaps. All the feet, all the rockets, all the  pistons in the cars on the asphalt over the chasm where the veins run deep, blue in sunlight, black at night. Running over the chasm.  Once or twice they ran to you. Once or twice they ran by. Greetings and salutations. The sky is an entertaining shade of concrete yellow as the rain promised earlier in the week makes good on its arrival. It's a disturbing bright sallow sky, the kind of sky that puts you in mind of old movies and degraded film stock and the pops and crackles incidental to the main story.  Several years ago I made a resolution to journal more and last year I came across a video that suggested I actually re-read those journals, at least those of the previous year, at the beginning of each new year. Technically, I have kept the journal resolution, making daily notes in the margins of
15 comments
Read more

Out of the Den

  For the Sunday Muse, #166. Deep in the rain, stand and drink. Water that rises carries the need, Remember the trail where it sinks; Deep in the rain, stand and drink. There is a rumble outside as I write. Arthur has come to check on me and has curled up beneath the desk--once James settles down, he'll probably find a more comfortable place to snooze or shiver through the rain. I am, this week, angry. You'd think a wolf would be a goad for finding words for it; not yet. I didn't expect to reemerge and be angry. I expected tears, the occasional panic attack, relief. Instead I am furious and couldn't say why.  -- Chrissa
16 comments
Read more