KATE'S CORNER
The Dream
By Kameshwarikate
It was only a dream, but each detail, each scene, texture, odor and sound etched vividly in my mind, as if I were observing a sequence on an old video film. My initial impulse was to write down each detail to save this dream as I usually do, but I was not in my own bed. The man next to me was in a relaxed sleep, his breath gentle and smooth for a man in his fifties. I closed my eyes to return to the dream and note each detail: A long narrow, one large room hunting cabin in the woods. A long rough shewn wooden table with plates of wild game and roasted tubers and grainy breads and cheeses. Bottles of wine and jugs of cider on the table and in the window sills, some half consumed, others empty. Lanterns and a flaming fireplace lighting a room with an amber glow. A gathering of people in their twenties and thirties. Poets, artists, philosophers, young Marxists, intellectuals in discussion. Music from a stringed instrument like a guitar. Singing songs of resistance. Cigarette smoke.Talking, laughter, flirting and the release of the tension that came with living in an Eastern European city in the late 1930’s. In the dream, I could identify that I was a participant in the entire scene. I was the woman on the lap of a man she had just met earlier that afternoon when the gathering of people shed their clothes to splash and socialize in the lake, just outside of the cabin. The warmth of the day turned to a chill in the evening air. Everyone gathered inside to eat, drink, feel the warmth of the fire and the warmth of being with trusted friends. People leaned into each other with discussions of psychoanalysis, politics, astronomy, and art. In the dream, I leaned close into this man I had just met. My character let this man feel my interest in getting to know him closer and deeper. Our eyes held together in an agreement that we would be exploring each other soon. It was a promise and nothing would prevent us from breaking that promise. Without any warning, the cabin door burst open and uniformed men rushed the low ceilinged cabin, pushing over the table and grabbing the men, Other uniformed men pushed the women up against the long back wall of the cabin. A rush of cold air filled the room. In the crunch of the men being pushed and dragged out of the cabin and disappeared into the dark, I searched for the man I had just met. For one last time, our eyes made a deep connection. In my dream, I took note of the eyes as if they were a photograph to carry in a locket. With the men gone, the women were left alone with one tall, blonde uniformed man. He appeared to be in charge of this raid, with his horse whip in one hand and a revolver ready in his waist belt. He asked a question of the group of vulnerable women huddled together. I willed myself awake before I could hear his question. I woke myself remembering the eyes of the man who seemed more real-life than just a dream. Writing my dream into a journal would be awkward, since I was in bed with this man for the first time. It was the first physical date since our six-week internet long distance dating. It was our first night in long luxurious foreplay and eager lovemaking. Later today I would be meeting his friends at a party here in his home. More sleep would assure that I would be relaxed and presentable. That evening, the amber glow of the open space Santa Fe house made for an intimate party atmosphere. A long table was filled with foods that included grilled meats, salads and grilled vegetables. Wine and beer seemed to flow freely. Dimmer switches made the room have a warm glow, while flames played in the fireplace, making dreamlike shadows on the adobe walls. Meeting Michael’s friends was interesting since everyone seemed to live a life of intrigue. Among the guests were the people like the man who wrote the book on the Mayan Calendar, the woman doctor who teaches workshops on female ejaculation, the Lesbian play write who writes screenplays about Catholic cults, an editor of magazines, and the granddaughter of Jacque, who seemed to be leaning in close to me every time Micheal turned his back.There were discussions of art, politics and astrological configurations. A man who was mostly silent, wearing a green Bavarian style sweater and went by the name of Baumgarten shushed the discussion. In the emptiness of the such, he asked of me in an almost commanding voice, “Where did you meet Michael?”
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