Below all of the rambling mess I have prepared for you today, are two songs the angels played for me in the car yesterday to keep me from spilling out into a soggy mess. The songs also serve in reminding I'm more than the object men would turn me into for their own motives. This story might help you gather why I would feel like that. I don't expect anything except the Spirit of truth to reign in and over me, but I do not want to be treated like an object anymore, the truth is not an object. I just want someone to stay longer than the time it takes to flip through a Playboy magazine and I really don't think I'm being audacious to mentally conceive that a man could attempt to fall in love with the portion of God inside of me and make frequent emotional deposits in the redheaded dream teller. Recently I came across a singles ad that read, "redheads, don't even bother." Sometimes I wake up feeling that way because my resolve is burdened in knowing there are people in the world who think I should not even bother. I get that there is always going to be another woman before and after me and to most, I am just "some girl." And Wilbur was just some pig and a spider who can spin letters in her web is just some spider and Jesus was just some Christ. In actuality, I'm God's girl. I imagine I'll be a pretty cool wife at some point in time, that is, if the idea of marriage does not die before I get to experience it.
But before that day comes, there came the most recent calendar Monday, a day I woke up resolutely distraught in missing Joshua and feeling like I may never see him again. Joshua...aka...Jesus from Halloween. Tragic and ironic--- but life. Powerless to influence it, with the exception of planting ideas in the heads of men and letting them believe the thoughts are their own, I cried for a better or worse portion of the day and let Joshua think it was all his idea to come to me. Meanwhile, I prayed and prayed, "Please dear God, let me see Joshua again." I'm either a redheaded dream angel or every man's worst nightmare. Or I should just not even bother trying to be either.
I'd only been removed from Joshua's energy for two weeks, but thought lovingly on him during that time frame, all the while being a party to cosmic exchanges with him, or his higher self...certainly with his angels. At a low point of singularity, I got online and began researching hotels in Savannah-- a nice half way mark between Jacksonville and Atlanta. I intended to wait until Friday to finally give in, call him, and run by the idea of a rendezvous in Savannah... sometime after New Years perhaps. I didn't want him to suspect I'd give anything to see him the next day.
By Monday evening, I was on my way to dinner when old grumpster Cornell comes on the radio singing "Show me how to live." I think I have finally made peace with the lost cause bitch thing, so I will spare all of us the tawdry details and limit recounting the implausible Cornell nightmare. Let's just say there is a reason Chris's house flooded in real life, there is a reason insurance does not cover human stupidity or karma, and there is a reason I saw myself graduating in the dream series, where as from Cornell's view of the dream, he saw himself falling off of the school roof and dying to the learning process. I believe greed, manipulation, and the blanket of self-entitlement are all forms of suicide in their own right. You cannot save someone from their addiction to being a pathological liar if they do not want to be saved and if he wants to hurt himself by lying and ripping away the dreams of other human beings, then he's just as lost as I am.
Forgive me for sidetracking. It's only the song that need be cited here really. To me, this particular song, has always been a span of lyrics that aided in building a bridge between God and I. So I pray meticulously during the song, asking God to show me how to keep on living and allowing His will to manifest through me and the choices I make--- no matter what--that we may all be humbly victorious. On the road to holy glory though, I pray God will allot snuggle time with the yummy creature known as Joshua. I have had a few blurred dreams of Joshua, they are blurred more so than the others because I am not garnished the liberty of seeing my own future as clearly. He could be a fiber of my future, if I were to be so blessed. In one of the dreams, we were born on the exact same day, only Josh was born at 10 Am. 10 in dreams represents a beautiful beginning between a man and a woman. However, I checked with Josh and he was indeed born at 10 Am! Other pieces of the dream consisted of a painting turning into a bat, which means the unconscious is becoming the intuitive conscious. It could also mean that love is blind as a bat, but nevertheless, bats posses remarkable instincts and are one of the only animals who can see through blindness by the gift of natural knowing.
So after I was done making temporary peace with the voice of the anti-Christ, no more than 5 minutes later, my phone rings. It was Joshua, explaining to me that he had an "emergency."
"It's kind of urgent" he says, then explains he has been plotting to come back down and see me.
Briefly, I believed him and tricked myself into thinking a beautiful man was coming down here--- just for me. But naturally, most men act on behalf of themselves and their own unpredictable, compendious pleasure, so no surprise, Josh rolled in after 5 am and stayed all of 90 minutes before leaving for Daytona beach-- the wet-t shirt capital of the world. I still know not whether he drove five hours nursing a sexual agenda, or drove five hours because he felt like he could love me and the whole Daytona thing was a round-about excuse to drop by and see me. He has still not surfaced from Daytona and both actions speak in very different languages.
I was comfortable dreaming of Layne, or dream Joshua masquerading around as Layne, because there was no risk and there was no threat of him being able to do what Joshua was doing now. We were imbibed around each other, I felt like I was swimming in his skin. The balls of my feet were pressed against his toes, my head neatly tucked under his chin. My heart was throbbing so hard, I wondered if it would burst into a flame of Joshua love. Suddenly, he pulled away from my arms, sat upright on the edge of the bed and said, "Sorry I have to do this."
He looked just like Layne when he said it, right down to the concentrated curl of his eyebrows and the child-like expression effortlessly spun across his angelic face. There were blessed differences between them though. Joshua was all too real and had the capacity to love me back, free of any chemical conflict and contently beyond the mysterious concave of dimensions. The only problem is that Joshua suffers from the dreaded Aquarius detachment syndrome---the exact same disorder that has indignantly plagued and dictated my ongoing indifference to members the opposite sex---until of course, someone like Joshua comes to life on the path and acts playful and responsive to me physically, but maddeningly mute emotionally.
"No Joshua, you just got here, you've been driving all night, just stay a few minutes longer." Circumspection encompassed my being. I propped myself up with one arm and pleaded. Still topless, I shouldn't of been forced to plead at all. The 6 foot mahogany headboard behind me creaked and shifted against the wall as Joshua lifted himself off of the bed and arched his back. He was at least 6"3, the perfect height. I was older than him, but his height made me feel like a little girl. I got the same feeling that swarmed me as a child when I used to lay in my father's bed and watch him pick out ties in the morning before work. I had betrayed my "looking for daddy in an older man" complex, just long enough to fall for Joshua.
"Please just stay." My voice expelled and twirled across the air in a way that reminded me of how my five year old had begged for a new puppy. I neglected to mention to Joshua that I was a mother. As his eyes drifted to all the pictures of Aurora and I taped to my mirror, I had to speculate if it was me or my role of responsibility he was turning cold to. I wasn't trying to be calculating or deceptive, my relationship with my child was irrelevant to the exchanges with Joshua, at this point anyway. I just didn't want to scare him by broadcasting the entire truth. Non-committal men frighten easily if children are involved, I had my reasons for being protective. Yet, if he was bewildered by the facts, by the disconsolate differences between our lives, then maybe it was better he left anyway. Still, the thought of him leaving as suddenly as he'd dropped in, barbed my entire body with pangs of emptiness. I knew as soon as he was gone that I would feel spontaneous loneliness again and then love sickness would set in.
The sound of his pants zipping up scratched my eardrums. Typical. I thought. Completely typical. He gave me big blue puppy eyes and his lips formed a hard line as he slowly continued to shake his head--no. Maybe I was being selfish in wanting him to stay, but the way he was leaving was more selfish. Everything about him was completely perfect to me, except the way he was battering me with a fast goodbye. I begged for 30 more seconds, just shy of clasping my hands and dropping to the floor on my knees. Later, I would hear him judge me for begging. Nonetheless, he fled as soon as my stubbornness consented. He tried to promise me he would be back sooner rather than later, but given the way he recoiled at the sight of my motherhood, there are no guarantees. Going by the history of my life-- absence, lonesomeness, and solitude stand far better chances of fairing the haul.
Regarding Joshua, the angels told me, "Get love again whenever you can." But maybe I should just stop listening. I think that whole Wadsworth or Shakespeare or Tennyson or whoever the fuck sap said "it's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all"---was completely full of shit. I bet money whoever said that- ended up alone and jerking off, thinking about love that was, visualizing the bitch of the past who ditched him for some brainless Fabio looking punk. Fuck Fabio and fuck Layne for getting me into this mess, I hope he had a nice laugh at my expense. I never would have fallen for a blond if Layne hadn't left his afterlife mope show long enough to tease me into believing he was going to take over someone elses body just so he could feel me. It was like the dreams had come to life and an exact physical replica of Layne was standing inside of my bedroom, our figures illuminated by white candles, the intimacy of the dreams multiplied and complimented all the more by the delicacy of real touch and real time.
And like a dream, I must soon wake up to the solitude again. One second I was hugging Josh and 20 seconds later, he was gone. After his departure, as I had predicted, I became ill and nearly toppled over in separation anxiety. I tried to be happy, with the exception of a few crying spells---I was euphoric. I would sleep after he left, but there would be no more dreaming.