Bride White

In my dream I am wearing white, a wedding dress. Then I look down and it's just a wedding veil over white jeans. I'm with Cotton my best friend and we're running around the streets of Los Angeles. We're trying to get into this sort of nondescript nightclub but there's this group of guys following us. Two of them look like FBI agents, they have dark glasses and earbuds and suits. The third one, the leader, is the only one who speaks to us. He is dressed like some government dad's version of a punk rocker. He has pink hair. He keeps saying that he just wants to talk to us. We've passed by the entrance to the nightclub five or six times, but we can't let the guy see where we're going. It is broad daylight and my veil is blowing in the wind. I hear myself say "bride white". The guy, I decide, thinks we're school shooters or something. He yells at us that he wants to talk to us about the route we take to school. From underneath my veil I scream back: "We don't go to school, sorry".

The image of a baby, I kept repeating. I kept saying to Cotton in my dream, then to myself as I got to the next one, that I am like an infant who is trying to learn to walk the same day as he's trying to learn to use a fork. Disastrous consequences. I bite off more than I can chew. My eyes are bigger than my stomach.

Scott shows up at my house. It's my apartment but he's not here to see me. He's here to see someone else (I don't know who). I tell him to come back into my room but he wants something to drink so we stay in the kitchen. He is genial in way that he never was when he was alive. He's nice. He's sweet. He leans over me when I am pouring him a glass of water and he touches my hip (I read in Scott's diary once about a date of his finding excuses to touch his hip and it really turned Scott on-- I do this to every boy, now). He kisses me and asks if that's okay. Says we have some time to kill, do I want to fuck. I tell him to go to my room and wait for me. For some reason my parents are in one of the other rooms of the house, I tell them not to disturb me but I don't want to tell them why. When I get into my bedroom Scott is mad that it's different than how he knew it. Everything I own has been pushed to the center of the room. He's found all his old love letters to me and he's rereading them. From before he went to jail for murder / cannibalism / being mean to me. I have to pee (even in the dream) so I go and when I come back he is typing on my computer (this very one now) he turns around and says "You know, when we used to have sex it was always half and half. Like you'd wanna fuck and do that part and we'd do that but then we'd spend the rest of the time cuddling. You wanna just do that?" I don't know what he's talking about. I hate to cuddle. In the dream we are in bed and it is perfect. It occurs to me that I am dreaming, this makes it a lucid dream. Image of babies impaled. Image of hubris. The sunlight is coming my windows even through the curtain. Some mean policemen wanna follow us into the nightclubs.

I've made my life around a handful of goals but most primarily to feel better. I realized that in order to feel better I had become (or am at the risk of becoming) Scott Panther and I hope I can change back before it's too late. In the dream sex I am withholding, cold, impersonal, I won't kiss him, really. Not on the mouth. I won't tell him that I'm glad he's back. Because he's not back.

I wake up sick and I know where I'm going.

1 comment:

Dusty St. Amand said...

I became my Scott Panther, like I was in an academy. Like there was an exact formula for him. I stole his tricks. Kick myself for using them. Kick myself when I get positive feedback on those mannerisms. I don't know if fighting the image you were created in is worth it. Holding onto that shit keeps the panthers present. Keeps you as cool as your teenage self always wanted to be.