Dreams and Nightmares

Photo copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved.

I'm trying hard to hang onto the feeling I had night before last.

It's not really working.

My sleep has been badly disrupted lately, not at all unusual in the middle of an autoimmune crash. I'm used to it, frankly. But what that means is that the rare occasions, however brief, that I manage to hit REM are especially important, so I'm mostly grateful when I can remember a dream.

They're not always good, but "not good" does not equal "nightmare." These days, the nightmares seem to be reserved mostly for waking hours anyway.

Last night was almost a complete loss not hat front. The night before wasn't a whole lot better, but I did manage at least one short episode of REM. The dream has stuck with me.

In it, I'm kneeling on an old hardwood floor. I'm surrounded by people, every face white as far as I can tell; no one I recognize, although in the dream's internal logic, I probably had some vague idea of who they were generally, if not personally. 

We're all in an old single-story building whose latest renovations date maybe to the '70s. One big room with a lowish ceiling, old wooden plank floor, wooden support posts and beams, a scaled window on the far side and a slight dais in the center. Facing it, I'm off to the right side at the front edge of the crowd, all of whom are seated or kneeling while a pompous white guy declaims from his seat on the dais. I'm already ready to leave, and then some. It appears to be the kind of meeting room you'd find a a retreat in a national or state park or forest reserve, and I get the impression this is some retro-hippie "get in touch with the wilderness" kind of thing. No wonder I want out.

Declaiming dude announces casually that they're going to be letting one of "them" come out, without specifying what "them" actually means. And then there's no warning; suddenly, someone has opened a door around the back wall where all that's visible is the glow of harsh overhead lighting, and out comes a cat, bounding directly toward the crowd.

And by cat, I mean of the large and wild variety.

Only it's not bounding toward the crowd; it's bounding, in a half-pouncing, half-loping stride, toward me.

It's so utterly negligent and careless on the part of our hosts, and so imposing, that everyone in the room gasps. Except me; I don't even have time to be afraid. The cat comes straight up to my left side where I'm kneeling, joints aching, and puts its muzzle up to my left ear and the side of my head. I can feel its breath on hair, its whiskers brush my skin. It sniffs me for a short moment.

It licks me repeatedly on the ear, then turns and saunters out of the room.

I have no idea what to make of it.

Of course, yesterday was visited by a couple of different nightmares, both involving loss of very different kinds. One wears a human face, and breaks my heart. 

The other is the kind of theft that fills me with righteous fury: exploitation, appropriation, all for racist purposes and with racist effect, and stealing directly from Wings and me, from other Natives, and symbolically from every single Indian who has ever lived (to say nothing of other cultures, but the most egregious were those taken from ours).

I have not been as angry as I was last night in . . . I actually don't remember when. The kind of anger that I almost never experience, the kind that is unhealthy, for me. And it's not the act of the theft itself, in the abstract, that fans the flames; it's what it means, what it represents, and with what sick, twisted poison it forcibly associates us without our consent.

I've had a migraine for days, and today was no exception. Add to that the lack of sleep last night, the effects of yesterday's sorrow and anger, and it has made today something to be gotten through, not lived.

I don't like people who steal, use, exploit. I don't tolerate misuse and abuse of others. And I'm seeing frankly far too much of that in recent weeks. In venues where no one would expect it, at the expense of some in no position to recognize what is being taken from them, much less to fight back.

Yes, this is the stuff of my nightmares. But my eyes are wide open. I see.

I also don't forget.

All content, including photos and text, are copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.