ode to my yacht

Yesterday morning, I awoke with a few scant images from various dreams and a title of a poem, “ode to my yacht”. The notion—that I would have a yacht—was funny to me. I can’t see myself owning anything so considerable on my income. And well, a yacht, man, what a mark of exuberant luxury. I turned on the bedside lamp and wrote the poem. I groan to reading it now. I only write this horribly when I’m drunk or bleary-eyed. Here it is:

ode to my yacht

you, large creature
full in hull and spar and mast

divide the waters
we zipper through

it is salt in my lungs with you
and sun in my belly
it is fate with her hands through my hair

nothing there is nothing
like balancing on the spine of desire
as she charges, full power, into
the evening sun.

I told a friend of mine this recently. He laughed at my suggestion that this must mean that I’d acquire one some time in the future.

“I’ve had many dreams come true,” I said. Then I was tasked with telling of them. “A couple of them were break up ones,” I said. There were more, though I never got to tell of them, as the conversation went elsewhere.

There are those dreams in whose world you sink in so deep that when you awake from them a little bit of it has been brought back with you. It’s the fisherman’s hook sunk so deep that even when free, the barb remains as a reminder of the frightening exhilaration of being caught by the hands of destiny. The yacht dream, though fleeting and thin, had that essential quality to it.

These days, I am waking to dreams of this nature with more frequency. They involve tigers (one of my totem dream animals), my wedding day, the little plot of land that is mine, and the lesson that I am in control of my own destiny. These are all based on fairly recent dreams, and so they haven’t appeared in this blog yet.

Here I am living them, instead of writing them for you, or even writing about them for you. In the last three months, my life has fallen to the instructions of my dreams almost completely. I’ve bought a wedding dress, written several poems, worn the same freakin’ outfit for the duration of this time, pausing only to take it off to launder, then redressing in it. I have incorporated dream images into my collages, sketchbooks, and letters to friends.

There have been some mornings I wake up not wanting to transcribe a dream (like this morning, for example). So I lay about until I forget them. Then they’re gone. I’ve gone back and forth between wanting to keep a journal and giving up. But I’m always back between. And I realize now that I could never be an Anne Frank, James Kolchaka, Anais Nin, nor anyone else who kept a journal. I get bored of it and move onto something else for a while. It’s my Gemini nature coming forth. (I’m actually a Cancer, but I have a double Gemini influence so I feel half-Gemini) This sort of existential questioning and my inability to get to a computer that has BOTH a disk drive and Internet access has factored into the collapse of regularity here on Dreams After Thirty. For this I apologize. Mostly to myself. This was my 30th birthday present to myself—the blog. I have not maintained it well. Given that this would be more interesting with some real-life context to it, future posts will examine my relationship with my dream and waking states. The dated log will continue as often as possible. E-mail me with any comments.