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Nov. 24th, 2009 | 04:13 pm

I am likely going to be transposing this post largely into a new short piece, "Five Fables," with some details and embellishments and fictionalizations. If you've read my spider fragment, that's going to be one of the fables.

I had a dream about Audra last night. It was the final dream I had this morning and the dream preceding it was about trying to cook eggs for myself with my family in Maine. People kept eating my eggs through misunderstandings and before I knew it, it was lunch time.

I was in a parking lot going towards my car carrying an Amazon box that was sealed and felt like it contained books. I saw someone who I thought looked like her, which happens to me in real life with some regularity, but wasn't sure. Fearing that it was actually her, I approached a little cautiously, trying to be unobtrusive so I could get a better look, but the look was never good enough until I was so close for her to notice me. Hoping that I wasn't recognized, I kept moving on at a normal pace, but looking back I saw that she had definitely recognized me, and looked away when I looked back. While I was at my car -- Harley was there waiting for me, because we were doing something later -- deciding whether I should go and talk to her, she came up and started talking to me.

Normal things, "How are you? How have you been?" It eventually came up how much I still think of her, and asked Harley if he wouldn't mind leaving us to talk. We set out to driving around the parking lot with her controlling everything but the steering. It was a normal, calm conversation on her end. She just asked leading questions and I'd answer them honestly, though I don't remember the content of these questions. She seemed to be feeling pity for me but in that compassionate way that I remember her having. She kept moving about the car spontaneously, from the passenger seat to the rear passenger-side seat, to the middle seat leaning forward into the front, but at no point did she feel like she was close.

Inevitably, I asked if she ever thought about me, and she said very detachedly, "from time to time." I asked if there could ever be anything between us again and she said in that same compassionate pity, "I'm so sorry, no, I don't think so." I remember I could see the blue of her veins very faintly on her leg. I asked why not, and she told me about how I'd been when we stopped talking. I assured her that I was very selfish back then, very immature and that I was sorry for how I'd treated her, that this sorrow was something constant within me. I don't remember what she said exactly, but it was in a way that indicated that I didn't understand what she was trying to say. She said that whenever things weren't to my way I would respond not with understanding but with anger. I admitted that that was once true but not anymore. At that point she was outside of the car and I was moving away. She said that she couldn't hear me, so I repeated myself. Now Chinua Achebe was in the passenger seat, reminding me that we had plans that we needed to get going with, that we were going to be late. She didn't hear me the second time and though I drove closer to her, she was still far away, and I repeated myself a third time. The car was still moving away from her, though, and Achebe held up three fingers impatiently. "If she's not hearing three times, we might as well get going." I remember she had a bewildered expression as the car moved away on its own volition. I tried to commit a lucid dream trick to extend the conversation, but I was already close to waking at this point, and I had the realization that trying to extend the conversation in this way was pointless, because it would defeat the purpose of what had made it important: disconnectedness from my self.

I haven't spoken to her in three years. Why is this still happening?

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