Dream With My Father
Not quite the compelling story written by Barack Obama (Dreams From My Father), but perhaps a journey of destiny --- well, in my case, unrequited destiny or destiny unfulfilled. Inspiring maybe? Only time will tell. Anyway, without further ado, the dream.
Last night I had a dream. One of those rare instances, that happens perhaps once a month where I recall vivid details of the dream – including conversation, images, environment, and most importantly (or disturbingly) feelings. Further, one of those dreams where the feelings stick with you in the morning and even as I type this, I am drawing short of breath and feel agitated.
I was in the car with my father. I know exactly which road – had just visited my grandmother. I know exactly which car – light green Oldsmobile. Oldsmobile was my father's car of choice (His father's was Cadillac; mine is Subway). It was clean. When I say clean – it was don’t touch my car clean, you can eat off my car clean, glistening, freshly waxed, smelled clean from both "being clean" and having an air freshener hanging from the rear-view mirror.
This clean, as my brother or mother or anyone who has ever met my father could attest, is not unusual – his car was always like this. This is how he rolled. His car always clean, clothes freshly pressed while he was slightly over-dressed for ANY occasion, hair freshly cut, parted and combed to the side (yes, my brother, father, and I have the "grade" of hair that can be combed to the side and parted --- and believe me, he made us comb it that way), and slight smell of cologne. While on the subject – the same can be said of how he lived --- beds always made, no dust anywhere ever, hanger two fingers apart, all shirts hung the same way and buttoned, pants folded at the seams and hung all in the same direction – and on and on and on…
This ride was perhaps one of my worse childhood memories – period. What really happened – I was driving and failed to put on the blinker at precisely when my father would have put the blinker on. I did not forget to put on the blinker (or didn't get a chance to), I simply did not do it how and when we would have done it. He made me stop the car (in the middle of the street), get out and he was going to drive because I "couldn't drive." I got in the passenger seat and as we pulled off --- I LOST IT.
Can you imagine what I said? Let me help you. My parents divorced when I was in 4th grade and my father hardly came around. What's worse than that, however, is he would consistently make plans just to cancel them. Still worse, is when we would see him, he was always critical of what my brother and I did or did not know or could or could not do. The criticism was crazy and hurtful too. His comments were often like – you can't be my son because … you're clumsy.
Anyway, can you image yet? Yes, I let him have it. I must have been at least 16, so I had years and years of material. Further, I had already started to develop my "way with words" (as my mother used to say) so I knew where and how to push to get the reaction I sought. On this occasion I sought to hurt my father and that --- while I felt and still feel it needed to happen --- is an occasion where often wish I could have held my tongue. This sentiment is just short of regret.
Okay, so back to the dream. Are you bored yet? I'll keep this very short. Sorry for the length, but I had to set the scene. Because here you go. In this dream, we were in the same car, on the same road, and I am 100% confident that same journey. Instead, when I opened my mouth to talk, I wanted to tell my father about my current job. I started to say – "you know, this guy I work with is just like you" (more so than anyone I've ever met and any historical dictator I've since tried to draw comparisons to) and then started describing my job and everyday happenings. But instead of being able to clearly articulate that which I was trying to say --- I broke into uncontrollable sobbing. I'd start a sentence or new thought, and break back into wails. I couldn't get anything out.
This is highly unusually because (1) I hardly ever cry, (2) I definitely don't "wail" (though, yes, when I was a kid and highly upset I would hyperventilate in instances where others would cry – it was slightly awkward), and (3) my father would (a) never let me cry, and (b) never set there silently and just listen. At this point I woke up like wow.
Client pitching
Eye twitching
How the hell did I get into this kitchen?
I'm wishing, while they steady bitchin that I can get out
But I've done nothing beyond letting the sentiment fly from my mouth
What's it all about? It's not clout
I just can't hear myself think when it is all so loud
Or I'm in a cloud and not allowed
Frozen by fear of not being what I think I'm about
Oh I think I'm great, we all do
But I choose to lose as I refuse to lose these shoes
And that last line was sick like that flu
But as I cough up this shit, it only shows you I'm blue
But what else is new?
I'll end it right here because I'm sick of this too
Last night I had a dream. One of those rare instances, that happens perhaps once a month where I recall vivid details of the dream – including conversation, images, environment, and most importantly (or disturbingly) feelings. Further, one of those dreams where the feelings stick with you in the morning and even as I type this, I am drawing short of breath and feel agitated.
I was in the car with my father. I know exactly which road – had just visited my grandmother. I know exactly which car – light green Oldsmobile. Oldsmobile was my father's car of choice (His father's was Cadillac; mine is Subway). It was clean. When I say clean – it was don’t touch my car clean, you can eat off my car clean, glistening, freshly waxed, smelled clean from both "being clean" and having an air freshener hanging from the rear-view mirror.
This clean, as my brother or mother or anyone who has ever met my father could attest, is not unusual – his car was always like this. This is how he rolled. His car always clean, clothes freshly pressed while he was slightly over-dressed for ANY occasion, hair freshly cut, parted and combed to the side (yes, my brother, father, and I have the "grade" of hair that can be combed to the side and parted --- and believe me, he made us comb it that way), and slight smell of cologne. While on the subject – the same can be said of how he lived --- beds always made, no dust anywhere ever, hanger two fingers apart, all shirts hung the same way and buttoned, pants folded at the seams and hung all in the same direction – and on and on and on…
This ride was perhaps one of my worse childhood memories – period. What really happened – I was driving and failed to put on the blinker at precisely when my father would have put the blinker on. I did not forget to put on the blinker (or didn't get a chance to), I simply did not do it how and when we would have done it. He made me stop the car (in the middle of the street), get out and he was going to drive because I "couldn't drive." I got in the passenger seat and as we pulled off --- I LOST IT.
Can you imagine what I said? Let me help you. My parents divorced when I was in 4th grade and my father hardly came around. What's worse than that, however, is he would consistently make plans just to cancel them. Still worse, is when we would see him, he was always critical of what my brother and I did or did not know or could or could not do. The criticism was crazy and hurtful too. His comments were often like – you can't be my son because … you're clumsy.
Anyway, can you image yet? Yes, I let him have it. I must have been at least 16, so I had years and years of material. Further, I had already started to develop my "way with words" (as my mother used to say) so I knew where and how to push to get the reaction I sought. On this occasion I sought to hurt my father and that --- while I felt and still feel it needed to happen --- is an occasion where often wish I could have held my tongue. This sentiment is just short of regret.
Okay, so back to the dream. Are you bored yet? I'll keep this very short. Sorry for the length, but I had to set the scene. Because here you go. In this dream, we were in the same car, on the same road, and I am 100% confident that same journey. Instead, when I opened my mouth to talk, I wanted to tell my father about my current job. I started to say – "you know, this guy I work with is just like you" (more so than anyone I've ever met and any historical dictator I've since tried to draw comparisons to) and then started describing my job and everyday happenings. But instead of being able to clearly articulate that which I was trying to say --- I broke into uncontrollable sobbing. I'd start a sentence or new thought, and break back into wails. I couldn't get anything out.
This is highly unusually because (1) I hardly ever cry, (2) I definitely don't "wail" (though, yes, when I was a kid and highly upset I would hyperventilate in instances where others would cry – it was slightly awkward), and (3) my father would (a) never let me cry, and (b) never set there silently and just listen. At this point I woke up like wow.
Client pitching
Eye twitching
How the hell did I get into this kitchen?
I'm wishing, while they steady bitchin that I can get out
But I've done nothing beyond letting the sentiment fly from my mouth
What's it all about? It's not clout
I just can't hear myself think when it is all so loud
Or I'm in a cloud and not allowed
Frozen by fear of not being what I think I'm about
Oh I think I'm great, we all do
But I choose to lose as I refuse to lose these shoes
And that last line was sick like that flu
But as I cough up this shit, it only shows you I'm blue
But what else is new?
I'll end it right here because I'm sick of this too
posted by cstyle at
9:14 AM
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