Rocky's last stand

Dreams are strange things - no, scratch that, MY dreams are strange things. Slippery, often incomprehensible, with imagery out of some Salvadore Dali painting (or sometimes Van Gogh), they usually defy any sort of interpretation and soon recede into the thick fog from which they presumably came.

Freud called dreams "the royal road to the unconscious", but what did that doofus know? He hated women, said they were incomplete creatures, just castrated men, and couldn't even breathe properly because they breathed upward into their chests. Brilliant doctor that he was, he didn't notice that all his patients were wearing extremely tight corsets (see my corset post, which so far nobody has even looked at).

So Freud was full of shit. Where does that leave us? With the jumble, the ragbag: seeing a giraffe in my back yard (or at least, seeing its head and neck as it leaned over the back fence); going to meet myself at a train station (I never got there); and, last night, something that reeks of significance even if you don't believe in dream symbolism at all.

A dead horse.

It must have been Rocky, my shaggy friend, a non-prepossessing but game little creature with whom I had an intense bond. I've written about Rocky before, and he was an extension of my childhood, the factor that made my pre-teen years bearable. Before we sold him when he got too old and expensive to keep (both boarding and farrier/vet bills were starting to pile up), he was my comfort and solace. I'd longed for a horse as a young girl, and here he was, not exactly a snorting Arabian but nonetheless sweet-natured and dependable.

So when I had this dream, this horse lying on the ground shuddering and apparently breathing his last, it must have been Rocky: I knew that sorrel coat with white stippling through it (for he was a true strawberry roan, just like in the song). I was sitting on the ground leaning over his head and stroking his neck, knowing that a downed horse wouldn't last long and probably should be put to sleep.

Some anonymous people were around (and just who ARE these anonymous people in my dreams? I don't know, they're just there), and I asked them to call a vet. The time had come. His eyes were milky and fixed, and he only breathed once in a while, if at all.

And then.

A big shudder ran through him, and he performed that motion that horses have been doing since time immemorial: starting with his front legs, he began to heave himself back on his feet.

Foals do this when they are born, if awkwardly. It's a practiced movement, and kind of impressive to watch. But this was like literally watching a horse come back to life.

He seemed fine. His eyes were warm and bright again (Rocky always had what horsemen call "a kind eye"), and he started wandering around looking for stray wisps of hay. Soon he'd be lipping them up and chewing with that gratifying hollow crunching sound. All seemed well.

And then: the vet arrived, a woman in a white coat literally wielding a giant syringe with squirts coming off it. "Don't kill him, he's fine!" I protested. She looked at him, then looked at me as if tempted to use the syringe on me instead.

Then the dream sort of wandered into weirdland: the vet hitched up a crude sort of wagon with chains instead of reins. Then she made another one for me, but the chains were all wrong, different lengths, and I had no control. There did not seem to be a horse involved, so I am not sure what was supposed to propell this ersatz chariot. She fixed the reins/chains, so it all worked, but WHAT worked? Where were the horses? Why were we doing this?

And that was the end of it, or at least the part of it I remember.

OK then. . . let's get symbolic, shall we? I know it's early in the morning. The dead horse which is not really dead is my "dream" - in another sense (and why do we use the same word? I've never been able to figure that out), my dream of being published again, of feeling like an author instead of a near-totallly-unread blogger wasting my time every day.

It's Rocky, not just any horse.  And I had author dreams from the very beginning, from the first time I realized, with a shock of wonder, that someone actually created these magic carpets I held in my hands.  

It amazes me how little support I've had, as my parents wanted me to be a musician and were automatically disappointed by anything else I did. Now people try to talk me out of wanting to do more. Just be happy with what you have. At the same time, they are constantly saying, "Well. . . ?", a sort of "what have you done lately" thing. What have you done lately to justify all this time and grief?

I learned today that a publisher I had completely given up on is still "considering" my novel. I don't know what to think about this. It's distressing because it has been a very long time and I had almost given up, to the point that I sent them a very strongly-worded email yesterday. I got "a" reply, but nothing definitive. This is not a hand-cranked press, but one that is larger  than anything I would normally deal with.

Will the horse stand up again? Walk around and snuffle for food as if nothing happened? I don't know. I bounce back and forth between excitement and depression/despair. I tell myself not to hope.

The picture of Rocky and I at the top of this post was taken in our front yard in Chatham in about 1966.  It has a misty surrealism that I love. The four corners of the original, which is one of those old Instamatic things that's barely  2" x 3", were cut off, maybe to fit into a small frame. I know almost nothing about photoshopping, but in this case I really wanted to restore it. If you look very closely at the corners you might see evidence that I didn't know what I was doing: the program was a strange one that plastered "cloned" material on the photo surface like a paint roller. But when I was done, it seemed to pop out at me in 3D in the eerie way of very old photos (such as the header on this blog, also taken in my front yard).

Rocky didn't like being tied in the back yard - in fact, I didn't tie him at all, just left him loose without saddle or bridle or anything - and while we were having dinner he nudged the gate open and took off. Never had he run at such a clip. He galloped all the way back to the barn while we feverishly  pursued him in the family station wagon. I remember my father saying, "I never knew that horse could run so fast."

When he reached his destination (the barn) with unerring accuracy,  he stopped dead as if putting brakes on his hoofs and moseyed on over to a bale of hay.

What does it all mean? Oh, probably nothing. I'm just trying to make my Wednesday a little more bearable.

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I dreamed I had ovarian cancer

I had a strange dream last night and am trying to piece it together before it recedes back into the vapour of subconscious oblivion. 

I was in some sort of medical clinic which looked like a walk-in place with several doctors (all women, for some reason), and when I was just about to leave and standing on the other side of the reception counter, a doctor (standing quite far away) said to me as a kind of afterthought, "Oh, by the way, you have ovarian cancer". I nearly jumped a foot and said, "Isn't that serious?" (or maybe I just thought it). She said, "Oh no, you'll just have a little jab of pain in your side once in a while, nothing to worry about." She demonstrated by poking herself in the lower abdomen.

I was protesting "but, but. . . ", mostly in my mind. Then she either told me, or I decided on my own, to see my own doctor, and she said the same sort of thing, that ovarian cancer was nothing serious, and to wait, but I kept insisting it could be deadly and all those magazine articles said to get it treated immediately. She seemed very casual about it, actually dismissive, and said something like, "Just wait until the pain gets really unbearable, and then we can treat it." I felt completely helpless and unmoored.

But it got worse. I began to realize that there had been no diagnostic tests done at all to determine this, almost like it was a guess. Didn't I need an MR or whatever it's called, or at least a pelvic exam? I also knew it was on the left side, though I had no symptoms. I remember thinking I just had to find someone who would take this seriously before it got so advanced as to be untreatable. 

I just remembered this part now: since I had made such a fuss about thinking this was serious, they allowed me to take part in some sort of support group. I had the feeling it was a way to get me to face the fact that I wasn't really sick, and also to indulge me and throw me a bone so I'd be quiet. All the women had a different health issue, though some of them seemed to be there just for the social outlet and to get out of the house. Many of them were young mothers with small children climbing all over them and strollers parked.


We sat in a circle as if we were in a 12-step meeting. The sense was that each person would get to "share" about what their diagnosis was, but I had the strong feeling I was here because they believed I was a crackpot who somehow thought she had something seriously wrong with her. The sharing never really started, as the dream trailed off then. I woke up with a sick feeling and dread that maybe it was a premonition.

But the sense of not being listened to is something most women have experienced, especially if the issue is reproductive. (Men's concerns about their plumbing are treated with grave seriousness as the doctor carefully examines the family jewels.) The sense is that you're embarrassing them, a weird twist, or at very least wasting their time, and that you definitely shouldn't be talking about this or even really thinking about it.


Meantime, the media tell you to rush to your doctor at the first twinge, laying out the dire consequences if YOU are negligent (never your doctor) about your health. And we won't even get into the unresolved-emotional-issues crap that just compounds our pain. There is no such thing as the complete resolution of emotional issues. You just give it your best shot. It's really about as controllable as genetics, which may turn out to be the final arbiter of health or illness, or even how long you live.

So. . . if I want to get all symbolic here, what does the dream mean? All the doctors in this scenario were middle-aged women, and my feeling was, if THEY don't understand this or listen to me, who will? I was on the other side of the counter, almost stranded on an island. No one had done any tests; it was a kind of guess that nevertheless determined my life or death.  It was almost yelled at me across the room, like, "Don't forget to apply the ointment three times a day" or something, or maybe "you left your earrings on the table".

Ovaries. Well, OK, in my case they've closed up shop, and a good thing too, because for some strange reason I never really enjoyed the menstrual cycle and its relentless 35-year reign. More than they want to admit, women's lives revolve around it. Certainly if you want a child and can't have one, it becomes paramount.

And oh, the often-agonizing slowdown as nature applies the brakes to reproduction, not all at once of course, but in fits and starts. Just when you think it's all settled, it's as if someone leaves the hand brake on your car and simultaneously stomps on the gas. Screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeech!


Why it's set up this way is anyone's guess. It's as if we are biologically programmed to have 19 babies or something, like those women on reality shows. There are billions and billions of people straining Earth's resources, with billions more to come, and it all seems to come down to ovaries, to fertility, that plucky little egg machine that doesn't give up its job without a protracted (say, ten-year) fight.

Then there's the "oh, it must be menopause" thing, explaining everything from mood swings to murder. The ancient fear-based belief that women become dessicated crones and go completely out of their minds at 50 still persists, in spite of all the "wisdom of menopause" propaganda espoused by feminist doctors who want to sell a lot of books to women desperate for a bit of good news.

I don't feel like a crone, and I hate the word. It's about as attractive as battleaxe or hag. IActually, it surprises me how little I've changed. There's a sense of relief, of course. No more mini-, maxi-, light/medium/superabsorbent anything, no more running through fields in slow motion with a gauzy dress on. No more "accidents". I have a tendency to tire sooner, but I can live with that. I was afraid of becoming all hairy: instead, almost all my leg hair fell out and I don't have to shave any more. I can still have an orgasm, and how (and I was absolutely certain that it would fade away to nothing: nobody told me otherwise, so I just assumed it would be all over). My body sure hasn't forgotten that one, though it amazes me, with these supposedly dessicated, peach-pit ovaries (not to mention all the social pressure to be sexless) that I can feel anything sexual at all.

Still. Ovarian cancer. Something in my psyche rumbles seismically over this possibility. I pray the dream isn't a premonition, or, as they say, precognitive. Even worse would be the "oh well, let's just blow her off" attitude of these wise-crone-figure doctors (or are they mothers? Jesus.) The sense that she's a little whacky, but can be bought off and kept quiet by being included in a group of lonely hypochondriacs. 


It's funny that our society has recently wholeheartedly embraced breast cancer (which is, let's face it, much more sexy than all the others since it involves "boobies"), but hasn't got around to ovarian cancer, though it is infinitely more deadly. There's an attempt, I know, but their color, instead of a jolly, healthy pink, is teal.

I wonder who thought that one up: "hey, I know! Let's pick the most ambiguous and obscure color there is: both green and blue, but somehow neither; a colour some people don't even know the name of, so no one will think to buy our pencils and tshirts and coffee mugs in a million years."

But there's more going on than a "teal campaign". The aversion pertains to society's deep dread and even loathing of the female reproductive cycle. It's much harder to paint a happy face on an ovary, or to have a run for an egg factory, particularly one that's run out of eggs.

Sorry, we're fresh out today. But still walking on eggshells of uncertainty.

 

Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my book

    It took me years to write, will you take a look

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Dreamhorse

When I was a girl, horses galloped through my imagination.

Horses of beauty, pride and grace.

These were not horses I could ride or stroke or smell. I loved them, but they were not mine.

I read about Misty, and Stormy, Black Beauty, King of the Wind. Horses made not of hide nor hair, but words.

My horse could be anything. He could be blue. He could fly!

 

I named him Sea Mist. I named him Banner. He was proud and strong.

He was a rush of power blasting through snow. He leapt and wheeled and snorted. He was absolutely free

. . . but he was not mine.

If he were mine, I knew my world would be different. It would be made of gold and silver.

The shadows would lighten, the pain would end, and I would never again be afraid.

I rode sometimes, but then I had to go home. I loved the snorts, the sweat and the smell, and I wanted them to stay.

I want to sit on a horse and tear across fields and plunge into water. 

I want to sit on a horse and be absolutely free.

Dreamhorse has never left me: he stirs in my pulse. He sleeps in my veins.

But he is not real.

And he is not mine.

Life's candy, and the sun's a ball of buddah

Eye on the target and wham,

One shot, one gun-shot, and BAM -

Hm. Well, it isn't Mr. Arnstein I'm after, but something infinitely more elusive and devious (and it plays a mean game of poker).

I want to get published again. I need to get published again. I have three books written, all finished and ready to go. Three. All are publishable, as far as I am concerned. But has anyone ever seen them?

That would be a big "no".

People have weird ideas about being published. "Must cost quite a lot, I'd imagine. Are you going to take out a loan?" "Is your book going to be on the bestseller list?" "Don't writers all help each other get published - I mean, kind of like one big artist's colony?" Yeah, like I'm going to tell all my sneaky colleagues how to get published so their nasty little novel can kick MY novel's ass!

It isn't at all what you think.

When my dream came true, after thirty years of pining and longing and bloody hard work, it came true the same way it does for maybe 85 or 90% of writers. There was one big popping flare of fireworks, then fast-fading embers raining down, then . . .

nothing.

It didn't matter how good the reviews were (stuff like "fiction at its finest "- no kidding). They meant nothing. I was supposed to run all over the country on my own dime and try to drum up interest. But I also learned that readings and posters and web sites and all that shit made no difference at all.

So what does make a difference? Something called "buzz". If a novel is "buzzy", it automatically has tons of readers right out of the starting gate.

Buzz is like sex. No one tells you what it's all about, or how to get it. You just sort of fumble around, and fail most of the time. And when the novel fails to sell, guess who gets the blame? Mr. Agent? Ms. Publisher? Don't make me laugh!

I can't stop writing, which I guess means something, good or bad. I have kept writing and kept writing through the most hideous, soul-destroying crises of my life. I now have two novels and a book of poems, all of which I feel deserve publication. I WANT SOMEONE TO READ THEM, GODDAMN IT!

In many people's minds, this is sheer ego. "Oh, isn't writing its own reward? Can't you just do it for self-expression?" (Or, worse, "leave it for your children").

No one expects a concert pianist (or a gymnast, for that matter) to play in an empty hall, but we writers are seen as crass and egotistical if we want someone to look at what we've slaved over for years. Stories must be TOLD, not chucked into a drawer. An untold story isn't even a story.

So, Mr. Arnstein, you big galoot, you mustachio'd rat fink, I'm pursuing you once again. Like Barbra Streisand in that ridiculous sailor suit , it's one roll for the whole shebang.

Hey, all you agents, pundits, arbiters of literary taste - get ready for me, love, 'cause I'm a comer - so even if this fantasy-trip is a bummer -

NOBODY

No, NOBODY
Is gonna

rain

on

myyyyy

paaaaaa

(rrrrrrrr)

rrrAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYD-UH!

OK, so. Here is my dream car

OK, it was something like this. But really, not even close.

It was like something out of a Popeye cartoon of the '40s, the really old ones, I mean the Fleischer, good ones. (I'll write about them later.) Cars already looked like cartoons then, like giant bubbles, bulbous.

And huge.

As I sit here slurping down a giant mug of Red Rose tea and eating McVitie's Digestive Biscuits (can you tell I'm Canadian?), I'm trying to piece together just what happened. This was an Event such as I only experience a couple of times a year. A sighting of beauty so sighful, it felt it almost like an affliction until I had told my husband all about it.

I was standing at a bus stop, bored, not expecting anything, vaguely aware of traffic whizzing by. But behind me was a leisurely lane leading (like the alliteration?) to the shopping area: Safeway, Canadian Tire, and other stuff.

I don't know why I turned around. As the Beatles song says, "Had it been another day, I might have looked the other way". But I did turn around, and was assailed by a vision in burgundy and cream.

Burgundy, cream, and chrome. Remember chrome? This vision had a mouth, a rather fierce grille with teeth. There followed a slipstream of shape. A little aggressive at the front, almost like a nose; bulby around the front tires; high roof with absurdly small windows, then. . . a taper.

A waterfall of car, a cascading, almost down to a point. There appeared to be no back wheels at all. The rear of the car sank right down into the pavement.

The colour must've been custom, as I'd never seen anything like it before, the two tones divided by a bar of (more) chrome. This lordly vision slowly drove past me, then turned off into the shopping area. A young guy (I barely saw him - he could've been George Clooney and I wouldn't have seen him) got out and went into the bank.

I stared.

I don't even drive. I hate cars. They belch out poisons. I fear them. I've been almost run over 100 times. What was this thing? Some sort of vintage, obviously, maybe on its way to one of them-thar car shows I never seem to get to. It appeared to sail forth like a giant boat supported by massive pontoons.

The guy came out of the bank, got back into the car and drove verrrry sloooowly over to the Canadian Tire lot, about 50 feet away. I mean, he didn't see me (I'm 56, remember, and thus invisible), but maybe he saw me seeing him (or rather, his car).

He drove away equally slowly. A float in a parade. I felt faint. I didn't want him to go. I wanted to hop in, to tootle around town with him, watching all those dials 'n' things that old cars have (and creaky old leather).

As soon as my senses would hold together, I rummaged out a pen and notebook and tried to draw it. It was hopeless. I tried eight times, then lost my pen on the bus.

My husband can tell, at a glance, the year and make of every car ever made. I am not kidding. I have never stumped him. Sometimes I check it against the internet, but I really don't have to. I described this car to him. I showed him my miserable drawings,

which looked like a car a 2-year-old would play with in the bathtub.

He didn't know what it was.

That was when I began to believe that what I had seen was an apparition. It floated into my consciousness when I least expected it, swanned past me in splendour, then disappeared into the vapour of unreality from which it had come. It un-was, or un-did itself, or something.

Well, we all die, don't we? Why wasn't this lovely thing thrown on the scrapheap in 1941? My only clue was handwritten in chrome on the rear bumper: Mercury.

"Oh, so it was a Ford," my husband said. "Probably 1940. Called a Westerbrook or something like that. Maybe a custom."

Oh, don't burst my bubble. It was a dream.