2/27/96 I’m in a long run-down building in a room with that same man I keep seeing in my dreams. He is someone I love—I'm seeing him agaon after a long absence. Who is he? The many rooms include classrooms, workspaces. At one point, we’re teaching teenagers theatre games—it’s out of control. The biggest issue? Establishing authority. In another room I fall asleep. He often comes in and watches me sleep. He loves me but we seem to have trouble connecting, or even being in the same room. Something keeps separating us. Many cream-white rooms. Breakfast together again, buttering the toast. Who is he?
6/13 Recap: I met three men in a dream: I haven’t yet met them in real life, don’t know who they are, but they are very important, for I dream of many adventures with them all night long. (They turned out to be Chilean poet Waldo Rojas, Neil O’Neill, and Paul Evans—all of Irish ancestry). In one dream, I was making love to Waldo, then to Neil (but not to Paul), understanding that I’d soon meet them all in the real world, for it wasn’t just a dream. It was the future.
6/21/96 Summer Solstice: After making love to Waldo in Rotterdam, I dreamed of the unknown man making love to me again—confusing me, for he looked a little like Waldo (body type) but he wasn’t him. Who was he? And why did he come to me again and again? There were a couple of Scotsmen I’d met (poet Adrian Mitchell & photographer Dave Hansen) with white hair and faces similar to his, but they weren’t him—wrong body type, personality, aura, though the accent was right. I kept wondering where (and who) on earth he was. I had to be content to wait.
I saw Paul Evans that first night in Rotterdam (June 14), through a glass wall, he was reading—just like in the dream, but it was weeks later that I met him at the Winston Cafe in Amsterdam. We clicked (instant recognition of the other), and hung out together. On 6/21 I didn’t yet know the other man was Paul. I waited for the signal. It came in July as I was housesitting in a flat I’d never been in before, Paul came to dinner, stood in the doorway, afternoon sun, talking of his sisters and mother—I knew what he was going to do and say next, having dreamt this meeting and flat before.
(I wrote: I find my voice, small phrases tucked beneath your tongue and as the solstice approaches, the urgency of our Celtic blood desires conjugation. The origin of language embedded in the languid vocabulary of thighs… Celtic law requires lovers to sleep together three times before marriage…the dream lover and I must be man and wife by now…). I didn’t yet know who Neil was, but he kept coming back to haunt me. I was getting used to meeting him in my dreams. I kept thinking how highly unlikely it would be, for I wasn’t attracted to his body type. Besides, at this point, he was a figment of my imagination… (He was first identifiable in October of 95—there may be earlier entries, I’m too fatigued to trace them.)
9/16 Full moon. Dreams of that man again (I’m at Walker Creek—near the site of the accident.)
9/28 Wild dreams of driving along roads so narrow they resemble dykes or bicycle paths. I’m in the back seat with a man I don’t know. (A man and woman in front. They switch places. She drives.) The car slips off the road at a right angle, and down a grassy knoll. It is as if the car had turned itself around. I crawl out, feel the cut grass with my hands. We’re in a maze, hard to see the way out. No one’s in charge, certainly not the driver. The countryside is pleasant. We’re caught in a maze, can’t see, we need help but we’re in a strange country, far from home.)
10/3-4 More dreams of that unknown lover. He’s at my house in Forestville, then we’re going through Forest Knolls. I’m pointing out the sights, showing him my childhood.. Who is he? This constant dream companion. What does he want?
11/1 I awoke from a dream singing a song of the dead for the dead. I told my unknown friend and he began to sing Imagine for Lennon. We were in a crowded room, a party. I joined in but it was too high. People stopped to listen, not knowing the reason why we sang that song, or for whom.
11/20 Reoccurring dreams of moving into, and fixing up someone’s house. White rooms. Whose? I’m alone most of the time, but I feel his presence.
Note bene—What's weird about these dream journal entries is that I didn't even meet Neil until Thanksgiving.
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