You ever have one of those dreams where you meet a person who is so familiar to you that you believe, even on waking, that she must be someone you actually know, and grill your memory (figuratively) trying to remember where you know her from? This was my dream of last night.
A red-haired woman, something of a cross between Shirley Manson and a girl Julia I knew in college, but not either of them. She was my age (yay — for once!) and she wore a yellow/beige satin dress with flapper-frill accents and was beautiful, and she had a partner but he was treating her badly and I wanted her to know I cared for her. She was sort of trying to die, in that she was being asphixiated by her boyfriend (manfriend) to the point of unconsciousness — not a fetish I’d endorse by the way, no! — and she’d come back but in her heart she was only letting him do this violent act to her because she really wanted to die. When she woke from one such event and saw me about to resuscitate her, she thought (mistakenly) that it was I who had brought her back from the brink all these times before (when in fact it had just been her own physiology), and was thus upset at me and explained that she’d hoped to pass away.
But I knew that if I got her away from her partner she’d have a chance at being desirous of life again. And in the meantime I hoped she didn’t have brain damage from all the pass-outs. In one scene of the dream, with her partner still in the room, and her lying awake on a couch, I put my hands on her reassuringly, but close enough to her beltline, on her skin, for her to realize I saw myself in the hero role. I’d save her if she’d let me. There was a blanket so I got away with this under her boyfriends eyes.
Later, I was at her computer, and found a set of digital camera photos of her, taken by one of her girl friends. These were of her wearing that dress I’d described, laying on a bed, having just returned from a fancy party evidently. It was a wonderful set of candid exhaustion in classy clothes on a classy bed. And in one, only one pic, she was skirtless. I was somewhat surprised she wasn’t bare but I suppose if you have red hair you may be inclined to keep it. I began furtively trying to see if I had a usb key drive to copy the pics for myself quickly.
Another part of the dream, later on, featured Gorbachev. Yes, there’s no accounting for dreams. Me, my mother, and the former President of the Soviet Union who orchestrated the deconstruction of the USSR in the hope for a unified world (a hope that did not come to pass, for reasons unknown), were on our front yard in autumn, sitting cross-legged, partly meditating, and partly reading a few typewritten pages that Gorbachev gave to us to read together. The words were so amazing, so unlike anything I’d expect to read, that I began to levitate off the ground, still sitting cross-legged. They were so intent on reading that they did not notice I was five inches off the ground. “Mom!” I said. She did not look. “Mr. Gorbachev!” I said. He did not notice. Finally, a couple feet off the ground now, I touched my mom’s head to get her attention, and when she noticed me, then Gorbachev did as well. “How are you doing that?” I was asked, though neither seemed too alarmed. “It is because of what you wrote,” I explained. “The words are so amazing, that I am doing now what I usually can only do in dreams, because the words are so amazing as to deceive my body into believing that I must be in a dream, even though the words are real and this is the real world!” I flew around a little bit and then settled back down to continue reading. I believe half the reason Gorbachev did not react strongly was because he was afraid he was being filmed for a prank. I do not recall what the words were, though I believe it was about people, an account of several people somewhere experiencing something incredible, who had told something to Gorbachev in confidence, and now he was testing sharing it with others.