The Queen, by C. Støle
Thursday, December 09, 2004
Sunday, December 05, 2004
Dream...04-12-04
Hazy mist shrouded feeling of being in an auditorium…then…
X and I are in a large forest – a national park of some sort. We are wandering along the well maintained trails, gaping at the beauty surrounding us when I accidentally step off the trail and into a bed of small, delicate, sea green plants with tiny pink flowers. My footsteps leave a tell tale trail of destruction. X follows as I realize what I have done and turn around too late to tell him not to go the same way. We continue and come upon a lake, out on which is a boat. X walks toward the boat and I follow. There is some kind of logging machine on the beach. I step up to it to investigate and it suddenly turns on, throwing sawdust in my face. I turn away, spitting and sputtering. Clearing the sawdust out of my eyes and squinting, I see far in the distance four men in spiffy suits walking towards us on the beach. They are wavy at first and appear to be a mirage, but as they get closer they solidify. They surround us and tell X he needs to come with them because they need to talk to him about his visa. He and I agree to meet in one of the two tiny restaurants, which are nestled in the forest like witches’ cottages. He leaves with the sharply suited men, and I walk to one of the restaurants. I want to eat something while I wait, but it is a burger joint and the vegetarian selection is particularly unappetizing. I decide that maybe I should go to the other little restaurant, but I don’t want to walk all the way there only to find out that they don’t have anything good either. I ask the clerk, who is wearing a floppy chef’s hat and holding a magic- wand spatula, if he knows what is on the menu at the other place. He hands me a menu for the other restaurant and I tell him “Wow! You exceeded my expectations!” I look over the menu, which is much more appetizing, and decide to walk on over there. I wonder how much longer X will be?
Hazy mist shrouded feeling of being in an auditorium…then…
X and I are in a large forest – a national park of some sort. We are wandering along the well maintained trails, gaping at the beauty surrounding us when I accidentally step off the trail and into a bed of small, delicate, sea green plants with tiny pink flowers. My footsteps leave a tell tale trail of destruction. X follows as I realize what I have done and turn around too late to tell him not to go the same way. We continue and come upon a lake, out on which is a boat. X walks toward the boat and I follow. There is some kind of logging machine on the beach. I step up to it to investigate and it suddenly turns on, throwing sawdust in my face. I turn away, spitting and sputtering. Clearing the sawdust out of my eyes and squinting, I see far in the distance four men in spiffy suits walking towards us on the beach. They are wavy at first and appear to be a mirage, but as they get closer they solidify. They surround us and tell X he needs to come with them because they need to talk to him about his visa. He and I agree to meet in one of the two tiny restaurants, which are nestled in the forest like witches’ cottages. He leaves with the sharply suited men, and I walk to one of the restaurants. I want to eat something while I wait, but it is a burger joint and the vegetarian selection is particularly unappetizing. I decide that maybe I should go to the other little restaurant, but I don’t want to walk all the way there only to find out that they don’t have anything good either. I ask the clerk, who is wearing a floppy chef’s hat and holding a magic- wand spatula, if he knows what is on the menu at the other place. He hands me a menu for the other restaurant and I tell him “Wow! You exceeded my expectations!” I look over the menu, which is much more appetizing, and decide to walk on over there. I wonder how much longer X will be?
Monday, September 20, 2004
17/03/04
Timmy and I are walking around Portland. We look toward a small, one story house that has a door with a window on the top half (like the door on our house). There is a man, backlit by his television, who appears to be holding a gun. He reaches for the doorknob in an exagerrated fashion. We think he is going to come after us. Timothy pulls out a gun and shoots him. The lights come on behind him as the door opens and he falls on the ground, the imagined gun falling out of his hands and revealing itself as a long, narrow lamp base. His family is sitting on the couch in front of the television, they are all screaming. Timothy and I are freaking...he just killed an innocent man! The man's brother comes out of the house with some kind of ray gun and shoots Tim repeatedly in the stomach. Nothing happens at first, but after a few minutes Tim falls to the ground coughing and spitting blood. A hole appears in his stomach. Wet red blood flows from the expanding hole. I scream and kneel beside him, holding him tight to me, his blood staining my dress. He tries to speak and blood wells up out of his mouth. We look at each other, the horror in our eyes saying what words could not. I tell him I love him and caress his cheek. He dies. I close his lovely, blue, dead eyes.
I am alone.
I am walking around the city. The air is red and casts everything in it's own bloody hue. I go into a restaurant but I can't eat. I tell a nameless, faceless person about my sorrow as I sip a small cup of tea. I slide slowly out of my chair, out of my body, through the floor, and into my anguish.
Timmy and I are walking around Portland. We look toward a small, one story house that has a door with a window on the top half (like the door on our house). There is a man, backlit by his television, who appears to be holding a gun. He reaches for the doorknob in an exagerrated fashion. We think he is going to come after us. Timothy pulls out a gun and shoots him. The lights come on behind him as the door opens and he falls on the ground, the imagined gun falling out of his hands and revealing itself as a long, narrow lamp base. His family is sitting on the couch in front of the television, they are all screaming. Timothy and I are freaking...he just killed an innocent man! The man's brother comes out of the house with some kind of ray gun and shoots Tim repeatedly in the stomach. Nothing happens at first, but after a few minutes Tim falls to the ground coughing and spitting blood. A hole appears in his stomach. Wet red blood flows from the expanding hole. I scream and kneel beside him, holding him tight to me, his blood staining my dress. He tries to speak and blood wells up out of his mouth. We look at each other, the horror in our eyes saying what words could not. I tell him I love him and caress his cheek. He dies. I close his lovely, blue, dead eyes.
I am alone.
I am walking around the city. The air is red and casts everything in it's own bloody hue. I go into a restaurant but I can't eat. I tell a nameless, faceless person about my sorrow as I sip a small cup of tea. I slide slowly out of my chair, out of my body, through the floor, and into my anguish.
Friday, July 09, 2004
I am at my grandmothers funeral. It is in a dimly lit high school gymnasium, which is almost filled to capacity. All of her friends and family have come. I stand, walk to her coffin, and begin to cry. Suddenly I am standing on the patch of green lawn between the front door and the driveway at the ranch. My grandmother is holding me in a tight hug. She consoles me. She imparts some mysterious wisdom and as my tears cease, she walks along the wall of the back room and around the side of the house. I follow her, admiring as I approached the rose bushes in full bloom that belonged first to my great grandfather, then to my grandmother. I turn the corner on the side of the house, and my grandmother is gone.
Monday, April 12, 2004
I dream I am at a racetrack. I am training my mare to be a pony horse. It is always night. At some point in this dream I realize that it is still night time and the lighting has not changed at all for what seems to be hours. I realize that I am dreaming. I think "Oh no what if knowing that I am dreaming makes me wake up? I dont want to wake up." And suddenly the realization that I am dreaming has taken flight.
Tuesday, April 06, 2004
Dream 06/April/04
I wake up, but am still half asleep. I cannot open my eyes all the way. I open my curtain and try to tie it open but the ribbon I usually use is too short to tie around the bunched fabric. I give up and drop the ribbon. I walk downstairs and Tim is on the porch with our friend Skye. I greet Skye with a hug, we chat for a minute, then I go back inside and up the stairs. There is a wacky smiley face about a foot and a half tall drawn on the wall next to the bathroom door. It is ridiculous, and I laugh. Our roommate comes bouncing over and, eyes wide and shifty, with a smile too wide, asks me if I like it. She says it signifies our agreement to discuss everything and come to an agreement. I say “uh huh, sure,” and she asks me if I want to help finish it. She pulls out a bag of buttons and a diagram, and glues a big blue button to the wall over one of the smiley face eyes. I say no thanks and walk into the bathroom.
Then, Timothy and I are driving down the highway. As we enter a tunnel, we hear organ music approaching from behind us. I look around through my still half closed eyes and see nothing. Suddenly a giant organ on wheels is passing us. There is a man sitting at the keyboard, playing with extravagant, exaggerated arm movements. I exclaim in astonishment. Another man is at the front and side of the organ, sitting in front of a steering wheel. He is, apparently, the driver. I hear no Doppler shift as they pass us. They are speeding down the road and we lose sight of them quickly.
Suddenly I am in a library. I can barely keep my eyes open, I just want to lay down and sleep. I think “I should get out of this building, go outside, and walk around – that will wake me up,” but for some reason I stay. There are various hat racks in random corners of aisles of books. They hold three or four hats each. The hats are each unique and one of a kind. I walk around trying on hats, but I cant see the hats or myself well enough in the mirror to decide which one to by because my eyes are still mostly closed. I walk up behind a young woman trying on a straw hat with hanging beads and take it off her head. I put it on and the hanging beads get caught in my long hair. The hat has beaded strands about an inch long all around the brim, interspersed with inch high red beaded hearts. “A valentine hat,” I think. I take it off and set it on a hat rack.
I wake up, but am still half asleep. I cannot open my eyes all the way. I open my curtain and try to tie it open but the ribbon I usually use is too short to tie around the bunched fabric. I give up and drop the ribbon. I walk downstairs and Tim is on the porch with our friend Skye. I greet Skye with a hug, we chat for a minute, then I go back inside and up the stairs. There is a wacky smiley face about a foot and a half tall drawn on the wall next to the bathroom door. It is ridiculous, and I laugh. Our roommate comes bouncing over and, eyes wide and shifty, with a smile too wide, asks me if I like it. She says it signifies our agreement to discuss everything and come to an agreement. I say “uh huh, sure,” and she asks me if I want to help finish it. She pulls out a bag of buttons and a diagram, and glues a big blue button to the wall over one of the smiley face eyes. I say no thanks and walk into the bathroom.
Then, Timothy and I are driving down the highway. As we enter a tunnel, we hear organ music approaching from behind us. I look around through my still half closed eyes and see nothing. Suddenly a giant organ on wheels is passing us. There is a man sitting at the keyboard, playing with extravagant, exaggerated arm movements. I exclaim in astonishment. Another man is at the front and side of the organ, sitting in front of a steering wheel. He is, apparently, the driver. I hear no Doppler shift as they pass us. They are speeding down the road and we lose sight of them quickly.
Suddenly I am in a library. I can barely keep my eyes open, I just want to lay down and sleep. I think “I should get out of this building, go outside, and walk around – that will wake me up,” but for some reason I stay. There are various hat racks in random corners of aisles of books. They hold three or four hats each. The hats are each unique and one of a kind. I walk around trying on hats, but I cant see the hats or myself well enough in the mirror to decide which one to by because my eyes are still mostly closed. I walk up behind a young woman trying on a straw hat with hanging beads and take it off her head. I put it on and the hanging beads get caught in my long hair. The hat has beaded strands about an inch long all around the brim, interspersed with inch high red beaded hearts. “A valentine hat,” I think. I take it off and set it on a hat rack.
Saturday, March 13, 2004
I am 12 years old. We just got home from a poker ride. We picked up my new horse this morning, a shining white Arabian mare. My hearts desire! We unload the horses from the trailer and I am stroking the rabbit soft fur of her neck. Big Russ is coming up the road in his truck, his dogs in the back. Our dogs run out to chase his truck, forgetting in their excitement the frequent training they received about staying out of the road. A car is heading down the hill in the opposite direction, dangerously speeding along the narrow gravel road. They pass at the intersection of our driveway. Rambeau doesn’t come back into the driveway. I run to the road and see him laying there. I scream for my mom and run to his side. She is up at the barn, and comes running at the panic in my voice. She dispatches me to call the vet and my dad arrives as I have them on the phone. He assesses the situation. Rambeau is in shock, and he cant move his back legs. Dad tells me to come say goodbye to Rambeau, and goes into their room to retrieve his gun. We hurry back to the road and I kiss Rambeau’s face. I caress his ears, and tell him I love him. I kiss him above his eyes, kiss his beloved muzzle. My mom walks me back to the horse trailer. I wrap my arms around my new mare’s neck. When the shot rings out I scream. I bury my face in her mane and sob uncontrollably. My best friend, childhood companion of 10 years, is gone.
18/02/04
I am at Eleanor’s apartment, which is at the top of a high rise in the ocean. It is all white and light, and utterly round with walls of windows and a white shag carpet. The living room is inhabited by a large white couch curved into a half circle, with a huge potted palm behind it. The coffee table is also a white half circle, and the living room and kitchen are divided by a white counter curved in the opposite direction, completing the circular effect. I am about to finally meet her boyfriend. He comes in and is quite unexpected – an overweight, tall Chinese man. We sit on the cloud couch, talking, hanging out, and munching red peppers dipped in goat cheese. A huge black and white pinto draft horse (Gypsy draft) walks through the living room and out onto the balcony. We follow him onto the balcony. Eleanor walks over to him and, stroking his face, tells us he is hers. The ocean is lapping at the edges of the wrap around circular balcony, soaking the bricks and making them slippery. The horse slips and slides as he walks around the curve of the balcony. I follow him. A Thoroughbred foal is up to her knees in the deeper water around the curve. Horrified, I realize that if she moves too fast she will slip and fall into the water. I start to walk toward her to take her inside but when a loud noise spooks her, she slips and falls under the water. She is floundering about, thrashing madly, trying to regain her footing. I begin to run for her, and my belt falls about my thighs, shortening my stride. She is now laying on her side. She stops thrashing and her head goes under. I shimmy out of the belt as I run. Her head lifts, then falls back under, the water swirling around her delicate nostrils. I reach her and lift her to her hooves, wrap my arms around her neck and press my cheek on her soft, thick, curly foal fur. I walk her carefully into Eleanor’s dry apartment.
5/2/04
I remember spending the night at my grandparents house. In the little room upstairs with the slanted roof I would sleep. Standing in front of the dresser with the round, wood framed mirror, I fingered the old pea green Lucite hairbrush, part of a set laid on the embroidered linen runner draped atop the dresser. I glimpse my ghostly reflection as I pick up the brush and glide the natural bristles over a lock of my hair, spreading the oils from my scalp to the tips of my hairs. When finished brushing my hair, I crawl under the knobby white bed cover, electric blanket, and crisp white sheet. I reach for the milky white glass lamp, covered in teardrop shaped bumps, and flip the switch off. Pulling the electric blanket up, I rest the silky soft edge of it against my lips and fall asleep.
16/2/04
Every night, when my boyfriend and I are safely tucked under our blankets, our kitty jumps up on the headboard, and leaning forward over our heads, ears pricked inquisitively, scopes out the bed. Her soft meow is a question as she jumps onto my pillow and tenderly steps toward the opening I create for her by lifting the blankets. I am laying on my side, my back warmed by my boyfriends stomach, his arm draped safely around my waist. Our kitty sidles over to my belly, circles, and plops down, sitting with her front paws kneading my arm or neck. The motor in her throat purrs full throttle as I put my free arm around her and pull her towards me, pressing her against my belly. She purrs so hard that she squeaks out contented little meows as she lays down, resting her tiny head in the nook of my arm. When I wake in the morning she has moved to either of our chests, using a turned cheek as a pillow.
I am at Eleanor’s apartment, which is at the top of a high rise in the ocean. It is all white and light, and utterly round with walls of windows and a white shag carpet. The living room is inhabited by a large white couch curved into a half circle, with a huge potted palm behind it. The coffee table is also a white half circle, and the living room and kitchen are divided by a white counter curved in the opposite direction, completing the circular effect. I am about to finally meet her boyfriend. He comes in and is quite unexpected – an overweight, tall Chinese man. We sit on the cloud couch, talking, hanging out, and munching red peppers dipped in goat cheese. A huge black and white pinto draft horse (Gypsy draft) walks through the living room and out onto the balcony. We follow him onto the balcony. Eleanor walks over to him and, stroking his face, tells us he is hers. The ocean is lapping at the edges of the wrap around circular balcony, soaking the bricks and making them slippery. The horse slips and slides as he walks around the curve of the balcony. I follow him. A Thoroughbred foal is up to her knees in the deeper water around the curve. Horrified, I realize that if she moves too fast she will slip and fall into the water. I start to walk toward her to take her inside but when a loud noise spooks her, she slips and falls under the water. She is floundering about, thrashing madly, trying to regain her footing. I begin to run for her, and my belt falls about my thighs, shortening my stride. She is now laying on her side. She stops thrashing and her head goes under. I shimmy out of the belt as I run. Her head lifts, then falls back under, the water swirling around her delicate nostrils. I reach her and lift her to her hooves, wrap my arms around her neck and press my cheek on her soft, thick, curly foal fur. I walk her carefully into Eleanor’s dry apartment.
5/2/04
I remember spending the night at my grandparents house. In the little room upstairs with the slanted roof I would sleep. Standing in front of the dresser with the round, wood framed mirror, I fingered the old pea green Lucite hairbrush, part of a set laid on the embroidered linen runner draped atop the dresser. I glimpse my ghostly reflection as I pick up the brush and glide the natural bristles over a lock of my hair, spreading the oils from my scalp to the tips of my hairs. When finished brushing my hair, I crawl under the knobby white bed cover, electric blanket, and crisp white sheet. I reach for the milky white glass lamp, covered in teardrop shaped bumps, and flip the switch off. Pulling the electric blanket up, I rest the silky soft edge of it against my lips and fall asleep.
16/2/04
Every night, when my boyfriend and I are safely tucked under our blankets, our kitty jumps up on the headboard, and leaning forward over our heads, ears pricked inquisitively, scopes out the bed. Her soft meow is a question as she jumps onto my pillow and tenderly steps toward the opening I create for her by lifting the blankets. I am laying on my side, my back warmed by my boyfriends stomach, his arm draped safely around my waist. Our kitty sidles over to my belly, circles, and plops down, sitting with her front paws kneading my arm or neck. The motor in her throat purrs full throttle as I put my free arm around her and pull her towards me, pressing her against my belly. She purrs so hard that she squeaks out contented little meows as she lays down, resting her tiny head in the nook of my arm. When I wake in the morning she has moved to either of our chests, using a turned cheek as a pillow.
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