Elan Morgan is a writer and web designer who works from Elan.Works, a designer and editor at GenderAvenger, and a speaker who has spoken across North America. They believe in and work to grow both personal and professional quality, genuine community, and meaningful content online.

Nightmares, An Apology To Me, And An Apology To Luvabeans

I just woke up from a new round of hideous dreams. This is getting tiresome. This time around, I was visiting/trapped in/vacationing at/travelling by a house that was a rented cabin/abandoned/a friend’s home/my home on top of a hill by the river that runs through Cosmopolis, only when I looked out across the river, it was a sea of trees and scrub brush. There was a metal bridge just down the river and a single house across it. The house was one of those features of a dream that doesn’t exist in waking life but reliably enters your dream life, always catching you off guard and making you think yeah, I remember that house, it was always my favourite. In my dream world, I always think about how I want to live in that house. There is something very modern 1920s with a Frank Lloyd Wright flair about it. At no point in the dream was I ever arriving at or just entering the rented cabin/abandoned house/friend’s home/my home. While I was outside the house, I believed I was visiting Starcat. He would be tending a small fire off in the dark, and we would look across the river at that beautiful home and say remember when. . . While I was inside it, the scenario kept switching between me being younger and travelling with my parents, to me being who I am now and travelling alone, to me owning the house, or to me investigating an abandoned building. Regardless of the scenario that I was believing had led me to the house, the situation inside was the same and worsening whenever I found myself back inside. There were many different kinds of animals in the house – rabbits, dogs, rats, cats, short pony-like things, weasels – and they were all wild. Instead of getting the hell out of there, which would be my waking decision, I got down on the floor and decided that I had to contend with them. I got down on my hands and knees and stuck a rubber rat on the end of my index finger. One by one, I would coax the animals into grabbing hold of the rubber rat with their teeth. Most of them were fairly docile creatures and gave up pretty quickly, but I had not yet come to the rats. There was a pair of them, both albinos, standing on their hind legs up against the sofa and leaning out toward me, hissing and opening their tiny jaws. It was like they were rabid. I kept knocking them away with my forearm while I contended with other animals, but these guys wanted a piece of me, so after fending off a fluffy rabbit, I poked the rubber rat on my finger at the first of the pair. He latched on ferociously. Where the other animals had half-heartedly bit down on the end of the rubber rat, this one attacked further up where he could gain purchase on my finger through the rubber. The pain was excruciating. When I would pry one off, the other would leap in and take over. All the while, they stared and stared and stared at me with their little glass beads of fuschia eyes. When I broke out of it and woke up into my rat-free bedroom, safe with the Fiery One by my side, I had to check my fingers over to assure myself that I had not retained any battle wounds.

On Thursday night, the Fiery One and I went to a Pixies concert (which was intense and awesome and unbelievable and all that, but that’s not the point of this story). The opening band, Despistado, had just finished playing, and I was taking the Fiery One up close to the front near the stage so that we would be able to see what was going on over all the freaking giants that were attending the show (I’m serious. I’m about 5"7", and everyone was towering over me, so we managed to see flashes of Frank Black’s bald head and Kim Deal’s hippy hair, but again, this is not the point). We hadn’t yet burrowed ourselves firmly into the crowd when some guy tapped me on the shoulder. “Can I talk to you for a minute?” he asked me. “What?” I gawped. Gawping is always embarrassing. I had no idea who he was. “Please, I really need to talk to you. Will you come with me?” And like a stupid fifteen-year-old, I followed some man I did not know to a more isolated region of the auditorium because he asked me to. You hear stories of horrible things that happen to women, and you always wonder what possessed them to get into those situations in the first place, and then there I was following a stranger who was leading me away from the crowd. “I really have to apologize to you,” he sounded like an album with the treble turned way up, he was so nervous. “What for?” “I was really rude to you a few months ago, like really rude, unconscionably rude.” I searched my brain high and low to try to figure out what he was talking about. People are generally pretty nice to me or leave me alone, so what was he talking about? “I already apologized to Skatchina and Gretchen, but I looked for you and couldn’t find you. I really tried. I did, but I didn’t know where you were.” Holy shit, this guy was really worked up about something, something I should likely remember. I was playing along, nodding, saying “yeah, I kind of remember something like what you’re talking about”, when I had one of those forehead-slapping moments. He was Mr. Bad Hands! (That entry comes off as more angry and less funny, but honestly, the whole incident was really funny to me in an I-can’t-believe-this-is-happening kind of way). Mr. Bad hands himself was apologizing to me! He was so nervous and so nice and so in need of my acceptance of his apology that I just about hugged his worried little head to my chest and stroked his hair and whispered it’s okay, baby, let it go. Months after the incident, he still felt bad enough and had enough courage to try to make it right. And you know what? I now think he is one of the nicest men I’ve met in this city. I guess that sometimes, against common sense, following strange men into isolated areas is a good idea.

Back to a bit of dream business, I have to apologize to Luva. A couple of nights ago, I dreamt that she came to town for a visit. Cityville looked more like my dream world Milwaukee, and the Fiery One and I were showing Luva and a group of other travellers around all the historical political sites. Nothing was presently of any interest in dream Cityville, and so we tried our best with the history tour, but it was boring as hell, so we all ended up hanging around our apartment, which was miraculously big enough to hold more than two people. This dream was fairly short and uneventful, so why do I have to apologize to Luva? In my dream, I gave her bad hair. I gave her Carol King hair circa 1974, only it was chopped off at the shoulders and bushier. And I made her mean, too. She made a comment to me that cut deep, although I can’t remember what it was. So, I’m sorry for the Carol King hair circa 1974 and for making you mean, Luva. I think I must be a little nervous to meet you.

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