The Snow

I had a strange dream.

I drove into the mountains at night.  It was winter (it’s almost always wintertime in my dreams), and the snow was deep and heavy.  The sky had a million stars.  At this altitude, they’re very white and clear, as if God punctured the black silk tarp of the sky with a pick-axe.

It’s weird how the snow can cause a field to be illuminated, even in the blackest hour of night.

In my dream, I took off all of my clothes, folded them, and left them beside my car.  Then I walked out into the small meadow, which was surrounded by pine trees.

I lay down on my side in the snow, curled up like a shrimp.  At this point in my dream, it was as if I was watching myself from the outside–I could see myself lying in the snow.  I thought it was a beautiful  image, and I looked like a child again, but it was macabre.

At first, the cold hurt very badly…as it does. It burns.  It was snowing and the wind was blowing, and I felt it blowing snow, gradually, over my body.  Before it covered my face, I looked up at the stars.

When I got cold enough, the pain stopped.  I knew the symptoms of hypothermia (and I’ve had frostbite from doing biathlon with inadequate clothing protection).  The temperature spikes and then plummets as the circulation leaves the extremities and goes to the internal organs and the brain.

I stopped shivering, and things became peaceful.  The snow was like a blanket.

I wish that I knew what this dream means.  I’m confused about my life right now, but I’m not depressed, and I feel stable and certainly don’t want to die.  I don’t have bad anxiety.

My Jungian therapist believed that death dreams symbolize a spiritual or life transition.  Like you have to die to be reborn.  He was an unprofessional batshit-crazy philistine, but he wasn’t completely without talent, so maybe he was on to something.  I’m an atheist and a skeptic and I don’t believe in supernatural bullshit, but I acknowledge that there is something in the human experience and our biology/psychology which compromises the “soul.”  It’s where all art comes from, and the awe of beauty.

Laying in the snow, underneath my fluffy protective snowy blanket that was killing me, I was hoping that the stag with burning antlers would visit me again…but he didn’t.

The Burning Stag

This is the dream that I had the other night:

I dreamed that I lived in a white house with a porch all around the outside, like porches used to be.

It was winter outside and snow was flying, as it so often is in my dreams (in my dreams, it is almost always cold and snowy).

I was playing with my parrot, Abe, and I saw a light from outside the window.  It looked like firelight, so I ran out to inspect.

There was a huge stag standing in front of the porch.  His breath turned to vapor in the frigid air, and he had enormous antlers.

His antlers were on fire.  The flame illuminated the night and the snow around him.

He was not burning up, not dying.  It was just that his antlers were on fire.  Like the Holy Ghost, the Spirit of God, whom I do not believe in, but whom I recognize as a religious trope. I know how fire is presented in the Bible.

I cautiously approached him (I have never killed a deer, but the men in my family have, and I know how to dress one).  I felt that he wanted to speak to me.

Then I woke up.

………………………….

P.S. These fucking dreams, fucking dreams I hate them, that is all

Snake in the Sink

I had a really weird dream Thursday night, when I was in my hotel room in San Francisco….

I dreamed that I was hurrying to get ready for a morning session.  I was dressed and almost prepared, but I walked into the bathroom…

…and found my snake there, curled up in the sink, which was full of water!

(Note: I don’t actually have a pet snake.  I call him “my” snake because I have dreamed about this creature a few times now, and he’s always the same.  He is a nice friendly green snake.  I like snakes, I think they are awesome!)

Anyway, he was in the sink, with his head sticking out of the water.  He did not seem to be distressed…but a snake like that does not belong in the water…?  Was he drowning…?  Was he just taking a bath…?

Next to him, on the bathroom counter, was my pet parrot Abe!

Abe and the snake were looking at each other, and I felt like they had been talking, and I’d interrupted their conversation….

Upon seeing the snake, I panicked a little bit.  I mean, I couldn’t have a snake in the sink when my client arrived!  He’d freak out my client!

“Snake!  What are you doing here?! You can’t be here, snake!” I protested.

I picked up the snake and was running around deciding what to do with him!  I looked underneath the bed, and thought about hiding him there, but then I thought that if he crawled out from under the bed in the middle of the session, it would look really bad.

I thought about hiding the snake in the safe with my money, but I couldn’t do that because he might die without air ventilation.

Eventually, I dumped him in a drawer in the closet, and closed the closet doors.

Then I heard the knock upon the door.  My client.

What do you think this dream means….?

The Fourth Owlet

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  I dreamed that I went to visit him in his home in the countryside.  While I was there, he asked me if I would like to see the owls in his barn.  They recently had owlets, and we could get right up close to them because the parents would be out hunting. 

    Naturally I was delighted at the prospect of seeing the owls, so I followed him to the barn.  The barn was identical to the ranchers’ barns found in the rural areas of my homeland: it was very tall, and had a loft space at the top.

     He told me that the owlets were nested there, in the loft space, which was accessible only by ladder.  We had to climb the ladder one at a time.  He went first and waited at the top, stabilizing the ladder with his hands.  I am afraid to climb ladders, but I scaled it.

      The loft was sunny, with a low peaked roof, and it had a little glassless window that looked out onto grassy fields.  The barn looked like it came from my homeland, but the view out the window did not look familiar at all.  It looked like this painting by van Gogh (I always make a point to see this whenever I visit the Met):

      The loft was surprisingly clean and tidy for a barn.  He said that the barn was where he kept his secret things.

      Then I saw the owlets!  There were three of them, hopping around the floor, as bold as you please.  They were so cute!  The owlets were not afraid of him at all.  They ran to him.

      We observed the owls and played with them for a while, and then it was time to go back to the house.  

        He went down the ladder first.  I watched him descend, clutching the ladder in my hands.

        When his shoes reached the floor, he pulled the ladder away and leaned it against the far corner of the barn!  I asked him what he was doing, and he explained, calmly, that it was his intention to keep me in the loft indefinitely.

      Then he walked out.

      I was panicking, but there was nothing I could do.  I could not get down without the ladder. The loft was at least two stories off the floor of the bare floor of the barn.  It was too high to risk a jump.  Like an owlet, I could not fly.

        I began to explore the loft, seeing it with fresh eyes.  It had obviously been prepared in advance.  There was a wrought-iron bedframe bolted to the floor, a mattress, and o-ring anchor points drilled into the beams on the ceiling. 

         There was a picnic basket with food and water.  

         (Eventually, there would be books and writing materials, but I had to earn those.)

           It was just the owlets and me.  In time, I became the fourth owlet.  

        He would come to visit me and fuck me almost every day, which was nice. 

         As he went around town on his business, his friends and neighbors would often ask about how he had passed the time that day.  Smiling, he would tell them that he spent the morning observing his barn owl.

      He smiled because it was a private joke.  Nobody had any idea that his barn owl was actually a girl. 

Wolves

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alexej:  Gustave Doré, The Wolves and the Flock of Sheep [Les Loups et les Brebis], 1867. From Doré’s Illustrations for the Fables of La Fontaine.

Gustave Dore, The Wolves and the Flock of Sheep (Les Loups et les Brebis) 1867.  From Dore’s Illustrations for the Fables of La Fontaine. 

     Wolves possess tremendous spiritual power.  They fascinate me.  I identify primarily with birds and herbivorous animals–deer. giraffes–but when I was a child, I would fantasize about being a wolf.  

     I would pore over photographs of wolves in National Geographic and envision the feel and smell of their fur, coarse and hard like armor, with a dense undercoat.  The softness of the ears and the terrible long mouth, full of fangs.  

     I would have nightmares of being raped by a wolf or a werewolf.  These were not sexy dreams.  They were awful. 

     I still have these nightmares today.

     Terror and fascination.  Terror and fascination. 

What Would You Do for $1200?

     As I write this, I feel like absolute shit…but I am $1200 richer than I was on Friday.  It’s all going to the landlord, but I made the rent, and I did it in a day.  This was a huge relief, because with the semester over and my teaching jobs suspended, I am supporting myself exclusively via professional sadomasochism, and in this industry, you never know what business will be like. 

       I still feel like shit.  

       I probably shouldn’t admit this, though I will to my AA sponsor later today: if there was hard alcohol in the kitchen at the Studio last night, I would have relapsed.  I actually went to look for it.  I felt like my mind was coming apart.  I was shaking all over.  

       I was in session, or preparing to go into session, for seven hours yesterday.  I was required to smoke cigarettes in two of them, which made me feel very ill.  I had my first client twenty minutes after I got out of bed.

        Let’s take this one at a time.

         I slept in the Studio overnight.  We have linens and cots in the back.  I’d had a session with a (coked out) client at 4 AM, and there was no reason to go home to sleep when I’d just have to wake up in six hours and come back to work.

          I hate sleeping in that place, however practical it is.  I don
t believe in ghosts, but that place is haunted.  

        Haunted by the Ghosts of Sessions Past.  

        I have awful nightmares when I’m there.  I sweat through the bedsheets.

        The manager woke me up to let me know that I had a session in twenty minutes…at 10:30 AM. 

        And the motherfucker showed up early.  He showed up in ten minutes. And he was in a hurry.  He had to catch a plane.

        I did not have time to put on whoreface.  I barely had time to brush my teeth before I put the six-inch pumps on my feet.  I put on lipstick and mascara.  The manager told me that I needed to brush my hair.  I put it into a bun. I did not have time to hairspray the strays.

        I took a glass of icewater from the fridge.  There was a half-empty bottle of cheap white wine on the same shelf.  

         I stared at it.

         Then I went into session.  To his credit, the client was nice.  

          I had to smoke cigarettes.  I had to catheterize him.  

          I do not like smoking.  Catheterization is a huge power trip, but I do not really like doing it, either, because it is so intimate and because I am not a health care professional and I feel that doing it is dangerous, however careful I am.  The Studio is not a sterile environment.  I feel that I am being irresponsible.  And I am smoking while I am catheterizing a man.  Jesus fucking Christ.  I just got out of bed after a night of terrible dreams.  I am trying to concentrate.  I am wearing a latex nurses’ uniform.  I am smoking.  I am in hell.

          The session was two hours long.  He was happy.  He tipped me $60.

            The next guy was waiting for me as I finished with the first one.

           It was the same room, too.  I was rushing to clean it.  I hate rushing the cleaning.  I was sweating.  I still had not eaten.

            That one’s a blur.  It was very physically demanding, though.  Singletail and all this equipment.  It was a fucking 3-ring circus.  I am a clumsy girl.  I can use a singletail proficiently but I do not like to do it in high heels when I am hypoglycemic. 

             I did something I almost never do: I ended the session ten minutes early. It wasn’t hard.  He was excited and I encouraged him.

             No tip.  Whatever, just go away.

             Get out of the latex outfit.  Ugh.  People who love latex LOVE it, but I’ve never cared for it.  Give me metal or leather any day.  

              I wanted to take a shower and wash my hair.  

             Nope.  No rest for the weary. 

             No rest for the wicked.

               He came back for me.  

               The Weirdest Session of 2013 came back for me.

               All that I can say is that he was not evil, like Chopin or the Attorney.  

             He was, however, crazy.  And he wanted to talk.  And talk.  Not talk with me (he kept trying to get personal information out of me, but I kept deflecting and lying, which was  stressful) necessarily.  But to talk at me.  

           Being in such close proximity to his craziness for three hours was very emotionally taxing. 

           I live-tweeted some of it.  Thank God for Sex Worker Twitter.

           Some of the things he said to me (I almost ended the session a few times.  I couldn’t deal):

          “You are an empty shell of a person.  I am a reflection of you.”

          “You will die alone and empty, like me.”

           “No one will ever love you.”

            “You smoke that cigarette like a penis.”

           He told me about his one and only girlfriend from 5th grade.  I had to wear the black ballet flats that came off of his dead mother’s feet.  He would talk about her and compulsively touch the shoes each time.  He talked to me about the nervous tick he developed when his mother “was widowed.”  He told me about collecting snow globes.  He told me about wanting to die.

          He wanted to extend the session for two more hours.

          “What’s your real name?  What’s your real name?  I masturbate constantly.  I am going to go home and masturbate in those shoes.”

           I couldn’t do it.  I felt like my mind was breaking apart.

           I handed that baton to another Lucky Lady.  

           I retreated to the office and started to tremble.  I was shaking all over.

           Then I went to the kitchen to look for booze.

           We were dry.

           I went to the locker room: “Does anyone have liquor?”

           “I have beer in my locker.  It’s warm, though.”

           “No thanks.”  I can’t drink beer.  I hate the taste.  Thank GOD.

            I got out of there and cashed out.  $1200 in a day, and I earned every fucking penny.  Every penny.

           I was so exhausted that I just collapsed into bed.  I didn’t wash my face, nothing.  I slept in my contact lenses.  

           But I made my rent.  In a day.
       

“I Lived in a War-Torn Country”

    Miss Margo Note:  Pouring over my dream journal today.  I had this dream in 2010, and I remember it vividly to this day.  The Kings were like Egyptian gods: human bodies with animal heads.

      You don’t have to be Sigmund Freud to figure out the symbolism, but my birds represent my heart.

     I lived in a war-torn country.  Enemies invaded the borders and marched inward with their armies.  People left their homes to become refugees on the roads, trying to walk to a safe place.  I was one of them.  I took my birds with me in a travel cage because I would not abandon them to die.  At night when it was time to sleep, you could see towns burning on the horizon where the enemies had arrived.  They were close and getting closer.  I tried to comfort my birds, who were very distressed. 

     The King of my country, who was a wolf, came for me at night.  He scooped me up and put me behind him on his horse.  I tried to shield my birdcage in my coat. He rode us hard, far ahead, into the desert where we were all alone.  The desert was familiar and the sky had a million stars!  Then he pulled me off the horse and raped me.  He was huge, the size of an automobile.  I couldn’t help it. 

     As soon as he was done, he looked over his shoulder and said, “They’re coming!  We have to get away!”  He put me on his back, which was covered by a royal scarlet cape, and started to run.  He was so fast that it was scary.  I held on for dear life. There was nothing to help us in the desert; nowhere to hide. 

I looked behind me and saw his enemies coming in the distance.  There was a Lion King, a Tiger King, and a Doberman Pincher King.  They had crowns and capes.  They had united against him, the Wolf king.  They were coming to take him. 

     Wolf King was sweating and running so fast that I was terrified.  But I saw the other Kings get closer and closer.  Eventually, they caught us, and Wolf King tripped and landed in the dirt and I went flying. 

     They took Wolf King as a prisoner and then came over to me.  I said that Wolf King had kidnapped me and that I was not with him voluntarily.  They did not believe me.  Before my eyes, they released the birds from my cage while I cried and begged them not to do it.  My birds flew away to a certain death.

Pulp Art: What is Going On Here?

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    What’s that old-school psychological test where they show you pictures of people engaged in various activities, and then you are required to make up a story explaining the motivations of the people in picture? The Thematic Apperception Test?

     I’m not a huge Tumblr fan, but boy, you can find all sorts of images there.  Look at some of this noir pulp art.  I like to try to figure out the story behind the pictures.

     Like this one: is this lady pawning a piece of her jewelry?  If so, why?  She looks well-off.  Did she steal it?


    
 And in the world is happening here?  Is “Lucky Johnny” here stealing money out of this woman’s high-heeled shoe?  Is he paying her for the shoe?  Does she look concerned to you?  She looks concerned to me!  

     
This chick is in trouble and doesn’t know it yet.  The man and the woman helping her with her coat/shrug are in cahoots.  They’re up to something.

     
He’s either delivering bad news or else he’s someone she was really hoping she would never see again:

     This one is my favorite!  I looked at it for five minutes, trying to figure out what was going on.  My initial impression was that it looked like a cop just checking out a young couple who were fooling around in the dark…I’ve had that happen to me a few times when I was younger.  However, they’re both fully clothed and there’s a fence in between them.  And what’s she holding in her hand?

      She doesn’t look surprised, whatever’s happening.  He doesn’t, either.

       Maybe the cop is her family member?  Like her dad?

       
        “A New Johnny Liddell Mystery.”  Riiiiight.  So the question is: is the dude the man who murdered that blonde on the sofa, or is he the hard-boiled private eye who came to investigate the crime scene afterward?  Is he the woman’s boyfriend who came to her place and found her like that?

      Men’s “detective” magazines.  So weird.  I probably would have been a fan, though. 

Even Hercules Needed Help

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    Update 10:15 PM

     Three AA meetings today and I am home, safe, for the night.  I got through the day, functioned well at my job, called three sober women to report that I was alive and not sucking down Bushmill’s and avoiding my Parrot (the last time I relapsed, I covered Parrot’s cage with a sheet so that she couldn’t see me drink.  Not quite sure who I thought I was trying to protect there, lol).

      Something pretty rad even happened when I walked home from work.  I was walking through a park that had a huge statue of Abraham Lincoln in it.  President Lincoln is my favorite president.  Perched on the statue’s shoulder was a hugeass beautiful hawk.  Lots of people had stopped to admire her.  She definitely looked like a much happier bird than the self-mutilated cockatoo I posted down below.  

      Adler, my surname, is the German word for eagle.  An eagle is not a hawk, but they are both raptors.  

      I would rather be that hawk chillin with Lincoln than the sad hurting cockatoo. 

      Finally, because someone asked, the picture at the bottom of the blog post is the great hero Herakles who retrieved the three-headed monster hound Kerberos from the land of the dead.  It seemed appropriate.

                *                         *                    *                        *

Dammit, you 8 readers!  Why aren’t you voting?  It is imperative that blame be assigned and a culprit publicly shamed.

       Yesterday was a truly crummy day.  I had nightmare that I was counterfeiting money to give to my landlord, which is crazy because I would never do that.  That is a federal fucking offense.  And even if I did do it–which I never would–I wouldn’t do it by downloading the image of a $100 bill off the internet, printing it out on my cheap stupid printer, and then cutting it out with the scalpel the Surgeon sent to me in my Valentine (I keep the scalpel by my desk.  Whenever I miss him, I refer to it).  

        Nevertheless, I woke up convinced–convinced!–that I had given my landlord $400 in counterfeit money, and he found out when he tried to deposit it at the bank.  Caught! Busted!

        Guess how much money I earned with the French Fry.  

         Tell me there’s not a connection.

         Feeling a little conflicted about how you make your living, Margo?   Subconsciously?

         My brother injured his back at work.  The doctor says he needs surgery.  He’s been on pain medication for months now.  I am terrified that he’ll get addicted.  If he takes it every day, addiction is inevitable. 

         He has 50% different genes than me.  I pray to a God I don’t believe in that my brother will be spared this affliction.  I know that he doesn’t drink.  He does use tobacco, though, which is a performance indicator.  

         He knows about the anorexia–he saw me at my lowest weight. He doesn’t know about the alcoholism.  I didn’t develop it until I moved away from home–they don’t know how bad it got, or that I’m still struggling with it now.

          Maybe I need to call my brother and have a serious talk with him about this.   A serious, Come To Jesus talk.   He does not want to be where I am now. 

         It will have to be me.  God knows my mother won’t do it–she doesn’t see what she doesn’t want to see.  I could show up for Thanksgiving weighing 80 lbs and drink a bottle of wine by myself at dinner and she wouldn’t say a word.  Denial is my mother’s chief coping mechanism.  It’s not exactly healthy, but at least it is much easier on the liver.   HA!  Watch–she’ll live to be 105 years old, and I’ll be dead by 35.  Self-destruct. 

This Cockatoo did this to herself.  I know why. 


        I’ll make the call this afternoon.  Too early now.   The time zone change.

         I’m going to take a shower and go to an AA meeting before work–regular tutoring job today.  Then I will call my brother.  I love him and I don’t want him to suffer.

         I need friends, and I need help.  I’m scared, for him and for myself.  This killed three of my four grandparents.  I don’t want to die. 

          Even Hercules needed help.  He asked for it and was not ashamed.

         Ask, and you shall receive. 

Cerberus carried off by Heracles | Greek vase, Caeretan black figure hydria