Bob Dylan's 115th Dream

Subtitle: The Right Way to Sleep With A Moose

A few nights ago, I had a frantic fight with my sister. It went something like this:

Renata: Eww, what are you wearing?
Me: At least I'm wearing something. Look at you...
Renata: Whore.
Me: Man-whore.
Renata: Dammit, you're so pretty. I hate you.
Me: I love you.
Renata: I love you too... slut.

I throw a chicken bone at her.

Renata: Pick that up, the grease will stain the rug.

I throw another one.
She throws one back.
After about half an hour of severe laughter, we've finished off the chicken. My mom walks in.

Mom: V, is that a chicken bone? (Notice that Renata never gets blamed for this stuff.)
Me: Maybe...
Mom: Well, pick it up. The grease will stain the rug.

That night as I get in bed, Renata notices that the stuffed moose that usually occupies the foot of my bed has fallen to the floor. (The fabulous Elena, who as of yet has no blog alias, gave me this very same moose when she returned from Canada last year. It is very soft.) Renata got very annoyed about this, and threw out the best quote of the week, if not month:

"Come here, Veronica. I'll teach you the right way to sleep with a moose."

I snuggle into her bed and we talk about everyone we know and play "off the roof." (I know, I know; very third-grade. I feel very third-grade right now. As you may have noticed, from the quality of my writing.) Ah, sisterhood.

I finally return to my bed and stare at the Bob Dylan poster on my closet door. I continue to do so for the next two hours while I philosophise about life. Eventually I get so sleepy that I start speaking, actually asking questions like "What's it all about, Bob?" and instantly wincing at myself in a very sleepy way.

Not surprisingly, I dreamed that I met Bob Dylan. Again. I swear I've dreamt that I've met him about fifty times by now. In this dream, I relived an encounter that Elena (who as of yet has no blog alias) told me about, in which her friends' mother met Paul McCartney at an airport and sobbed "Oh, God, I love you," to which he replied, "I love you too, babe," and kissed her on the cheek. It was very pleasant, and I woke up at three in the morning with an ache in my chest.

I went back to sleep and had what could be described as a nightmare. I wasn't afraid in the dream, actually; in fact, I wasn't afraid afterwards, either, but when I described it to Bogo-San and another friend of mine, they described it as a nightmare. It was quite beautiful, actually. I won't describe it here because it was simply too beautiful and I am feeling simply too mundane right now to ruin such a wonderous and strange and surrealistically beautiful thing.

When I woke up again, I went straight to the shower, as usual, and looked in the mirror at my slightly bulging naked body. I still had the memory of the dark sad beautiful dream with me, and I looked squint-eyed into the mirror and felt truly beautiful. I felt like a dark-eyed gypsy. It was beautiful. I didn't think I was particularly beautiful, or perfect, or better than anyone else, or better-looking than anyone else; I just felt beautiful because of the beautiful strange feeling I was left with after the dream. I felt like a Roman statue, shining and white, cracked and imperfect and misproportioned but beautiful still in some elusive way, like a moonmoth with a crumpled wing or a hedge-sparrow hopping on one foot.

I thought about all the beautiful people I know, and my sister, and Joan Baez, and felt lucky and happy and wondered what it is that makes people beautiful. In the past, I had come to three general conclusions: that people are beautiful because they are filled with love, that people are beautiful because they are true to themselves and are the fountainheads and mirrors of their own self-esteem and self image, and that people are beautiful because they are capable of appreciating beauty. I am sometimes filled with love, rarely the fountainhead of my own self-confidence/self-image, and very often indulge myself in the appreciation of beauty; but at that moment, I felt like the embodiment of all three.

(Footnote: I have had this feeling twice before, in a stronger form. The first time was when I was ten and discovered Oscar Wilde and that I could write in the same week. The second time was on the morning of my fifteenth birthday, although I didn't know it was by birthday until over dinner my uncle remembered and dumped the rice all on his plate so that he could use the pot and serving spoon to accompany himself to "Las Mananitas," the Mexican birthday song which is about an hour long.)

Did I mention that it was beautiful?

Afterwards, however, I floated through the day as if from a distance, feeling unreal and causing Bogo-San to get worried and ask me if I was sick. I told him I wasn't, and that I'd just felt detached all day, and he looked even more concerned. (I won't pretend I didn't like being soothed, comforted and held, though. It was truly lovely.) I improvised terribly during Playwriting (it's no wonder: I had to act the parts of a sports-obsessed football-game watcher and a male waiter who hates french people), danced to Santana with my sister, talked to Jack 2 (who is very very sick), and got yelled at by my parents for blogging late. All the while feeling detached. It was lovely.