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February 2014

Last night I meditated and went to sleep with a sphere of rose quartz in my hands, but nothing helped…

The man stands at our front door, silhouetted by the brightness of the surrounding snow. I peek around the corner, sensing danger, and hoping that the lock stays. I see the door knob begin to turn. Someone has left it unlocked. I scramble to the door and hold it tightly against the man, trying to turn the lock. Usually I fail at such attempts. In most of my dreams the simple act of turning a lock turns into an elaborate and complicated process that involves far too much coordination and time to ever accomplish with ease, but for this one moment it works. He grows more frustrated, and begins shaking with rage. It is then that I see the knife in his hand, not shiny or gleaming, but dark and cloaked by his sleeve. A sharpness concealed in the folds of fabric. He pounds on the glass pane of the outer door.

Black blood smears on the glass, black instead of red because my dreams rarely come in color, yet the inner-door remains inviolate, and I realize the blood is not mine. That is but small comfort when the man’s bloody hands continue to try to pry their way in. I call out to Andy to help, but no sound comes out. I can’t decide if I should continue holding the door shut in case he manages to work the lock, or to run to the back door and escape through the back-yard. I don’t need to debate for very long: the man lunges and breaks through everything.

It is not the attacker, it is Andy who has entered the room, which is now my bedroom, and I finally wake up with the shout I’d been trying to muster for what seems like an entire night.

“You need to get on medication,” Andy says sternly. There is no love in his voice. “I just woke you from one dream and you went into another.”

A husband who is fed up – another lonely day about to begin – and a powerlessness that is crippling.

I don’t remember the first dream…

It started in the night, as they said it would. Never one to predict or assume anything regarding Mother Nature, I believe it when I see it. This morning, I believed. A thick blanket of snow covered the world, and more was falling silently from the sky. In the front yard, a tall hedge of ‘Steeplechase’ Thuja stood, cradling big fluffy pockets of snow and a multitude of chirping birds. It was a wall of life – the dark green scales of the evergreen still pulsing with suspended cells, backed by the songs of tiny winged creatures. A gorgeous living panoply, buffering our home from the street.

A noisy plow, with its swirling yellow lights, barrels down the road, spraying snow and piling it high on the edge of the driveway. I will ask if Andy needs help with it as the snow-blower can only do so much. Such is winter in the Northeast – and if I were someplace where it was sunny and warm every day, I would miss it. (But I’m not.)

Seeing as how I had nothing to do with the Super Bowl this year, last night proved peacefully quiet. Far more exciting were the events of the last week, in which our kitchen was finally completed. There are Before and After shots, along with a series of how we got from there to here (Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, and Part 4). But there were other trifles and odds and ends that made up the last week of January, so let’s get to a brief encapsulation.

First up was the preparation for the hottest social event of the winter season – The Gay Soiree. It’s this Saturday, so be sure to order your tickets and plan your outfit, as I’d love to see you there.

What a guy wants… or used to want.

Troublingly, it was a week of nightmares, one of which I tell about here, and another here, and there were a couple that won’t be written about until I’ve processed them.

Madonna made a splash at the Grammy Awards, and I happened to love every brief minute of it.

The Hunks of the Day were male-model-heavy, with the likes of TR Pescod and Francisco Lachowski, in addition to the might-as-well-be-models like Imran Khan and Blake Skjellerup (as a preview of Olympic sexiness to come).