When I woke this morning, I remembered everything—the whole dream. I should have transcribed it then, because now I remember only fleeting scenes. I remember the woman’s friend, Max Sabrrir, finding me after we got separated while he was inquiring about my lost overcoat. I remember her exiting a magnificent building where her friend lived, when she told me not to worry about the coat; “we will find it.” She led me through a building that had once been the setting for Homicide: Life on the Street. When we left that place, we went out into a dense, frenzied cityscape, where she stopped to buy enormous avocados from a street vendor. I remember another woman, a massage therapist, with whom I had an appointment. I arrived at her place of business, a former mattress store inside a mall, on time. But she came in late. Then, as she asked me to get onto an odd table outfitted with pulleys and weights, several members of her family came into the store and made quite a fuss. They knelt at a large table, like a big rectangular dining table, and prayed aloud in a language I did not understand. I think it was Arabic. Max Sabrrir (odd that I saw his name on the side of a building, which is why I remember it and its strange spelling) had been prepared to spend thousands of dollars on some sort of reception in his effort to find my lost coat; it was worth no more than $300. I was embarrassed by how seriously Max and the woman took the loss of my coat. I remembered it all when I awoke. But now, even the parts I remembered—when I wrote about them moments ago—are disappearing into a mist; grey vapors enshroud the scenes as if they are taking place in a room filled with operating theatrical fog machines.
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Last night was my first using a bilevel positive airway pressure (BPAP) machine. The device, similar to a CPAP machine, pumps air into the lungs through the mouth (by way of a mask connected to an electrical device). The mask, attached to the machine with a hose, is worn during the night to facilitate breathing and to reduce sleep apnea and/or episodes of arrested breathing. The reason I am experiencing this oddity is that mi novia asked me, months ago, to participate in a sleep study to explore the reasons for the odd noises I make while sleeping (or trying to sleep). The study determined that my breathing stopped for brief periods about seventeen times per night, enough to warrant prescribing a machine to improve my breathing during sleep. For a variety of reasons, the device was not available until this week. I went in yesterday morning to get it and to sign my name multiple times to documents attesting to my promise to deliver my soul and many thousands of dollars if I fail to use the device at least 70% of the time I sleep for the next thousand years. Or something like that. Thanks to the mask, I woke this morning with two permanent marks on my face, marks I believe are signs announcing to the world that I am now possessed by a demon who controls my breathing. Eventually, if I survive a certain number of months, I will no longer be under a financial obligation should I stop wearing the mask. Based on last night’s experience, I cannot wait until that certain number of months have passed. There is some suggestion that I could get out from under the obligation earlier if I were to lose a considerable amount of weight, whereupon a doctor might say I no longer need the instrument of torture to accompany me to bed. I may adopt a water and radish diet to test that suggestion.
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I used primer to cover the dark walls of the room in our new house that will become our guest room/TV room. I hope to finish priming those walls, as well as the walls in the master bath, today. And I hope to take care of many other tasks associated with finishing the preparation of the house for move-in. And I hope to finish some work in the current house, too; some cosmetic stuff that will make it “show” even better than it does without the special attention. Soon, I hope, the Realtor will announce that she is ready to list it. I fantasize that she will say, even before then, that she has a cash buyer ready to buy before it is listed on MLS. I have to restrain my fantasies, though. They could get me in trouble, if I let them convince me it’s all peaches and cream and everlasting wealth.
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Even though I am very happy with mi novia, I find myself missing my late wife enormously. This morning, I read several blog posts I wrote about her just before and after her death. They brought back memories, both so painful and so beautiful, I could not control my sobs and my tears. The universe is immensely unfair and uncaring in shattering bonds so strong they could last more than forty years. And it is even more heartless and unsympathetic in allowing such memories to erupt with such power and with such frequency.
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Life changes a little every day. It is crazy to let fleeting moments pass without taking advantage of them. We should stop, often, and observe the beauty of the world around us. Steal the kiss. Smell the flower. Drink in the nectar or the pure water or the distilled spirits. Eat the most flavorful food, regardless of how fattening or how laden with cholesterol it is. In every case, do not go overboard; be brave and take risks—just be prudent and cognizant of their eventual consequences. Worship the ground upon which we walk; this Earth is covered with the only ground we will ever know. I feel especially grateful this morning, yet I have an unquenchable longing to experience everything outside of what I have experienced thus far. I wonder why that is?
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Time to rein in the fantasies and the dreams of riding on the backs of dragons. It’s time for breakfast.
