c. 2024 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(6-24)
On a recent evening, I stumbled toward my bedroom after many rounds of Yuengling Lager, consumed on the front porch. This ritual was one very familiar in the Ice household, not only to myself, but also neighbors who live along our rural street. In communities of mobile homes, everything tends to be compressed in scope. Distilled to its essences, in every way. So, the thought of maintaining privacy is an illusion, at best. Yards are narrow. Trailer walls are decidedly thin. One must adopt a measure of respectful ignorance, when choosing to exist among rows of boxcar residences. In personal terms, having a persistent thirst for alcoholic beverages makes adopting this disposition much easier. I stay out-of-touch and anonymous, whenever possible.
Like the Pink Floyd track, ‘Comfortably Numb.’
Eventually, however, my endurance is taxed by this minimalist lifestyle. So as the hour grows late, and the number of rusted-out pickup trucks begins to dwindle along my rustic boulevard, I seek the comfort of my bed. Living alone, post-divorce, makes the trek to this safe space an easy one to accomplish. No one is in my way. No has an opinion to offer about whether I should be spending time on chores or the cares of retired living. My pace is slow, but deliberate.
I do what I want. Anything else is out of the question.
After surrendering to the realm of REM sleep and psychic obliteration, however, I do not have that kind of control over my unconscious wandering. While suspended in this netherworld of imaginary adventures, I sometimes fall prey to images and situations that are troubling and provocative. Every human being experiences such bouts of temporary insanity. Yet for a professional writer, they may take on a half-life, like radioactive matter. Sometimes, a particular flight of fancy seeps into the waking world, with lasting effects. The results can be confusing. Or on happier occasions, inspirational.
One such yield of a restless night and its aftermath had me puzzled about the direction a particularly graphic episode had taken. I wallowed in a vision of meeting someone who was an associate in yonder days. A woman slightly younger, by about three years. With a figure that belied her chronological age. She confessed to being headstrong and independent. Yet her build attracted many suitors. She had shimmering, white hair, and a devious smile. Her moods could be unpredictable. And her taste for brewed gold matched my own. We were never really friends, in literal terms. Yet because she was close to an acquaintance with whom I maintained regular contact, we were never far apart.
I did not find her attractive. But her toned, trim physique could not be ignored without at least a nod of complimentary acknowledgement. Her hands were uncommonly smooth and soft, because she never did anything besides tapping register keys, or handling fruits and vegetables, for gainful employment. She could affect the innocent glow of a waif easily, when needed. Though anyone who had been in her orbit for very long knew better. She expected obedience from those who intruded upon her environment. Or a speedy exit, when commanded.
Drunk and exhausted on that Monday night, I slammed into my pillow forcefully. No concept of time remained, though it was late enough that rope lights on my porch had begun to burn, thanks to an electric eye, stationed outside. Nothing unusual had happened before I crashed. A few friends waved as I teetered on the bench, but nothing else interrupted my blissful interlude of self-care.
Then, I dreamed of a rendezvous that was unexpected, and shocking.
This woman who had occasionally been something of an adversary, came to me in the guise of a lover. Seeking comfort and considerate cohabitation. Even while asleep, I thought her desire was wildly indefensible. But she persisted. And my manhood responded, more out of neglect than genuine need. We spent the night in her musty, trashy, outpost by Lake Erie. She purred and laughed, and soothed me with compliments. I had started to hate myself even before this ungodly interaction ended.
Then, daybreak streamed over the top of a blanket hanging across my front window.
For a typical resident of the park, such a dream might have caused brief emotions of guilt or disgust, and little more. Yet as a creative wordsmith, a note of discontent had been struck in my brain. One that could only be resolved by working out what I was feeling, in linguistic form.
What follows here is my confession.
“Ashamed”
I had a dream about a girl
I haven’t seen in a dozen years
Living in a dirty, dump of a flophouse
Peeling wallpaper and souvenirs
She had her white hair brushed out
And lingerie framing her curves
Even during that imaginary tryst
I couldn’t believe what I heard
Should be ashamed of myself
She spoke of being lonely and lost
And wondered if I would be her friend
It was a roll of the dice
I didn’t choose now or then
She pulled me on top of her with a tug
We fell across the sheets, gasping for breath
I fought with courage against her lust
But couldn’t cash the check
Should be ashamed of myself
I won’t lie about the moment
It was more satisfying than a solo flight
Stretched out on her bed
With dust rising in the twilight
The venue was old and worn
A place I never wanted to see again
Yet she took my hand like a tour guide
Said, ‘Let’s do this again!’
Should be ashamed of myself
Now after that vision passed
I woke with a feeling of needing cleansed
My brain was busted from that experience
Dangling on a downward trend
It occurred to me, matter-of-fact
That she might have reached out over time
Like a sweet, succubus suitor
Reaching stealthily into my mind
Should be ashamed of myself
Even a week later, that stale stench
Of her mystic mansion was intact
I tried to drink away the dream
Yet what I saw remained on track
Did she know of her success?
That possibility turned me frosty
Somehow, I could sense in the shadows
That she was waiting to accost me
Should be ashamed of myself
Even behind that veil of slumbering space
I should have been a better man
Instead of riding the merry-go-round
Might have traded sugar for desert sand
But in that moment, I was weak
As are many who dwell in the flesh
I meekly met that tasty temptation
And swam into my captor’s net
Should be ashamed of myself
It might take 100 years or more
To wash away the stain of sin
But my greater fear by far
Is that she’ll invade my dreams again
Once more her gentle digits
Will touch and squeeze and gently caress
And I’ll be owned like a farm hand
A servant waiting to be blessed
Should be ashamed of myself
I shake my head and deny the deed
Committed only in a plot twist
Rolling through the bedcovers, strong and sure
Grappling with a ghost’s kiss
I’m not even sure she’s still alive
Though her soul must inhabit the day
Lingering until the sunset
When I become her unconscious slave
Should be ashamed of myself
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