This morning provided yet another increasingly difficult hurdle of motivation to get dressed and drive to the office. I emerged from slumber having just spent several moments with Lisa Gerrard and (___). In that dystopian near-future, where I lived in the Appalachian area of either Kentucky or West Virginia; my residence was only loosely what I'd describe as a house. I lived at the base of a small cliff, not directly beneath it, but adjacent, across a small 2-lane road. Trump was still president, and I use "still" in a way suggesting that the idea that there would be anyone other than Trump after these many years was not something anyone thought about anymore, it was just what life was now. So much so, that as Trump spoke to a disenchanted group of 30 or so people on this cliff above me, I could hurl dirt clumps and small rocks in his direction, and no one could be bothered to be concerned. My job seemed to consist of some kind of rock/dirt manipulation to what extent I couldn't say, I didn't care for it, but somehow, the survival it provided left me in better shape than the people up on the cliff. Outside the road-facing side of my home, I plunged a spade into the earth to free grapefruit-sized rocks and clear a large enough area to grow vegetables. Under midday sun, it was uncomfortably hot, but I had little else to do... there was no longer an internet, or television, or even radio... which perhaps makes the following events rather ironic. Walking down from the road that lead to town, I was approach by a woman wearing a Sinead O Connor t-shirt (Lion and the Cobra UK Cover) and a long, white, cotton skirt. She was with a man wearing a plaid sweatshirt with suspenders and unusually fancy pants for the conditions. I recognized them immediately as Lisa Gerrard and (___). I should note, I don't recall if I knew his name in my dream, but more on this in a bit. He asked if I had any water, and I invited them both in, and gave them bottles of ice cold water, which he finished instantly, then asked for another. Lisa only sipped at her water. I offered them food, but they declined. My obvious first question was, "How in the hell are you here?!" Lisa shared that they were on tour on the West Coast when all abroad travel was shutdown, and they have been surviving by traveling however they can to play for whomever is able to see them. Gypsies, or traveling barkers were the only images my brain was able to muster. They had nothing with them, so I imagined, somewhere, a vehicle existed. He asked if they could rest a bit, and I graciously offered them my couches... to which he promptly obliged. Lisa seemed to prefer interaction, and we talked for a good while. She was comfortable, motherly, concerned about my narrative, and her energy was peaceful, and it was a feeling I'd believed no one carried any longer. Lisa opened cabinets and the fridge without hesitation, and she fed herself berries, raisins, and brewed tea, and we talked about music while she did my dishes. She seemed, happy(?) to have these normal tasks to do in an abnormal existence... I started to believe that I could maybe entice them to stay. But as the sky turned crimson, He awoke, and they departed, and I awoke.
It was a Dead Can Dance-like score in something I had watched earlier in the day that invited them to this miserable place, and the inescapable nightmare reality that crafted the rest; but I shared all of this to understand how I got to right now. Throughout my mental checklist of ideas for getting out of driving to work, I was unable to recall His name. "What a weird dream with Lisa and ..." - "why don't I know his name? I've always known his name, and I can't recall a time when I didn't know his name." I've spent the past 3 hours trying to pluck his name from my brain... it's not there. I can hear his voice, see his face, I can see the script in which his name is written on album covers, I can remember the names of every other male that Lisa Gerrard released an album with - but I cannot find the letters of his name; it's gone. As of now, I am refusing to look it up, because I need my brain to produce this information.
Why does it matter?
I suppose the short answer is fear. As a young adult in my twenties, I began to realize that much of my childhood was a blank to me. My only memories were one's that needed a photograph to precipitate recollection. I've never really been sure if this was trauma-induced blocking of memories, or if it was indicative of something medical. There's no known history of dementia in my family, but I also opted to a more chemical path in life, and that has always been the beast watching me from the forest that I am aware of, but never knowing when it will reveal it's form. Did my bad batch of heroin punch a fucking hole in my brain... poor whatshisname just severed from my synapses and floats in my cerebellum slowly decaying into non-existence. I will spend the rest of this day trying to put his name together, but it feels hopeless, and it's honestly, a bit anxiety-inducing. Because of this dream, I am cognizant of lost knowledge, and I think that's unusual - how often do you recognize what you have forgotten? Did the dream serve as some kind of surrogate narrative to that information leaving my consciousness? It truly feels bizarre, guess I should buy a shovel.
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