Dream about Larkin – 24 August
I am sweetly blessed by last night’s dream/vision of Larkin. I had managed to doze off with the help of Royal Gate, around 1:25 AM. Slept like a log, if you understand how light sleepers like me (living over one of the noisiest street corridors in the city) usually have a most difficult time of it. And for those who think sleep deprivation is a stupid joke upon the low-income (or at best a plot line for the latest heterocentered sitcom)…please know that a prolonged period of wakefulness causes disruption of sane faculties, and distancing of family, friends and all other loved ones. Or IOW:
This is no laughing matter, you evil dickwads!
Yet as a gay-focused shaman, clinical insomnia inspires visions that can only be acquired by such psychic starvation. Thus gave me this awesome, sweet dream last night:
I step into an obviously gay bar, though it’s barely more than a converted two-door L-shaped garage that is nicely carpeted, and decked out in astounding bric-a-bracs, paintings and other sorts of art (such as miniature Athenian statues, Spartan relics and Corinthian columns).
Comprising the foot of this “L” is a back room that allows four drinking customers on the long side, and two more on the short. Larkin is seated against the wall on the far end of the counter, with one vacant perch to his immediate left. Someone’s leather jacket is slung over the chair in disarray, yet I sense that I can freely claim the seat as my own.
Seeing as he does not gesture that it’s a bad moment to be seen with him, I occupy that vacant spot with tremendous pride. He neither hugs nor greets me (as I so strongly desire), yet his eyes sparkle with a welcoming joy beyond measure. I glance back at him in gratitude, awash with his subtle compassion. His fiery golden irises sparkle with joy at the mere presence of Yours Truly, and I almost dissolve in ecstasy. (No question he is not about to humiliate and drive me out by wicked slander…as were his previous interactions since early 2013.)
[ Among the myriad important lessons Larkin has taught me, Oh Drymarchon Reader, is this: to enjoy the company of one so beloved, it is not necessary to utter a single word. In fact, verbal exchange tends to water down the miracle of such bonding. ]
When the bartender (a handsome, spiky gray-haired fellow of approx’ly 62 years old but nonetheless “cute”) arrived, he began flinging little receipts like fortune-cookie strips though with more cardboard-like resilience, to each of his customers including myself. I wondered what-the-fuk is going on, so pick up one, then two, receipts:
“Next drink, $3 off!” (and the other) “Next drink, $2 off!”
So I order a vodka-tonic from the barkeep, after handing him a “$3 off” ticket. At the same moment I’m grasping for my wallet, only to discover that it’s not there, so I probably left it at hovel. I sigh and apologize to the mixology PhD:
“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry. But it looks like I forgot to take my wallet when I stepped out. So please cancel that order.”
He does, and as I depart for The Stygian Outlands, I pause just before the exit, and prod my pants once more…only to discover my billfold in an extended pocket towards the rump side of my khakis. Realizing that I could now enjoy one or two tonics alongside Larkin’s angelic presence, I turn about to regain my seat.
Yet the greater bar landscape just short of the entrance, is now obstructed by a curved, metallic fence like a tractor grill: no space to get around it, but for a narrow wedge clogged up by lingering patrons. Though strenuous, I manage to force my way back to the bar (after more than 5 minutes’ struggle)…wondering if it really is later than I thought, and last-call already happened. Finally return to my chair, with a stranger’s jacket still hung loosely over the backrest…though Larkin is nowhere to be seen. I’m more than elated, however, to occupy a space where he had only recently sat beside, and graced me with sweet attention.
The same bartender who flung out the bargain slips is no longer there, replaced by a shorter dude who turns out to be a butch dyke of slim stature and close-cropped hair. So I lean across the bar to make my appeal:
“Look, the barkeep before you was offering 2-and-3 dollar reductions on well drinks, and I was about to order only to discover I left my wallet at home…or so I thought. But before stepping out, I found the wallet in another pocket. So here I am a few minutes later, wondering if you can provide the same bargains. But if you can’t, no problem, I’m glad to purchase a coupla drinks at full price.
The friendly (and handsome) dyke kindly shrugs her shoulders to declare: “I can do that, no problem!”
That is when I woke up late at night (around 3:15 AM) beneath the glaring street lamps that infuse my windows. Two faux wax candles (one placed on the topmost shelf of Desk #2, the other on a colorfully decorated hexagonal cabinet just three feet tall and to my immediate left) flickered with a honey-yellow light powered by two double-A batteries in each base. And I thanked Our Creator for this lovely vision.
I stirred cozily in the bedding, wishing to resume the dream. But seconds later, my building began to rumble. And I realized: EARTHQUAKE! I trembled a bit, wondering if I should move or stay…knowing that if the windows shattered, I’d be a goner. Nowhere to escape to a safer spot, as I inhabit a humble SRO. But no sooner did this cross my mind, than it ended. Though it was quite a roller. (Later I learned there was a 6.1 temblor north of here, epicenter 60 miles away, near Napa, at 3:20 AM.)
Then, instead of panicking from the tectonic rumble (and getting up to have a smoke and turn on my laptop for distraction) I rolled over swaddled in the peaceful thought that Larkin manifested a quake solely to express his profound adoration of This Weary-But-Lovestruck Soul. It wasn’t till the next day, late in the afternoon, that I recalled something I said to Jonathan four days ago:
“My world always rocks whenever I see Larkin!”
I have never before described My Most Treasured Amigo in that way. Yet somehow he knows that, and sent me a direct message through the dream, quickly followed by an earthshaking event.
[ Gracilariidae Reader: some might claim that I’m compensating for the loss of a friend by cooking up a vision in my subconscious, that I may prolong a joy that truly once was there, but is no longer. However, I beg to differ. It is my firm belief that The Earthquake Dream is a genuine omen. And a good omen. That Larkin felt my heart-tugs to end these trials, and bring us together once more, in blissful bromance. So he, in His Own Dragonly Manner, manifested this dream and brought it to artistic perfection with a real-life earthquake. I am either greatly loved, or greatly cursed. ]