Dit-da-dit-dit-dit-da-dit -- (ka-zhing -- clunk) -- dit-da-dit-dit-dit

 

That's the sound of my Telex machine sending me my coded dream message. I'm just remembering it bit by bit, so it's coming in slowly, line by line. Here are the facts as we know them:

The setting was a beach town, and I was with family. My cousin Caryn, whom I've never met, was there, and also Lesa. There were activities, such as surfing, that were being partaken in by the more adventurous members of the family.

Lesa was swinging on a swing-set, and I was slightly mesmerized by the back and forth, up and down motion. (Hey, I know what you're thinking. It didn't really go there, though I might have wished it did.) She was being flirty with everyone again, but I guess it didn't bother me. She said something to my stepdad Greg, hoping to get some kind of reaction out of him, but it didn't have the effect she was hoping for. She played it off like it had anyway.

"He was probably just too turned on," she said, continuing to swing on the swing-set.

"You're right," I said, "Hell, it turned me on." 

I felt magnanimous telling her that, since I was over her, or so I thought. Unfortunately, just saying those words conjured up feelings that left me in an agitated state of desire. Here we go again, I thought, the back and forth, will she/won't she, hot/cold nature of our relationship being perfectly represented by her motion on the swing. She loves me, she loves me not. Ugh. I guess I was starting to fall under her spell just a little.

I turned my attention elsewhere. There were some nice sized waves breaking right outside our patio on the beach. By nice, I mean one or two foot little shorebreakers. They held their shape, but didn't appear too daunting. I considered actually suiting up and going in. 

"I'm a terrible swimmer," I confessed to my cousin Caryn. "Do you think they'll have wetsuits for us?"

"Sure, they will," she replied, "You should go."

"Why not?" I thought. I was convincing myself to do it. A wetsuit would guarantee buoyancy. I remembered bobbing around as a teenager, surfing (if you could call it that) in Santa Monica. I'd had fun, anyway, and the wetsuit had made me feel just a little invincible. Well, right up until I would get pummeled by the first rogue wave of the day, that is, then I'd be back in full wuss mode.

Dit......Dit. My Telex machine ran out of ink, apparently, because that's all I'm getting from my recollection. Dit. Dit. Dit. Oh, wait, one more detail is coming in: 

There was a dog in the apartment, and I was petting it and telling it nice doggie things, as I am wont to do whenever I get around dogs. It was some kind of terrier with black and white bangs trimmed in a bowl cut over the eyes. I put my face against the dog's cheek and tried to mind-meld with it.

"She has a skin condition," my cousin warned me, "You might not want to do that."

I looked at the dog's face more closely and saw that the other side of it was mangy and bald, with little red bumps on the pink skin. I think I even saw a mite or two making their way across the barren terrain. I paused for a moment, but decided that the dog, mange notwithstanding, still needed love, and I continued to pet her.

Dit.

That's about it. I wish I could remember what Lesa had been saying to my stepdad. I feel that part of the dream had more to it, but I just can't read the faint writing from my archaic dot matrix machine's transcription. Damn dream machine, anyhow. And damn Lesa, swinging back into my consciousness like that. I think she was wearing booty shorts, and that's what all the ruckus was about. 

Dit.