Last night I had a dream that has stuck with me all day today. I almost always remember my dreams, but they usually let go of me at some point during the day, even though some details usually remain. This one has continued to cling and it has carried with it a very heavy, melancholic sensation. I’m not exactly sure why that is, considering that by the time it came to an end, things were seemingly okay. Perhaps it’s because there were parallel stories going on: one resolved and one didn’t.

The greater of the two: I was outside during daylight hours and happened upon a bunch of cocoons hanging on a few plants. Most of them were starting to open and butterflies were emerging. I recognized monarchs and there were a few caterpillars of the same persuasion getting ready to chrysalis nearby. All of these were easily 2 or 3 times normal size. I wasn’t out there alone–someone who was “brotherly”, but not one of my brothers, plucked a half opened cocoon from a branch and started peeling it open further. I was protesting and crying that he shouldn’t do that, that he was going to hurt it. He ended up tearing off one of its wings and then tossed it all onto the ground before walking away. I picked it all up and took it into the house to carefully finish opening the damaged cocoon. It was a luna moth (not surprising, considering that “Staged” is still heavily in my thoughts), about the size of a sparrow. Indeed, one wing was completely torn off. I begged my younger brother (a real one this time) to help me repair this lovely, traumatized creature. I held it on my finger while he carefully ran threads of superglue onto the moth’s wing base, and I reattached the wing. There was no telling if it was going to survive the damage. I transferred it to a dowel or chopstick or something and let it rest. At one point, I checked it and by the way its legs were drawn in, I feared that it had died. Lo and behold, the repaired wing gave a flap and it was still with us. I kept it near, and may have awoken before I had a chance to let it free.

The second thread: There was some gentleman, whose company I suppose I was keeping, hanging around, who kept trying to speak with me. By no fault of my own, it didn’t happen and he left the scene. I didn’t recognize him by face or otherwise, nor for the fact that I got the impression that his name was George. I don’t think I even know anyone named George, and definitely no one who resembles him. After the repairing of the luna moth, I happened to look at my phone (and cell phones are as about as realistic in a dream as ice cream is…yuck: Styrofoam), and there was a message inviting me to see a movie. It was my last chance. I realized that I had wanted that chance, but I was about 2 hours too late. Any attempt to call the number from where the message had come was impossible. Figuring out how to even use the phone was impossible. There was a thick wave of devastation over everything from that point on, and I don’t now know why. A stranger and a missed opportunity–in a dream. Such things shouldn’t matter to me. If that is, in truth, my subconscious speaking of other near strangers–but those in my waking life–let me miss not a single opportunity, because that would be distressing beyond measure, and accepting would matter to me beyond words. That said, may he not miss, either.

For some reason, this song–this version–reminds me of him…

Dearest muse: Have you any idea…?