Dream interpretation

In my memory he is walking, Astaire-like, up and down my dorm's stairwell, singing, "I'll build a stairway to paradise."  It echoes strongly, and I am entranced.   I love singing in stairwells. 

He was a student in a required freshman class, and I was the TA.  He left after that semester, but it was long enough to create a friendship that lasted for close to 15 years.  Through those years, we corresponded, I visited him in Oneonta, NY, once, and he visited me in Portland, Oregon, twice.  He disappeared on Oahu shortly after that second visit, and has never been found.  I corresponded with his family, contributed to the memory book, and disposed of the car he had left in Seattle.

And I've never forgotten him.

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He was always prickly, always challenging, always creating.  I remember I was always asking to see his work, and he would send it to me at intervals.  Sometimes it was writing, sometimes other things:  like the meringue from his kitchen and the squash from his garden.  He was supremely fit, very comfortable with using his body the way he wanted to, regardless of time and place.  Once, he told me, he was stretching out on the dance floor of a bar and was informed, "We don't do that here."  He laughed, but I could tell he really didn't get what the problem was.  It was a resignation to the incomprehensible foibles of the masses, not humor.  While he could be light-hearted, it always came as a surprise.  It was as though he could only access that part of himself under extreme circumstances.  The rest of the time he was acting from memory:  ah, yes, this is what it's like to laugh.  And this is clearly a situation where laughter is called for, so, I'll laugh.

But he wasn't feeling it.

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We were driving to the family home on the Neversink, where his sister would later drown while rafting.  He taught me a canon he had "written," with words from Song of Solomon.  It was a droning atonal sort of song.  "Until the day break, and the shadows flee, I will get me to the mount of myrrh and hill of frankinsense.  Until the day break, and the shadows flee, Turn, love, young hart, on the mount of spices."  I learned it quickly, and we sang it together.  I don't think I'll ever sing it with anyone else.

Music and rhythm were part of his soul, but he never learned to read or write it.  Once, on that last visit, he was washing dishes, and he began tapping the sides of the metal sink.  It was sufficiently percussive for him to continue and expand into resonant hand-slapping drum beats.  My cousin picked up some chopsticks and created a snare drum set on the tall wooden salt and pepper shakers and the metal stove top.  I drummed on the counter with my fingertips.  T provided foot percussion as she began dancing, and we all followed suit, twirling and drumming.

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The demands he put on himself and others created beauty, but also hurt.  He had a hot intense gaze and an intense conversational style.  He didn't suffer fools gladly, but he was well versed in polite behavior, like bringing hostess gifts and sending thank you notes.  He had no patience for feelings or for sugar coating his thoughts, especially with those he loved.  Example:   We had visited a friend of his and were figuring out sleeping arrangements, and he had said, "I want to sleep with you."  The next morning, they were swinging in the hammock together.  She was clearly enamored, he was laughing joyously.  Later I commented on their relationship and he said, "She's just a friend.  I'm not interested in her otherwise, she's repulsive!" 

I began crying.  I didn't know how to process a friendship that could be so hot and so cold.  Maybe I wondered what mean things he was saying about me.  He was confused:  what had he said to make me cry?  I couldn't explain.

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A few mornings ago, I woke up from an extremely vivid dream.  In that dream, he had turned up here in Albuquerque.  I was excited and happy, but confused.  "Have you told your family?"  no.  "Can I tell A in Portland?"  no.  "Where have you been?"  no answer.

 

He wanted to show me a house he'd found, and we silently walked 4 blocks to it.  There were trees and Portland-style landscaping.  It was huge and old, with hard wood floors.  It had a formal dining room,  kitchen with marble counters and gas stove, a living area with fireplace, and several bedrooms or office/den rooms.  It was all on one level, filled with antiques, books, and art.  It was a craftsmen style home, not an adobe. We had a moment cuddling on one of the beds, and I agreed that it would be a great place to rent.  Then a whole crew of 20-somethings appeared.  One of them was the owner, and we had tea and talked about my love of dishes.  She wanted to rent to me, for sure, but apparently she also wanted to rent to the others.  There were 23 people, and the house had become larger.  But the monthly rent was $50K.  Even divided by 23, it was unaffordable.

 

He had disappeared, while I was talking with the owner.  I was confused and overwhelmed.  Spotting a skinny door in the corner, I slunk over and discovered a steep narrow stair, going up.  I shut the door behind me and climbed, emerging from the dark stairwell into two large open rooms, with skylights and walls of windows.  There was no furniture, other than a reading nook with a comfy chair, but paintings filled the limited wall-space. It was a Portland house for sure, but the view through the glass was Albuquerque, with the wide ever-changing skies and adobe architecture.  I felt open and free and at home.  I spread out my arms and twirled. 

 

And woke up.

 

What did it mean?  I'd spent the day before researching an elusive article about teaching in Hawaii, which he did when he was going to grad school.  And it's where he disappeared.  Is that what brought him into my dream?   Surely not:  the real Hawaii connection is my friend L's family.

 

I am looking at the possibility of finding a new home and a new job and a housemate, and I'm not sure if I want to be in Portland or Albuquerque or Hawaii.  So, perhaps the dream reflects that.  After all, the process of selling the Portland house is almost complete, so that particular house is not in my future, nor was it in my dream. 

 

Yet, house dreams are more about the personal interior, not the actual house, right?  So...I'm seeking. Seeking home, seeking community.  And lord knows, seeking was what he did best.   Maybe he's there to guide me.  Or does he represent the authentic me, who will never settle for mediocrity, who wants to do it all?

 

Or, do I just miss him?

 

A long vivid dream:
Tim reappeared and we found
A great house to rent.