Dream

Here’s a dream from last night. 

A disused porch is reduced to a passage from the kitchen at the rear of the house to the yard; we rarely play there any more. There’s not much of the house that I’ve ever known, just the kitchen, though I know it well. My brother G is excited for a party at the house tonight. The party is soon and I’m anxious. I can see that no preparations have been made, and the house is fragile and worn, barely standing.  People shouldn’t come here. They should go elsewhere.

The kitchen is clean and presentable. I stand in its door looking at the mess on the porch. For the party, we can just close the door, but that would block access to the yard, and it’s better to have people outside the house. I start to move broken furniture and withered plants to open a path. The junk can be pushed aside so no one thinks to bother it or explore beyond it.

I find a ball of flowers on a strand. It occurs to me that I can unravel the ball and drape the strand over the junk, making it look deliberate, like a festive ruin. My mom is at the kitchen door, saying this is right, that’s how it used to be done. I’m angry and bothered. Let’s not think this can be fixed, I think, only made a temporary passage. It’s still a bad idea that people are coming.

My brother pushes into the porch, making his way to a sink in a corner near the yard, disrupting piles as he does so. He wants to wash up and brush his teeth. He’s oblivious to disrupting my tasks. I’m annoyed but keep it to myself. I’ll wait until he’s done to resume. He’s using a complicated electric toothbrush that is filthy, its parts stored on a plywood shelf more suited to a garden shed. He’s talking over his shoulder, excited about the party.

In the corner, I see a small toilet with water in a disgusting bowl. The seat is partially covered by a glass shelf holding a withered plant. I think that I could cover the shelf with more junk so no one sees the filth or tries to use the toilet, but I find myself moving the pot to clean the shelf and the toilet bowl. It’s not useful but at least it doesn’t look repulsive. My brother lifts a foot into the bowl and flushes, repeating to wash both feet. Now I think I should removed the glass shelf so those who use it won’t be injured. Someone standing could piss into the small space left by the shelf, but no seated person could use it. A woman, oblivious to me, sits on the shelf and uses her fingers to direct her stream into the space. I think, well, if that’s good enough for her, it’s good enough for me.

My brother and the woman leave. I clean up after them, resenting the extra work. A friend of my mom’s sees me cleaning the parts of my brother’s toothbrush and offers to give me a new one. I resent her intrusion but reply politely that I don’t need a new one, I’m only cleaning an old one. She replies that I need one as well. I take it, thanking her, and return to my task. She suggests I try out her gift. I begrudgingly examine it before admitting that I don’t understand the attachments. She shows me how it’s used and, I admit, it’s nice to use. Only now I need to clean the shelf, which I had intended to skip. I try to group the items I find: toothbrush components, shoeshine kit, sewing items.

People wander into the porch as I clean. A large man in black pants and a cheap white shirt looks around. I know he is providing security for the party and I feel love for him; still, I want him to move on. Hearing a noise in the yard, he pulls out a handgun, pointing it into the darkness. I’m annoyed that his will keep him on the porch. The noise is revealed to be children playing in a field beyond the yard. The man puts away his gun.

I move to the next corner, crowded with untended plants. Two kids in fairy costumes join me. I move them away from fragile, dry plants, offering them a narrative detour in their play, indicating another area where they can explore. (This is the only interaction I initiate in the dream.) I notice a small sprig and move away some weeds to plant it. Now I’m weeding the pots and sweeping up around them.

I remember the strand of flowers, still a ball attached to the parts I’ve already draped. I return to lifting it over potted trees. The lower leaves are just about my head; above are spindly dead branches. Mom returns to the door behind me with friends. They encourage me to lift the strands over the dead branches, reminding me that this is how it used to be done. I feel another surge of anger. I can’t make this how it was or better it, I can only make it more passable. Still, I stretch to raise the stands higher and see that it does look nice.   

The kids are playing in the yard. I can hear guests talking and laughing in the kitchen behind me. I’m alone surveying the porch. I’ve tidied it completely. Nothing new or fancy, just clean, lived in, cared for. My brother joins me, happy. He tells me I’ve done a good job, adding he’d never before noticed that the floor slanted. Of course not, I think: no one had ever bothered with upkeep so no one has seen this space in our lifetimes. There’s nothing I can do about the sloping floor, I think, as though to a rebuke. Anyway, I like the way it sags. As my satisfaction in the completed tasks gives way once more to anger, I decide to wake up, though I’ll miss the party. 

Waking, I remain in bed, eyes closed, revisiting the dream, holding the anger and then letting it go. I reflect on these words: let go of the things people take from you.  

March For Our Lives

March For Our Lives, New York, New York. Outside the Dakota, 

where John Lennon was gunned down. March 24, 2018. 

Dream

Here’s a dream from last night.

I’ve acquired an antique glass terrarium of sorts, octagonal with multi-faceted panes, about the size of a large platter. At some point it was fitted as a diorama, with dinosaurs fixed in one corner and, opposite, suspended from the top, two figures and a small dog. I understand the narrative to be that the dinosaurs were going to attack but these godlike anime figures appeared inverted from the sky and stopped them; they all remained forever frozen in a standoff. I consider donating the terrarium to the museum that employs me, but I wonder if anyone will appreciate it as I do.

Walking through the museum, I find a new wing has incorporated the terrarium, now enlarged to a courtyard. This seems sudden and unwise; when was this decision made? Others have also wandered into this space, which isn’t cleaned or equipped for visitors. The dinosaurs are in the far end, the inverted figures overhead, still locked in their standoff. I notice an ice cream parlor to the right. I’m worried that this indicates more rushed decisions. Entering the parlor, I see that the tables are occupied by mannequins as a life-sized diorama. This puts my mind more at ease.

A figure darts through the parlor. I follow him upstairs into a hidden area. I lose track of him and wander early twentieth century period rooms that seem lived in, with scattered clothes and unmade beds. I notice a young man in a loft bed. He’s nude, blonde and angelic. I’m very aroused by him. He has an erection. I invite him to come from the loft to join me. We begin to kiss. He pulls back, angrily, to say he’s waiting for his boyfriend. We return to kissing. He recoils again and repeats that he’s waiting for his boyfriend. I pull back and suggest that he return to his loft to wait, which he does.

In another room, I encounter two women waking in beds. One is dressing for her job as an usher. The other is buried in bedclothes. She stretches free; I see she’s nude, with long red hair. Her roommate chides her to hurry or they’ll be late. The nude woman complains that she’s “too itchy from desire” as she wriggles uncomfortably. I offer to rub her body. She thanks me. As I do so, I cup her genitals, rubbing gently. She responds pushing against my hand and orgasms. She thanks me and vanishes back into the covers. I realized as I touched her that she was waxy. I now know these people are Edwardian automatons. I feel protective of them. I don’t want them to be bothered. I also realize they are programmed to behave in these ways: the boy in the loft waits, the roommate readies for work, the redhead needs to get off.

I come across a child’s birthday party. I know the children are also automatons. A one-man band has arrived to entertain them. I can see that he’s human, like me, so I’m concerned that he’ll disrupt things. I stay for a moment. When I see that he’s taking care of the children, I move on. I come across a meeting of concerned citizens discussing life now that they are attached to the museum. I’m aware that their concern is also programmed and superficial, but determine that while pointless, it is of no harm.

An interloper runs through the space. I follow chasing him. He dives under a bed and tries to vanish under the covers. I pull him back. One arm and part of his head had vanished into a hidden well. When I retrieved him, those body parts were missing. I realize he won’t be whole unless I allow him to escape. As he does, I see that he’s become an animated figure descending a beanstalk. I capture the well and bring it outside with the intention of preserving it as a possible escape route for the automatons.

Dream

Here’s a dream from last night.

I’m attending a reception for a graduate seminar on Roman Polanski. I’m with Polish cinema students in a casual backyard setting, setting up a long table and chairs as more attendees arrive. I’m nude. I don’t belong to the group and didn’t attend the seminar, but I’m allowed here. I have a leather-bound legal pad, a pen and my phone, which are nearly identical to those belonging to the students. Their materials are piled around the lawn as people free their hands to help. I hold my materials as I want to take notes on the students’ thoughts so I can learn from the seminar I missed.

A student engages me in sharing his thoughts. I write them on the leather cover of my notebook, thinking to save paper for later. His thoughts are well formed and expressed, though he’s distracted by attaching an umbrella to the table. His colleagues suggest he give up as it’s not needed, as I wait to hear more opinions. Finally, as the group settles down, I try to keep the conversation focused on Polanski, without interfering in their more relaxed camaraderie. I’m impressed by what they say when they return to the topic. I note these observations: “Who knew the old man would have thirty more films in him after the scandal?” “He’s more respected in academia than commercially.”

The yard is surrounded by a wooden fence covered in vines. It sits behind a mid-century modern house, which I’m told is owned by Polanski and run as a center for studying his work. The reception will move indoors and I’m invited along. However, I feel awkward about my nudity and misplace my phone. Many of the students have brought chargers and backpacks. I’m impressed by their forethought though I’m glad for my decision to attend nude. It’s getting dark and I wonder how I’ll return to my hotel barefoot, nude and without money. I worry about finding my phone. Then, I woke myself and realized this was a dream. I didn’t need to find my phone. Relieved, I closed my eyes and returned to the dream.

The reception is moving indoors. I find a large shirt of mine and put in on, struggling with the buttons. I demurely turn my back on the others as I dress. I go inside and look around. The décor is very swinging seventies with a sunken living room, study area and hot tub. I want to explore but I’m invited into the hot tub. Others are nude so I take off my shirt and join them. An older woman who knows the place addresses those of us in the tub. We’re approached by a ghostly cat moving as it sits in a plastic canister. The woman tells us this is just a cat, nothing unusual. I’m intrigued by the creature.

It’s time to go. Someone offers to call me a cab. I agree, though aware that I have no money. I really don’t know where I am. I’m taken to a dispatch office, where I’m offered a choice of champagne or coffee. I take the former from a fountain. My nudity seems more unusual in the office, though the dispatch agent is kind and solicitous. I wonder if I should sneak off and try to find my way to the hotel. Or maybe I can go to my room once we arrive to retrieve the fare. 

Dream

Here’s a dream from last night.

I’m aware that I need to have a dream. I think I can fake it with materials I have in my car, including a brochure for a nudist camp. I can use it to create a fictional person. I’ll say I had a dream about him, but he refused to do anything. He’ll be this inactive person, doing nothing. I imagine he’ll have dark curly hair and be about forty years old. But first, I need to move my car, where I can retrieve the brochure.

There’s a young man in the back seat of my car. I greet him and then ignore him as I go about searching for the brochure. I don’t want him to know I’m going to fake a dream. My car is in a back alley behind a service station. It would be easier to leave it there but it needs to be moved. I walk around, looking for a parking space. I come across a photo booth store where kids get videos made. I watch for a while as kids make goofy faces; I’m watching on a monitor outside.

I enter an area with old couches and benches. A few men are talking about a woman they know in common. She’s associated with the video store. As they talk, I realize she’s a sex worker. They’re enthralled by her and begin to try interesting me. I excuse myself by saying I need to move my car. I’m also aware of needing to fake a dream. I now have the brochure in my hand.

I don’t find a parking space as I walk. I decide to get the car and take my chances. The car is a Chevette I drove in high school. The young man is no longer in the car. I drive around a bend into a suburban area. I arrive at my childhood home and park in front. I’m in a buoyant mood, singing Elvis Costello “Accidents Will Happen.” I encounter a woman who is also singing.

I enter the house. There are many people and I belong here. There are several nude teenage girls. I kiss them each hello. The house is a kind of brothel where we’re all sex workers. It feels very relaxed.

Dream

Here’s a dream from last night.

There are two islands at the intersection of the East and Harlem rivers. One is small with a pleasant house and a few acres. The other is larger, with a small community. I recognize the area as a map, from above, before disembarking on the second island. There is a buzz of activity as locals visit shops. Commerce is based on a kind of merit system in which castes are established on something like IQ: the more points you have, the more you can acquire. In fact, to a certain level, your points are kept on an automatic tab. You don’t have to make transactions.

I don’t know my place. I’m with people shopping, but I refrain, anxious about being found out. Eventually, it comes to light that I’m in the dark. A friend takes me to get my placement assessed in a contest akin to a scholars bowl. It turns out that I score high. My value is set and I’m granted an additional four hundred dollars. It’s joked that I’ll never need the cash, as I could rely entirely on my tab. I’m relieved. Not feeling proud or accomplished, just glad that I fit in.

I become aware that others do not fare well in this economy. I begin to associate with barefooted children, then adults. Soon I’m mingling with this group, which is unaware of my caste status and thus unimpressed with any attributes other than myself. A thin bald man in the group becomes sexually aggressive toward me. His intensity is out of sorts in the group. I don’t want his attention. I really just want to fit in.

I travel to London as a celebrity. A guide leads me to stores, as I am known as a shopper. She guides me to a mall set up in an abandoned tube tunnel. I’m impressed and want to know its history. Was it used as a shelter in the war? When was it built? She doesn’t know this information, just the products in the current shops. I see a young black woman I recognize from the island society. She’s with a companion within a group. I know them to be members of a celebrated karate group, though they are here paired with others. They’re excited. I talk with my guide about how silly it is that we’re all celebrities for these minor things.

Dream

Here’s a dream from last night.

I share a dorm room with three other guys, one of whom is my brother. It’s a small, narrow room with bunk beds, cluttered with stuff and trash. I think of cleaning the room, but in fact, I’m comfortable. It feels easy to live in a squalor we all appreciate.

One of my roommates has tied an older man against a wall. The man is stripped to his underwear and blindfolded. I recognize that he’s a john. It seems unwise that my roommate is hustling on campus, in front of our roommates, with the door open to passersby. Still, no one seems to mind the scene or realize that it’s for pay. I hover nearby, ready to help if needed, and to act as a lookout. I want to keep this cool.

Suddenly, my roommate has pulled out his dick to urinate on the bound john, who revels in the stream of piss. That’s a step too far. I realize there are kids in the room, and I don’t want my brother to notice this. I suggest cleaning up by way of distraction. I find piles of Mardi Gras beads. I ask the kids to help me sort them by size and color, telling them they can keep whatever they like, or use them to decorate the room. The pissing scene goes unnoticed; I begin to pick up trash and pizza boxes.

Across campus is a daily outdoor performance of Jesus Christ Superstar. I’m familiar with the performance and sometimes step in an as extra. I arrive during the scene of the moneychangers in the temple. I watch for a bit then join in the chorus. There are many new students watching. I’m comfortable in this role, showing a cool thing about campus life. The song is catchy and I’m casual in my part. As the scene ends with Jesus screaming “Get out!,” I wander off, planning to return for the crucifixion. I return with a long piece of CVC pipe to use as a percussion instrument. I’m no longer in street clothes, but in a sheet fitted as a robe. It’s an informal nod to costuming. I decide to stand as a Roman guard. I’m casually drumming, unconcerned with the beat. I’m not really trying.

I’m watching the lead performer, who is also conductor, waiting to cue the chorus. I realize he’s waiting for air traffic to clear overhead. I look up. A plane passes. I ready as its noise fades, only to see other air vessels in the sky. One is a kind of hologram, a blimp trailing cartoon characters in the clouds. Everyone stands watching, entranced, with our performance on hold. I began to think I should take this role seriously. What would a Roman guard be thinking and feeling in this moment? I stand as if asleep on my feet, holding myself upright with my pipe, now used as a post. My eyes roll back in my head. My mind wanders back to the moneychangers theme. 

Dream

Here’s a dream from last night.

I’m in a warren of bookcases, piles of books, audio equipment, records, tapes, etc., in a private archive of words and sounds. I’m busy tidying things. It’s all very orderly, if eccentrically so. A young woman is looking through records disinterestedly. I pull our a heavy plastic record, shaped like a soft-edged triangle, and place it on a turntable. I’m not sure it will play, but I feel confident. The record produces sounds including mouth popping. The woman begins to nod listening. A man nearby begins to imitate the sounds. We all work together, as band mates and archivists.

In one room, I discover a glass case over an owl’s next below. I excitedly tell the others that there are baby owls in the nest. They discourage me from looking at the owls, as they’re covered in fungus. I return to find raccoons roaming around the case, and decide the leave that area alone.

A young man is searching for something specific. He doesn’t require assistance. I move around, rearranging materials to encourage his “serendipitous discovery” of sounds and words I find interesting. A number of others gather to talk and compare notes. I try to reach around them to open my private stash to offer for his perusal. I can’t reach to show him, so I indicate where he can find it.

Some of the recordings seem purely arbitrary but relate to the chance in art, as in Fluxus. I have a lot of material from a Czechoslovakian movement that we listen to in order to perform and keep the form alive. I play one record of words and sounds. One young woman gets up to dance. Two others join her. Their dance is utterly joyful and in tune with nonsense. We’re all very connected. 

I’m alone again, baking for a large group. I mix dry ingredients in a large bowl. I’m confidently playing with the recipe. I go back and forth to a garden for ingredients. There, I have a flower that is of interest to an older military man. I teach him about the flower’s properties. As I do, I play with the petals. Arranged on one side, the flower looks like a spider. On another, like a glove. Around the circumference, like a sun. The man is interested in what I know about the flower but not interested in these games; he’s very no nonsense.

I go back to baking. I realize I don’t have a pie shell. I don’t think I need one. I could make it. But I recall they’re readymade in stores, so I go to look for one. I’m barefoot in the store.    

Body Keeps The Score

As you may know, I’m seeing a therapist. By which I mean, I live with one.  (This joke never gets old, if you ask me. Don’t ask her.)

She recently recommended that I read The Body Keeps theScore: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma by Bessel van der Kolk, M.D.

The book is satisfying for its historic breadth. Trauma was a subject of interest after World War I, with the experience of “shell-shocked” veterans, but surprisingly understudied until Vietnam veterans presented similar symptoms. Van der  Kolk’s long career dates back to the origins of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) diagnoses; he and the Trauma Center have been involved in the subsequent history of understanding and treating trauma.

But more importantly, The Body Keeps the Score is written for survivors and those who care for them. Van der Kolk shows how traumatic events actually rewire the workings of our bodies and minds. Trauma can leave one stuck in response modes that may help in surviving an immediate crisis but hinder recovery, moving on and being present, often by instinctual reversion to unhealthy responses.  PTSD may endure from a battlefield, or from natural disasters, accidents, violence, loss, neglect, abuse or other traumatic experiences. This book offers a readable and highly informed approach to identifying, treating and living with the effects of trauma.

The book is readily available. You can also find it as free unabridged audio on YouTube, where you can also find talks by the author. The Trauma Center has resources listed at www.traumacenter.org.

Dream

Here’s a dream from last night.

Charlie and I temporarily live in a small apartment on the third floor, just above the tree line, with windows on three walls. We look over an open patio/hallway on the second level below, lined with bookcases and desks, exposed to the elements. It’s unclear to me if this is a private office or a public area, as it opens onto the street.

Charlie is away for the day. A man suggests I open a male brothel to operate while she’s out. I’m unsure of the idea, but succumb to his adamancy. He recruits a half dozen dwarves. They roam the apartment nude. I have to eject one, who is handsome yet disruptive. Another is very eager for me to fuck him. He curls before me like a roly-poly, tucking away his arms and legs. I resist, as I don’t think I should fuck him. I finger his ass, which splashes shit onto my hand and floor. I feel pity and suggest he should wash up. He returns and I tuck him under my shirt, unsure whether or not I’m fucking him, but allowing others to think I am. Only then do I notice he’s missing his left hand.

He’s left a mess in the bathroom. I begin to clean when I find him cowering in a corner of the shower. Pope Francis tells me that he is a traumatized war refugee. I feel more pity. I tell him he’s safe here; I won’t make him leave like the disruptive one. Francis becomes disgusted by the shit and excuses himself. The refugee is now my responsibility.

I’m walking through the open patio/hallway. The office workers make me feel unwelcome, though I feel this is a public area, and owe no apologies.

My dad sends a video to my phone. He’s chauffeuring Warhol, Bowie, Mapplethorpe, William S. Burroughs and Patti Smith; Smith is nodding on drugs. They’re on their way to an amusement park in the 1970s. They look like kids, I think, before realizing I’m strapped to the front of the moving car. I’m happy there.

I’m at a venue showing the footage of a “secret concert.” I’ve seen the film before. Now, the surviving performers are assembled for a dinner. I see Chrissie Hynde, whom I’d forgotten to be in the concert, and Patti Smith. She was in the car, I recall, and the only passenger still living.

I begin to draw two larger-than-life figures in charcoal. They are seen from about mid-waist and loom menacingly. There’s not much detail in the figures. I obscure them further with heavier, darker lines. The act of drawing feels cathartic.

Liz and I are going to an art reception in upper Manhattan. The area has changed since I was last here, long ago. Liz tells me she is transitioning, and I thank her for letting me know. We leave the reception with Patti Smith. She’s talking about my drawing, saying that if it hurts, I should keep doing it. Listening prevents me from speaking to Liz, who has advanced ahead of us. She’s taken off her shirt to show she’s very well muscled. She’s at the top of a hill, but going along a disused road. I call her back, saying there’s a better road ahead.

Dream

Here’s a dream from last night.

My brother and I share a small cabin on our family’s compound. We each have a twin bed. I keep my nightstand in front of the cabin, near a picnic table. I’m preparing for school, which is nearly over. I collect odds and ends from the top of my nightstand, all junk left there by others. This is a regular morning task and inconvenience.

I return to dressing, my left hand still filled with coins, ticket stubs, used gum. It’s hard to focus on tasks, but I’m in good spirits. School is nearly out. I notice that my dad has brought out a keg of the beer he brews; he’s sharing a beer with my brother. Before school! That’s great. I hurry so I can join them for a quick one.

The keg is under my nightstand, which I notice is again littered. I go to tidy it, shoving the junk into the nightstand’s drawer. I think to tweet “Just sorting drawers, as I do when I’m running late.” The thought amuses me. I reach to my pocket for my phone, but it isn’t there. I’ll need to find it before I leave. I search the area around the cabin, including my brother’s nightstand, which is inside the cabin beside an open window.

Returning to the cabin door, I see the keg has been put away. I open the door to find a man dressing just inside. He apologizes; he needed a place to change into a suit before his shoot and the bathroom was taken. I hear the shower running. When it stops, a short pregnant woman emerges, wrapped in a towel. They’re actors who have rented the cabin for the day. This is common in my family. It was assumed I’d already be at school. I say I’ll get out of their way. I tell them about my nightstand and the tweet I’ve planned. I show them the contents of my left hand—now large plastic pennies and a shell, like a child’s treasures.

I’m driving and wondering, what if I didn’t return to school? I can’t even remember what I’m studying. I’d probably have to take one make-up class this summer. I wonder if I would take an easy remedial math or advanced trigonometry. I know I’m good at math and this gives me satisfaction. I arrive at school. It’s changed a lot since I was a student. I go to the library to research an assignment. All I need is Books in Print listing on “villains.” I could do this anywhere, really, but I like the idea of doing it here. I find the volume, noting the familiar layout of the place, and how much smaller the library seems now that I’m an adult. I photocopy the page and go to the restroom. I feel studious and accomplished. As I leave, I realize I’ve misplaced my glasses. I retrace my steps. The library is closing. Lights out, doors shut, chairs moved to block passages. I return to the room in which I found my listing. Inside are cartoonish monsters who seem to be in discomfort. I don’t want to bother them; I just need my glasses.

I return to the check-out desk for help, but the librarians are distracted. I see someone giving a child a tour of the library. I decide to make another look around. As we come to a stair where one of us must give way, the child falls into a seizure. I lay down beside him until it ends. When I stand, my presence has been noticed. The tour guide wants to know who I am and why I’m there. I genially reply that I’m a former student and tell her about my research. She stiffens. I’m nice but realize I’m trespassing. A librarian asks me to leave. I tell him about my missing glasses. He offers to pay for them from discretionary funds. As he writes out a receipt, I think of my spare pair at home. Maybe I’ll keep the money.

Merry Christmas! New York, New York. December 24, 2017. 

eXmas

This story was originally posted on December twenty-eight, two-thousand four. It is also told on Kevin Allison’s Risk!

Leaving Marla at the subway, I walked quickly through a drizzle to pick up the kids. I arrived about ten minutes behind schedule.

The kids were excited to see me. Lucy was there too, for an after school meeting. When she saw me, she rolled her eyes and sighed loudly. She took me by the arm and led me to one side, telling the kids to stay put.

She gave me a quick, familiar lecture on the importance of being on time. I nodded, listened, agreed. That ritual completed, I returned to the kids and took them home.

That night, Lucy was picking us up to go to her mother’s house for Christmas. Last year had been the first Christmas since our break up. Per our tradition, we spent the holiday with her family at her mother’s house. It had been awkward, but we bit the bullet for the kids’ sake. There had only been one fight—between Lucy and her mom, about her mom being too familiar with me about details concerning our divorce—but fights between Lucy and her mom were also a family tradition.

Lucy and I had a good Thanksgiving this year. She’s been very civil with me lately. I hoped for the best.

Mind you, this holiday had enough landmines to blow us all sky high.

My ex wife and I would be there, with our three kids. My ex mother in law, a lesbian, had invited an ex girlfriend to join us for dinner on Christmas Eve. My ex father in law would be there, at the home of his first ex, and bringing along his second ex wife (he has three from which to chose). My ex brother in law was bringing his ex boyfriend.

To add a dollop of optimism to the occasion, my ex sister in law would be there with her fiancé.

So many exes. Another ex-mas with Lucy’s family.

After school, I fed the kids and cleaned up, packing a few things to see us through the weekend. I poured a stiff drink to fortify my nerves.

Lucy arrived around bedtime, and we packed the kids into the car. I sat in the back between Lillie and Collie; Jason rode up front. We talked about Christmas until the kids drifted off to sleep. I talked with Lucy to keep her company as she drove, catching a few moments of sleep myself.

After few hours, we parked in front of Lucy’s mother’s house. Her mother was asleep and everyone else was arriving the next day, on Christmas Eve.

Lucy roused the boys, and I carried Lillie inside. We undressed the kids and tucked them into bed. We unpacked the car. I took Lucy’s bag upstairs to the room we used to share. I carried mine into the study off the dining room, where I would sleep on a futon.

We repaired to our separate quarters to put on pajamas. Lucy came downstairs to have a drink and watch television with me in the study. We talked and began to unwind.

This was going well. We were being nice to each other. It felt very familiar. Fingers crossed for the weekend.

eXmas continues with eXmas Eve, eXmas Morn and All SalesFinal.

Luna C.

In spring twenty-sixteen, I ended my relationship with a young storyteller, Luna C., after one-and-a-half years. I felt the break up was necessary to sustain stability in my life. I wanted to focus on my relationship with my primary partner as we moved beyond our first several years to a place of planning for our shared future.

My girlfriend helped me to understand that I could better enjoy the “one life, take two” I had created since entering middle age by avoiding the hazards of self harm, alluring though they may be. She encouraged me to take care of myself. I came to accept that my fortunate good health stands a better chance of enduring if I refrain from abusing it. I undertook harm reduction to curtail my alcoholism. I showed up for regular physicals. I entered into therapy. I turned my creative energies to writing a memoir.

As I had for the duration of a custody case nearly a decade ago, I put aside the risks and potential chaos of public life in favor of private quietude to take care of myself and those I care about. I’m now over fifty. If we’re going to stay together for the long haul, my girlfriend says, I goddamned well better stick around for it.

As Luna and I adapted to our break up, we shared a concern for the future of Foreplay! A Sexy Storytelling Open Mic, a free weekly show I created and hosted for five years. It fostered a substantial community. Luna and I met there when she first developed an interest in storytelling. As our friendship grew, we developed a shared rhythm in nurturing the evenings. I took care of the front of the room, running the stage, as she worked the back of the room, interacting with regulars and encouraging participation. The regulars adopted my loving nickname for her: “Mama Luna.” Luna and I cherished “church,” as she called the open mic, and made it the start of our weekly sleepovers. After shows, we’d go to her place or mine to devour greasy food, get drunk, watch cartoons and bask in what we created.

“What are we going to do about church?” she asked as we pondered our break up.

“This isn’t a divorce. We don’t have to divide custody,” I assured her. “It may be an awkward transition, but there’s no reason we can’t continue performing together.” I paused. “That said, often when there’s a rift within subcultures, one or the other faction will try to destroy the community. That’s so commonplace as to be trite.”

Whatever happened between us, I was certain Foreplay! would continue. I believed the community was more important than either one of us.

One day, she asked to meet me for a long conversation before Foreplay! She didn’t want to come to the open mic, as she wasn’t up to seeing everyone. It wasn’t the same since our break up. I said I understood and hoped that feeling would pass in time. She would always be welcome. As for me, I had to go. I ran into many of the regulars as they assembled. One comic pulled me aside to say he planned to interview Luna for his podcast. In the interview, she spoke sadly of our break up, acknowledging that we split because I wanted to be with my primary partner.

As we endeavored to remain friends, we met weekly to sort things out. I set boundaries: we met in public, neutral places, generally outdoors. If things felt sexual or I felt uncomfortable in any way, I would leave. After each meeting, I sent a safe text to my primary partner. Under no circumstances was I going home with Luna.

Things deteriorated between us. On one occasion, Luna insisted that I “act like a human” by going home with her. I left. On another, when I reiterated my refusal to go home with her, Luna punched me in the face. I left. The next time I saw Luna, one of her friends—a stranger to me—threw a drink in my face. I left. Luna’s violence ended things for me. I would remain civil toward her at Foreplay! and other open mics, but I had no further interest in maintaining a friendship offstage. 

Luna asked some of the regulars to meet her elsewhere on the nights of the open mic, saying it was too hard for her to attend. As they complied, I understood the communal empathy even as I saw a typical indicator of subcultural fissure: mutual friends asked to choose between one party and the other. One night, she showed up at the venue without entering. She sent in another regular, who scanned the room to see who was in attendance. They left together a moment later, their private roll call complete.

           

Though I was now out of her life, Luna continued to discuss me and our break up on social media. Seeking to curry favor, a middle-aged motorcycle dude Luna occasionally fucked introduced her to the blog of Tricia Nixon, a middle-aged woman I declined to date years ago. Unbeknownst to me, my former acquaintance maintained a cul-de-sac on FetLife in which she inveighed against many things, including the kink event where we met, sometimes numbering me among her complaints against it.

My former acquaintance provided Luna with a handful of negative things that have been said about me in the course of my seventeen-year public sex life. Tricia Nixon knew very little about me; we’d only met a few times. Luna and I had been very close. She had heard my stories on stage and in bed. She had eighteen months of intimacy and trust to exploit. With the encouragement of Tricia Nixon, Luna decided that a public statement would be compiled with the intention of revealing that despite all outward appearances, Jefferson was actually an awful person.

The statement would focus on three blog links concerning scenes dated from years before I met Luna. She had no direct knowledge of any of them, though she’d heard the stories before. I’ve told them publicly. Anyone who knows me privately has heard them. They aren’t secret.

One link concerned an event from two-thousand-five, a story I had told on my blog, on stage and privately with Luna. After Luna resurrected the story more than a decade after the fact, I wrote about it at greater length in a blog post published in November twenty-sixteen, citing the author of the link Luna circulated as well as numerous eyewitnesses.  

Tricia Nixon made her own contribution by running a concurrent flame war. Commenters were encouraged via direct messages from the original poster to stoke the thread with incendiary language and speculations. Though I was the burning effigy at its center, the flame war was unknown to me until Luna brought it to my attention, demanding that I respond to its comments. If I refused, she threatened to post screen shots of our past text messages. That struck me as odd—why would she do so, and why would I care? Threats aside, I declined Luna’s invitation to a beheading. I had no knowledge of these strangers; for all I knew, they included sock puppets. They certainly had no knowledge of me.

Tricia Nixon's feverish flame war brought Luna’s compilation to four links. Two of these concerned BDSM scenes that were nonsexual. The other had been well known for more than a decade. So it was that an anonymous broadside intended to depict me as a “sexual predator” relied on the testimonies of four individuals with whom I had never sought nor engaged in intercourse, repackaged by a woman with whom I now refused to have sex.

Luna disseminated her broadside widely, hiding her identity behind the unattributed guise “calloutcommunitypost.”

At the same time, Luna redoubled her efforts to divide the Foreplay! community, insisting that no matter one’s own positive experiences with me—indeed, no matter her own positive experiences with me—I was secretly a bad person. As word of her actions spread, I decided to hand the open mic to another host. I believed the community was more important than either of us.

Not surprisingly, most people who received Luna’s anonymous broadside responded viscerally to her carefully crafted vitriol. Few would bother to read closer or investigate further.

The anonymous broadside caught the attention of a reporter, who contacted me for an interview. She wanted to write a profile on me for a class at the Columbia School of Journalism, supervised by the school’s dean, a respected journalist who would act as editor of the piece. At first, I ignored the request, thinking it would be foolhardy to comment on Luna’s anonymous campaign, particularly with a stranger. Eventually, I was persuaded to meet. The reporter told me she was concerned with larger issues, not break-up gossip. She offered a disinterested view. I was impressed by her integrity and process, and agreed to participate. In effect, I allowed her to fully investigate and narrate my story. She warned the results would be honest and not necessarily flattering. I replied that I preferred transparency to flattery. I braced myself for the results.

The reporter interviewed many people, including Luna and Tricia Nixon. When the profile was concluded and edited by the school’s dean, the reporter permitted me to read it and make a limited number of copies available to interested parties, including the reporter’s many interview subjects. The reporter found nothing of substance in Luna’s unsigned broadside. I offered her profile publicly beginning in February twenty-seventeen. The public offer was concluded some time ago.  

When I began to circulate the investigative reporter’s profile, I was contacted by people who illuminated Luna’s continued behavior against me. This came as no surprise: the litmus test of a relationship’s toxicity is how toxic it remains after you’ve left it. Yet I was stunned to hear from others Luna had similarly targeted.  

Luna had many sexual relationships during the time we were friends, including one with a comic she admired. We regularly talked about their relationship, which she told me she regarded more seriously than her casual hook ups. As it happened, not long after I broke up with Luna, the comic also broke up with her in favor of another relationship.

In retaliation, Luna anonymously posted his full name, photograph and other personal information online, decrying him as a sexual predator. She railed that he had multiple partners and shared photographs without permission, apparently missing the irony of making this condemnation as she did precisely that. She exulted that she was organizing other women to harm his reputation. The comic immediately recognized Luna as the attacker. He had her IP address.

Luna went further in her anonymous attacks. In a bizarre twist, she contacted the comic’s former girlfriend and, using intimate information he had privately shared, posed as another woman he had dated. Thus disguised, with a tone of sisterly solidarity, Luna offered purloined photographs and entrusted secrets in an effort to elicit an ally in talking trash about the comic.    

The comic was contacted by his former girlfriend. They easily identified this new “friend” as Luna. They had her IP address.

Such stories abounded. Luna gossiped at clubs, trolled websites and contacted venues—generally anonymously, always professing community concerns—to allege that numerous men and women in the comedy scene were sexual predators. Some targets of Luna’s ire were people she had fucked in the restrooms of the same venues she now hoped to influence.

Hearing these stories, I felt some sadness for Luna. She had physically attacked me and relentlessly undertook to damage my reputation. Still, I empathized that she acted from hurt. I hoped my former fucking-and-drinking buddy would find peace.

I was nonetheless angry to learn she used me and my stories to harm others. She was concerned primarily with disseminating her righteous upset, no matter who was hurt in the process, no matter that her crusade betrayed trusts, fostered hearsay and relied on deceit.

Such were my feelings when I was contacted by a stranger. Susan introduced herself by saying that while we had never met, she had heard Luna’s stories about me and others through the twisted grapevine of the city’s comedy scene. Luna’s stories had caught her attention when they struck close to home—Susan was the woman the comic dated after breaking up with Luna. We traded a few wary notes. If Susan wanted me to commiserate about her boyfriend’s experience with Luna, I wasn’t interested. I didn’t really know him. Luna was well in my past.

After several exchanges, we agreed to meet. Cautiously, Susan began to lay out the story of her life. She’s a survivor: you name it, she’s survived it. Now, she’s in her early forties and doing well for herself. She makes a good salary working a corporate job she enjoys. After years of telling her stories to friends, she recently began to tell them on stage. Revealing her storied past is risky, she knows, but she owns her experiences. They inform who she is. By being vulnerable on stage, she feels stronger in coming to terms with her struggles, failings and successes. She thinks she’s got a book in her.

I heard that.

Susan thought to contact me after Luna’s anonymous broadside was published in a Facebook group formed for New York City storytellers. Luna had sent it to the group’s administrators hoping to do further harm to me. (She succeeded. I was summarily banned from the group solely on the basis of Luna’s defamatory attack. The administrators did nothing to investigate her anonymous broadside, not even to determine its author or her motives, and offered me no opportunity to respond or appeal.) Luna’s inflammatory words were triggers for Susan, and, she suspected, no doubt others among the nearly five thousand members who use the group primarily to discuss storytelling shows. It also struck her as essentially unfair that I was not permitted to speak on my own behalf. This led her to wonder: what was my side of the story, anyway? I had largely remained quiet on the subject in public.

Luna’s anonymous broadside brought me to a stranger’s attention, just as it had with the journalist. I once more offered a timeline of events as I knew them, as outlined here and elsewhere.

Susan added more that I didn’t know. While the comic was dating Luna, he had sent her photographs of Susan in the hope of sparking a threesome. This was done without Susan’s knowledge or consent. Susan, who had never met Luna, declined the suggestion. After the comic broke up with Luna, she attacked Susan, posting an intimate photograph, her full name, references to her storied past, her current career and her sexual activity.

“That’s revenge porn,” I interrupted.

“Yes,” Susan agreed.

“That’s a consent violation,” I went on. “What’s more, it’s criminal: revenge porn is a felony in a majority of states. That’s jail time.”

“But not in New York State. Trust me, I’ve looked into it.” Susan went on to say that she had no idea the post was even out there until she was interviewed for a six-figure job. The job was a cinch pending a routine background check. That’s when the company discovered the post. Susan was denied the job due to Luna’s revenge porn. She has a letter to prove it.

“And you’re sure it was posted by Luna?” I asked.

“I have her IP address,” she confirmed. The whole thing pisses Susan off. But she survives, she says, adding” “That’s what I do. I survive.” She went on to land another six-figure job. But here’s the part she says she can’t forgive: “Luna goes around railing about rape culture, wrapping herself in the mantle of third-wave feminism. All the while, she’s anonymously knocking down a woman she’s met exactly once—one time!—even costing her a job, precisely by engaging in consent violations, shaming, harassment and revenge porn . . . that’s the epitome of rape culture. All because she lost a boyfriend. And don’t get me started on the other thing.”

“There’s not more,” I replied, rapt.

“Oh, yes. The fun never stops,” Susan said. “Turns out I’m a rapist.”

“You don’t say.”

“I had sex with a woman Luna knows,” Susan explained. “Word got back to Luna and then she’s telling everyone I raped this person. The woman hears this, gets pissed, and confronts Luna, saying the sex had been consensual and the story had been told in confidence. This woman had fun! We’re friends! And still Luna goes around saying, oh Susan, you know, she’s a rapist because, you know, rape culture.”

I sat back. “You have a book in you,” I marveled.

In the following weeks, I spent more time getting to know the woman Luna sent my way through her own relentless, obsessive attacks, becoming friendly with someone who would otherwise be unknown to me.

Recently, Susan contacted me, upset. While on a business trip, she was called into a meeting with her employer. The company had been sent an anonymous email detailing Susan’s storied past and including numerous explicit photographs. Susan listened mortified as the company CEO went on. She was assured that the company values her. They don’t care about vicious anonymous emails. The company fully supports her. Susan’s job is secure.

The CEO went on to inform Susan that the company’s attorneys replied to the email with a cease and desist letter.

“Of course they did,” she laughed. “They have Luna’s IP address.”      

New York, New York. December 12, 2017.

Dream

Here’s a dream from last night.

I’m with a group shopping for Christmas gifts. I’m on a budget. I want to get gifts for my kids and I can’t afford gifts for everyone who will be gathered together. I’m inspired to buy an automotive care set for Rosa Parks. She probably doesn’t have a car and I’m sure she’s dead, but it seems appropriate, if only as a memorial. It comes with a loudspeaker, so she could use it to give speeches, and an umbrella, in case it rains. It’s hard to find the set in the store. When I do, there’s no price tag. I pick it up, hoping I can afford it.

Gifts are being unpacked into a garage. Kids are not allowed to peek. I see that many people have picked up automotive sets identical to mine. Maybe I can return mine without notice. There’s an abundance of pricey items. I’m drawn to a bicycle and decide to ride it. On my way from the garage, I see it is full of Partridge Family memorabilia, including some fine art prints. In one, Susan Dey is blurry and making a face.

On the bike, I encounter four boys making a film as their gift. I stop to watch. I’m impressed by their ingenuity. Their creativity will be appreciated more than any store-bought gift. They enact foursomes, including the kids from “Stranger Things” and The Beatles. The kid who plays Paul is a standout. He doesn’t imitate Paul. He seems to just “be” Paul, saying things in his aesthetic and outlook, as in homage.

A guy runs into our midst, disrupting things. He’s good looking and arrogant, demanding attention. We’re annoyed. Another guy invites me to join him in looking for gifts. We go to a consignment shop, very minimally installed with unique items. I admire a spindly chair sculpture. He picks it up. I ask him not to buy it for me, but he says he’ll do what he wants and walks away.

I find a small antique television, set in a handmade wooden box. It’s been retrofitted with a device so that one can speak into the monitor and see the words become memo texts. I try this but can’t figure it out. A young goth woman is mopping nearby. She begins to clean near me. I offer to get out of the way, but she tells me not to bother, I’m not even touching the floor. I’m laying over a rocking horse and it’s true, I’m elevated. She says she liked me in The Man Who Fell to Earth. I say I’m not really David Bowie but I am a fan. We want to talk about Bowie but I’m not supposed to be Bowie. 

Fort Tryon Park, New York, New York. December 9, 2017.