Oh, dreams. I often remember them, much to the detriment of people who breakfast with me. Because I also have to talk about them. Vivid dreams often come in waves, and I am currently caught up in such a surge.
I seldom dream about men I am involved with, but Dave has done his share of turning up, both in person and by proxy. The circumstances of involvement with him are typically strange and complex- this is, after all, a relationship on Isle au Haut. He is still married, though (as it were) only by a legal thread; he doesn't have the money to buy his wife out of their house, and as it stands now they have functioned as housemates for the last three years; they've a daughter, my former student, who has now begun her first year of high school, boarding in New Hampshire.
One does not grow up with the expectation of dating a married man. At least I didn't. Sure, my grandmother might have set the pattern, but it wasn't one I expected to follow. As Dave and I got to know each other over the summer- first because our cafe schedules were similar (later I learned that maybe he attended first thing in the morning in hopes of seeing me), and then because I began working with him on his boat- the island grapevine was a live wire. Getting to know someone under the small town microscope was desperately uncomfortable, and even more delicate an operation because of his daughter's presence. Abigail, amazing girl that she is (very much her father's daughter), took it in stride. When they first discussed the relationship Abigail was a bit shocked by the age difference: "But Dad- Morgan's only 29!" Which was followed by "But I really like Morgan." It was at Abigail's request that she, Dave, and I went out hauling together, and after that day she decided "I really like you and Morgan together." The community seems to agree, and people will comment to me about how good Dave now looks, what with being happy. His wife also told him that living with him is a lot easier. When she went off for a weekend with her boyfriend she left us a lobster galette- with strict instructions that Dave was not to take credit for making it.
So as extramarital affairs go, this one's about as moral as it gets.
Yet.
The night before last, I dream that I was having an affair with the happily married boat captain, who has a two-year old daughter. Do I want to have an affair with Garrett? No. And in my dream I kept thinking, "Hold the phone, I am not interloping on a happy marriage! Something's not right here. This is the wrong married man... I could have sworn things were kind of kosher. Shit- is this my life?"
And I woke up. It was not my life. Exactly.
It seems my subconscious is a moral absolutist when it comes to conscience, even if I am living by the standards of island relativity.
It also tends to nettle me about other character flaws. Flaws, Morgan? Not you! Okay, tendencies that others might deem "worth working on."
So Dave's leaving to go swordfishing, right? In another dream I am back at Grinnell, out in the loggia, which is crowded with people. Dave comes up to say goodbye to me, and I give him a quick kiss on the cheek and send him on his way, because One Ought Not Be Emotional in Public. He leaves, and I immediately miss him, and want to give chase to say a better goodbye. Suddenly, however, I am nekked. So it is either go back to my dorm room, get proper clothes and possibly not be able to catch him up, or run through the crowd heedless of my state of undress. In classic Morgan fashion, I just dithered, torn between the two until I woke up. Oh dear- afraid of vulnerability I let the moment slip away! Such emotional cowardice!
Dear dream factory, please stop with the obvious constructive criticism and symbols. It's lame. I know that I've been spending my days working with high school freshmen who are reading The Outsiders, and that the analysis is pretty basic, but come on. Nudity? A little subtlety, please. And perhaps fabricate a dream that is not a lesson in strict adherence to the Commandments, whether set forth by Moses or Oprah.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Friday, September 18, 2009
To Ride a Mailboat
So here we are. A year after I started writing in earnest, a Friday in mid-September.
Today has gone overcast, cold, raw. I am in thermals, in the cafe. The latter emptied out shortly after I arrived, and now I am being left to my own devices so that Alison and Kate can catch up on dishes. I have my hot cocoa, my computer, and am seldom demanding. Dave is the vocal, sassy one, and he is away.
I myself have been off-island for what seems like ages- four days. In those four days, a barge with a massive crane has moved in and set up shop to build a new town landing and tear down the old. Another week of school has passed. Store hours have changed, though only slightly- it is now closed Sundays, which is a much kinder measure than I expected. I had heard rumors they were immediately making the draconian cutback to winter hours- Wednesdays and Saturdays, from 2:30-4:30. The Dark's dad is preparing to float a house from a nearby island to this one. He is also going to haul the salvageable bits of the burnt house to his property. He collects houses you see, the way some of us collect teacups, or ships in bottles.
I got much of this news on the mailboat- we don't have a newspaper, primarily because we have mailboat captains. In Stonington, the dock was thickly dotted with tourists, or variations on the theme. Using my last cellular gasps before AT&T's coverage died, I told Dave of my hope that I was loved enough to be allowed to board ahead of the herd. If only, I moaned, love was measured in days per year spent on the island. Hands down, I would be the most well-loved person on the landing. My call was then interrupted by the woman who does the directing of the traffic- lo and behold, she was having me board first. It was a courtesy to the person who knows the ropes and wants minimal contact with unbridled enthusiasm, confusion, and cameras.
When the boat is scantly filled in the autumn or early spring, when the tourist traffic is thin, I often fall into conversation with people coming out to visit. When they gather that I live on the island year-round, they get a hopeful light in their eyes, and the questions begin. Generally, I am happy to answer. For all that Mainers are depicted as taciturn to the point of rigor mortis, it's kinda nice to play welcome wagon. To pay attention because it hasn't been demanded. I talk about the demographics, about how we pass the winters, I point out the landmarks of town such as they are, and tell them about how I landed here. I talk about hiking trails, and discuss the merits of Black Dinah chocolates; I tell people the store hours. Telling the story of life here passes the time nicely, though on occasion I feel a bit like a monkey at a zoo, or one of the Inuit on display at the world's fair back in the day: behold an "exotic!" Oh well, by and large it is a fun role to play. If I didn't love talking about life here, I wouldn't be writing this.
Today I spent the ride sitting on the threshold of port-side door, next to the wheel, away from the Madding crowd. This mid-day run was on the Mink, the boat company's plain Jane winter/freight boat: the Mink is a far cry from the cold, sleek Miss Lizzie- she of the showy bow and roof seating, tailored to summer numbers and tastes.
In close quarters with the wheel, I caught up with Garrett as he steered. He'd just had his two days off and was intrigued by what island goings-on had gone on while he was gone. Still, he had newer info than I. He told me about the plan to float the house, we made note of the excavator out on that small island as we went by; I told him about my cousin's engagement. We discussed the process of razing and building the new town landing. Becky, the deckhand, offered me the last mini-whoopee pie from a batch she'd secured from my neighbor.
It is always a pleasure, whether the boat is packed or empty. Whoopee pies or no. Life here is such a mix of Springfield (goodbye, Guiding Light!) and Mayberry, there's bound to be something to chew over. And when I am not in the mood to talk, there is always the scenery. Even if the scenery consists of fog meeting the water three yards off the boat.
Today has gone overcast, cold, raw. I am in thermals, in the cafe. The latter emptied out shortly after I arrived, and now I am being left to my own devices so that Alison and Kate can catch up on dishes. I have my hot cocoa, my computer, and am seldom demanding. Dave is the vocal, sassy one, and he is away.
I myself have been off-island for what seems like ages- four days. In those four days, a barge with a massive crane has moved in and set up shop to build a new town landing and tear down the old. Another week of school has passed. Store hours have changed, though only slightly- it is now closed Sundays, which is a much kinder measure than I expected. I had heard rumors they were immediately making the draconian cutback to winter hours- Wednesdays and Saturdays, from 2:30-4:30. The Dark's dad is preparing to float a house from a nearby island to this one. He is also going to haul the salvageable bits of the burnt house to his property. He collects houses you see, the way some of us collect teacups, or ships in bottles.
I got much of this news on the mailboat- we don't have a newspaper, primarily because we have mailboat captains. In Stonington, the dock was thickly dotted with tourists, or variations on the theme. Using my last cellular gasps before AT&T's coverage died, I told Dave of my hope that I was loved enough to be allowed to board ahead of the herd. If only, I moaned, love was measured in days per year spent on the island. Hands down, I would be the most well-loved person on the landing. My call was then interrupted by the woman who does the directing of the traffic- lo and behold, she was having me board first. It was a courtesy to the person who knows the ropes and wants minimal contact with unbridled enthusiasm, confusion, and cameras.
When the boat is scantly filled in the autumn or early spring, when the tourist traffic is thin, I often fall into conversation with people coming out to visit. When they gather that I live on the island year-round, they get a hopeful light in their eyes, and the questions begin. Generally, I am happy to answer. For all that Mainers are depicted as taciturn to the point of rigor mortis, it's kinda nice to play welcome wagon. To pay attention because it hasn't been demanded. I talk about the demographics, about how we pass the winters, I point out the landmarks of town such as they are, and tell them about how I landed here. I talk about hiking trails, and discuss the merits of Black Dinah chocolates; I tell people the store hours. Telling the story of life here passes the time nicely, though on occasion I feel a bit like a monkey at a zoo, or one of the Inuit on display at the world's fair back in the day: behold an "exotic!" Oh well, by and large it is a fun role to play. If I didn't love talking about life here, I wouldn't be writing this.
Today I spent the ride sitting on the threshold of port-side door, next to the wheel, away from the Madding crowd. This mid-day run was on the Mink, the boat company's plain Jane winter/freight boat: the Mink is a far cry from the cold, sleek Miss Lizzie- she of the showy bow and roof seating, tailored to summer numbers and tastes.
In close quarters with the wheel, I caught up with Garrett as he steered. He'd just had his two days off and was intrigued by what island goings-on had gone on while he was gone. Still, he had newer info than I. He told me about the plan to float the house, we made note of the excavator out on that small island as we went by; I told him about my cousin's engagement. We discussed the process of razing and building the new town landing. Becky, the deckhand, offered me the last mini-whoopee pie from a batch she'd secured from my neighbor.
It is always a pleasure, whether the boat is packed or empty. Whoopee pies or no. Life here is such a mix of Springfield (goodbye, Guiding Light!) and Mayberry, there's bound to be something to chew over. And when I am not in the mood to talk, there is always the scenery. Even if the scenery consists of fog meeting the water three yards off the boat.
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