BLONDIE AND CRAZY
Dreamed 1984/12/25 by Chris Wayan; illustrations, pencil tinted digitally, 2006
I'm nude sunbathing in a field. Two women are sunning together near me. They call to me and I walk over. "Hi, I'm Blondie" says one. "And this is Crazy." That's about the last thing she says: very quiet. Crazy's black-haired, loud, needy--talks enough for both.
They want my help. Obvious why: terrible tension and illness in their auras and muscles. A shame, for their bodies are otherwise beautiful. Though they both need help, only Crazy can ask--begs "Hold me... shield me from the sun!" Blondie seems disgusted, even scared by Crazy's begging. I climb on Crazy in the position she wants--sort of like 69, but though I do get turned on, she's not begging for sex exactly, but some kind of massage and energy work. I think I can do it--she's needy, but not toxic to touch. So I pour energy into her, straightening out all the inner knots I can reach...
Blondie starts baiting her friend. Can't seem to stop. I think she wants to turn me against Crazy so I'll pay attention to her, meet her needs, help her--but Blondie won't ask openly.
Crazy seems to hate her right back, but does at least refrain from baiting her. I ask, "Have you always fought like this?" and they simultaneously yell "YES!" Really? Ugh! Some friends.
Crazy asks me what to do next--"What'll help me?"
"Get therapy" interrupts Blondie, for the first time NOT nastily! Honest. "You need it." I think it over and say "I'd usually discount what Blondie says to or about you, but maybe she's right about this; it could help."
I tell Blondie "Let's leave her alone a few minutes to consider it" but Blondie says "I'll sit here." As I walk back to my blanket, I hear a shriek and turn--Blondie's swinging a cleaver, trying to slash Crazy! Crazy scrambles naked around the blanket in terror, and grabs a pair of scissors to defend herself, all she can find...
Naked, golden and awkward, beautiful, horrible, they sidle round their little patch of trampled tallgrass, slashing and hissing. I run back, get between them and yell "STOP IT!" I'm scared to grab their weapons though. But they won't drop them, and finally I have to use force. They don't attack me. It's not ME they hate! Eyes locked in loathing. All the bad energy's out in the open now, that's for sure. I actually relax a bit.
Then Blondie dives for the cleaver again and hacks at Crazy's head! A big slash--blood wells and drips all over. A shallow cut, but sickening to see.
They look equally crazed, and I fear that when the cops show up they'll treat them both as equally violent. But they're not. Crazy never attacked Blondie. I'm a witness and I'll swear to it.
And I wake, feeling shaky and frightened.
NOTES THAT MORNING
Were they sides of me or external? Yesterday was Christmas, and I visited my parents and my sister and her boyfriend AND two sets of friends. Plenty of suspects to choose from... The long-standing hatred sure suggests a family dynamic. Though my friend Beryl did put in some nasty digs at my new housemate Jamie too...
I came home exhausted from all that and found Jamie had locked the front door with an old bolt none of us have keys to, and then gone off to her mom's, 300 miles away. I had to break in to my own house! Merry Christmas to you too, Jamie!
A woman waving a bloody cleaver reminded me of the double-headed axe used for sacrifices in ancient Goddess worship. So it could mean my mom's extreme feminism (mistrusting men to the point I learned not to trust myself...) But instead of a Freudian "castrating mom" dream, I get one about giving other women head wounds! Sounds more like Beryl dissing Jamie--who then proved Beryl part right... Man, this is complicated...
If only she were only shrinking heads instead of chopping them! Then I'd feel justified in not seeking therapy. But this--this is a puzzler.
THAT EVENING, DEC. 26TH
Turn on TV to distract myself and find a hospital drama, "St. Elsewhere." Two parallel stories:
Blondie the head-cutter = keeping up appearances, even if it means cutting heads open?
Cleaver = clever? Using brains to be mean? Notice she tries to mess with Crazy's HEAD, too. Beryl's all-too-accurate spite about Jamie?
I'm not sure what to think! Well, three obvious points.
I did, but it took years to find a therapist I was compatible with. I wasted a lot of time in mediocre, ill-fitting therapy; wish now I'd shopped around, been pickier from the start. If you're looking, I'd recommend seeing at least TEN therapists (for free; if they charge just to meet you, forget 'em) and seeing what you dream of them before deciding (I dreamed one therapist was well-meaning but handcuffed...)
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