ericboy's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Cory's Back Again "I have nothing to say / but i feel like my mouth is open." - Ill Nino. No matter how low I get, nothing pulls me out of it quite like Snapple Apple. It does the trick everytime, and at only $1.12, it's the most affordable anit-depressant to spring to mind. So what has happened lately? Let's see. A couple of band practices, several dozen shifts at work, half-assed job hunting, and... oh, lots and lots of movies. I've been sick over the past week so I haven't been sleeping too well. I sweat incessantly and I find it hard to breathe. Last night, for instance, I went to sleep at 3:00am and woke up at 6:00am with my throat afire. I never did get back to sleep. I dreamt of Cory again last night. And, again, in the dream, he was back and I knew that he'd been gone. Dead. I knew that, and it didn't seem odd. It went like this: My mother is sitting on the couch to the right of me and we're watching television on a screen larger than we've ever owned in a house that I don't recognize but know is ours. Cory comes through the front door, situated about 4 feet to the left of the monstrous television and comes straight forward to sit to my left on the couch. On the coffee table, he sets a bag of Marshmallow Popcorn Bites, like the ones that we sell at Hollywood Video that scare the bejesus out of me. I comment on them while he rummages through his backpack and pulls out two hot dogs. (I'd been craving hot dogs all week long; one with chili and cheese, the other with mustard and onions; I finally got them an hour ago) "Does that crap really taste like popcorn?" I ask. He looks up, somewhat distracted. It is at this point that I conclude that he has just come home from work, as he seems very tired and his voice is solemn. "Um, yeah; sort of." "Kind of salty and buttery?" "Yeah, like that." "But it still has the texture of marshmallows, right?" "Not traditional marshmallows, like you melt to make Rice Krispie Treats, but like the marshmallows found in cereals like Lucky Charms, yeah." "And you're comfortable with that?" "Yeah." He shrugs his shoulders and picks up the bag from the coffee table and throws a few into his mouth. "Want some?" "No. In fact, hell no. That stuff freaks me the hell out!" "Suit yourself," he says and he leans back and falls silent and watches the movie with mom and I. What I couldn't get over was the timbre of his voice. The first time it issued forth from him in the dream, I was immediately washed over with a sense of nostalgia and longing and happiness all at once. You know how you can be in a dream and not really know it? That's how I felt in that first moment. He was alive again, and we were talking about marshmallows. I could see his face, real and complete and young like it was. I could hear his voice and recognized it infallably as his. As the dream moved forward, I thought to myself that his voice seemed so resonant to me because I hadn't heard it in a while. That lead me to thinking that he and I hadn't talked much since he died, and since he'd been back. In the contained world of this dream, I believed that he was here with us; that he had come back, and that he and I should talk more often. I even thought about voicing that to him in the dream but didn't. I suppose to hear it aloud would frighten us both. Mom never said a word. She would just watch the movie and turn to us and smile while we shared esoteric words like we used to. It was as if Cory's resurrection was a memory; a secret that no one talked about. We just didn't bring it up. In the span of the few moments that this dream lived in my head, I knew and understood all of this. I guess it's obvious that I miss him. I do want to hear his voice, even if it is tired and we're talking about the trivialities of snack food. The ninth anniversary of his death is coming soon. Two days after my gig with L.A. Guns, in fact. I'm an amateur at moving on but i suffer like a pro / it's rare that i get my hands on things so i'm poor at letting go / so now i'm killing time with a chainsaw waiting for you to come unglued / but it's obvious my dreams seem small to you 3:32 p.m. - 2003-09-08 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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