by Blaine Blanceaux

Created on: April 26, 2008   Last Updated: April 30, 2008

I am the type of person who relies on dreams to be some type of directional tool. Yet the message doesn't quite become fully understood in its dissected symbols and images taken from my wakened state. I am left deciphering, deducing a meaning that makes sense. Are dreams messages from God? how do they relate to my life and how communicates with us all? I strive for some relevancy between them, from the days before my dreams, to the days to come only to find out that it is either a hit or a miss. I think God wants it that way. He gives you just enough to get you through, never revealing the message to its entirety.

When I was twenty one, my father died. Our relationship, as my prepubescent stage came and transformed my Patriarchal ideals into this tumultuous distorted view of my father as just a "sperm donor" ultimately fell apart. I did not grieve in a normal sense. I just did not know how. That summer I took a trip to Virginia to visit a High School friend and her newly developed family. Her situation was not the experience I had hoped to have alongside her. She was a mother of two young children, newly separated from her husband and working grueling hours to pay her car note and mortgage. I, on the other hand, wanted to live vicariously and have experiences where I'd meet some sailors or them Virginia boys who could tool me around on their bikes. That was one thing about her she'd left some time for. I remember being on a private beach at night with her and two E-12s watching her in the near distance copulating with the high ranking officer as I teased mine while laying on a turned over boat, I just wasn't attracted to his type of bravado. Any psychologist could point out the clinical aspect of my brash behaviors, or need there of on this trip. I however, could not see clear enough to work through the emotional spiral I was going through.

That morning when we returned to her home, I fell asleep on her living room floor, my assigned sleeping quarters for the duration of my stay. I lay on my back, legs spread apart to feel the faint breeze in the Virginian morning sun. I heard my friend say,"I'm off." My friend walked out her house door on her way to work, moving quicker than her thrusts the night before to get to work on time.

Retrospection compels me to recall what happened next. There is this old wives tale of a hag, who rides you in your sleep. This "ride" is felt by the sleeper as an inability to awake. Your body becomes frozen. Gravity forces you to stay

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