I had a dream a while back - at least I think it was dream. It could have just been one of those thoughts that popped into my head without any discernable origin, which my mind labels as a dream because it's easy than entertaining other possible origins. In any case, in this "dream" I was living in a Mexican village. The villagers thought I was strange and I knew that. I lived in a tiny little house which was crammed full of faded furtniture and chests full of old clothes and plates and books written in spanish which my fingers just itched to explore. I was in bed asleep when two men came and took me from my bed and dragged me to the village tattooist. They stuck a needle in me so I was out of it, although I still knew what was happening. There was burning on my left wrist.
Then I was back in my bed, and an older Mexican woman was giving me water. My wrist was throbbing. She was mumbling something, but my spanish is minimal, so we weren't really understanding each other. I felt sick from whatever drug they gave me the night before. She fussed around me, then left my house. My left wrist was bandaged and when I undid the bandage, they had tattooed "bruja" on my wrist in black ink.
I am not sure what the dream or whatever it was means. I sometimes feel it was a gift from the muses and that one day I will write about this Woman Who Was Branded. At other times, I feel that I am that woman, someone being hauled into their destiny and pushed towards what they should be doing.
I have often considered getting "bruja" tattooed on my wrist. I know in spanish it is not a word spoken with any kind of warmth or fondness - it is more of an accusation. A dirty word for someone whose intentions are misunderstood. Sort of like the english version of "bruja" - witch. I think I will get that tattoo. Perhaps it will open new doors. And close old ones.
Speaking of old doors, I had a confused dream about my first lover the other night. I only remember impressions - fleeting feelings of love and betrayal. Oddly, I saw a photograph of him the other day. He looked older, which was comforting to me in some way. Of course he never photographed well (neither do I) but it was interesting to "see" him, some 4 years after we said goodbye. I wonder what it is inside of me that sees something inside of him. Sometimes I feel very external to my feelings for him. Like a spectator, watching something take place from the sidelines.
This has been a good first post. I am pleased.
