Last night I dreamt I was with Tim. We were looking over a rack of used clothes (he used to work at Savers before he got hired as a teacher and during the summers). I think we were laughing at the clothes. Tim said he needed a drink, and he started drinking some rum from a bottle that looked more like an amber beer bottle. I told him I wanted a little, so I started to take a swig from the bottle but only drank a very small bit. Tim seemed a bit angry about something. Maybe because drinking isn’t as much fun when you’re dead.
And Stan, I’m sorry, I forgot to say hi to him for you.
Those were the days when we used to go out drinking with Tim.
Darn, I wish I could remember this dream better. I know I remembered it when I woke up and thought, “that’s pretty funny, I’ll have to write it down” and then went on to forget the funny part about it. All I can recall is that it had Mitt Romney in it. Why do I have this guy in my dreams? (Here’s the other dream I had with Mittens…caution…opens to the previous old version of this blog) It’s absolutely ridiculous. It’s not like I’m a supporter…hardly! Have I had Pres. Obama in dreams? I don’t think so. Oh wait…I did. But why Romney? No explanation at all.
In the dream he was an instructor, maybe even an art professor. Well, that makes sense. Although I’m sure Mittens lacks any creative talents (robotic mannequins aren’t known for genuine creativity), I’m sure he’d be up there in the compassion zone along with most of the art professors I’ve known. That’s sarcasm. Yeah. Good Times, as Leon would say.
Maybe it will come to me later.
Now on to the next dream. It is very hard to explain, and I tried my best to tell Stan about it after I had it on Monday. I was going to some function where Tim would be there. It was a combination of a hospital and a funeral home, a church and a restaurant. I was not with Stan. I was traveling in a cab along with some young women. We were bringing chairs with us. When we got where we were going, we were told that we wouldn’t need the chairs because they had enough. We were all standing around a long table that was a cross between a restaurant table and an operating table. Tim was across the table from me and I waved at him. He waved back and said hi. He looked the way he did in the mid-90s with longer hair. I didn’t get a chance to talk to him because there were so many other people taking up his time.
I miss Tim so much.
I wish I could’ve written this down when I woke up in the middle of the night because I could remember it easier, unfortunately, it was much better to stay in bed than to get up at that time.
I dreamt Stan and I were at my parent’s house. Both my mom and dad were there. Stan and I were getting ready to go somewhere, and I thought I should call Tim to let him know we were ready if he wanted to come with us. I was going to call him on his cellphone because I knew he was still at work and I wouldn’t be able to reach him at home, but then realized I didn’t have his cellphone number stored on our cellphone.
OK, HOLD ON. WTF. This is wrong on so many levels.
Weird dream–Tim was standing on a tall utility stool, like the height of a barstool, but utility grade metal, like the kind that were abundant in the art building @ CSU. He was fixing something on a wall or ceiling. He says “I saw your friend Brian.” I then started asking him questions like “how did you know it was him?” or “how do you know Brian?” or “where did you see him?”
Tim would appreciate the irony in this: that the first ever Catholic Funeral Christian Burial Mass I ever attended was not that of a relative, but of one of my closest friends. I mean, what the? And it was so dreadful. Not a word about Tim himself, what a great brother, uncle, son and friend he was, and how he worked with mentally-disabled children, but it was all self-serving about the priest and his little fable and moralizing in code that was so obviously anti-gay. I was offended, frankly. Here I go again, me being disappointed in humanity again because I had much more faith (ha, ironic word usage there too) in what they would do and say at the funeral. (But here’s the problem, Ann, we’re not talking HUMANITY, we’re talking CHRISTIANITY–therein lies the problem) It had nothing to do with Tim, and everything to do with preprescribed Catholic ritual. As Tim would say many times, to us anyway, “I hate the Catholic Church so much.”
There was obviously aspects of Tim’s life that were unbeknownst to other parts of his life. He kept his sexual preferences secret from his family (although they must know now because the Madison obituary did mention his husband–the obituary in his family’s part of the state was altered to a more Republican-friendly version), and around us he always talked about how much he couldn’t stand the church. So it was a surprise for me to find out after his passing that he was studying to be some sort of Secular Franciscan…something…I don’t know the terminology. Even if he had a hard time making a clean break from the religious way in which his family brought him up, (unlike me, in fact, I didn’t have to break because I was already broken seemingly from the start), I still can’t imagine him having wanted such a traditional, impersonal sort of funeral. But then again, it is very foreign to me, the whole Catholic funeral thing.
I can now fill up one hand with the number of funerals I have attended in my life. My earliest memory was of my grandfather–mother’s side. I remember the color white, and I remember my mom lifting me up to see him him in his casket. I was only about 2 and a half. I’ll have to ask my mom, but I think the union he was in was able to give him a good funeral. I don’t remember churchiness. I might be mistaken, but something sticks in my mind about that. He was the only grandparent whose funeral I attended. My dad’s mom’s funeral was in Massachusetts and my mom and I stayed in Colorado while my dad took care of that. My mom to this day still speaks not well of her MIL. I don’t think my dad’s dad’s funeral was large, and my parents thought I’d best not attend anyway. I was a teen then, going through my own difficult times. And my mom’s mom’s funeral was held in Wisconsin when I was living in Colorado, so I’d have to miss work at a job I just started, so I couldn’t afford to go.
I attended a funeral for my friend Ron from high school when I was in my 20s. It was in a Unitarian Church and very humanistic. They played some music that he had composed. The funeral for my major art professor from grad school wasn’t held at a church, but at a funeral home, which is much more sensible than in a church. Stan’s Dad’s funeral was in a Methodist church, but it had a very humanistic aspect too. I remember people talking about Gordon during this service. But this one, I had no idea it would be so hand’s off and impersonal. I am just shocked. I cried not just for the loss of Tim, but with anger at how removed from Tim’s life the whole service was, and how anti-gay coded the sermon or talk or whatever they call that, was. I tried looking at the architectural elements, trying to figure out whether altar embellishments were gold leaf or just paint, stared at chandeliers trying to figure out how to render them in Bryce, anything to get my mind off of how I felt towards the Catholic institution.
I am so glad at least he will be cremated. When I read “Burial Mass” in the obituary, I thought they were really going against his wishes. If they only knew, like we do and his other friends we talked to, Dave and Julie, knew, Tim would want his ashes sprinkled where the dogs he grew up with were buried on the family farm.
I was in a building that seemed familiar. It was sort of like the cross between my two art studios when I was in grad school…the Inhumanities Building and the Education Building. I don’t know if Stan was with me, but there were other people there. I was on the 4th floor (the floor where Tim spent much of his time when he was in the hospital), and there were elevators near windows, which was not like any of the above-mentioned buildings. I’m looking around and anticipating seeing rooms that are classrooms, but instead they are hospital rooms. Tim was in a wheel chair, and he was going down to the first floor with some other people. I look out a window by an elevator, and I see Tim. He’s laughing and knocking on the window. Somehow he is trapped outside the building and he can’t get back in, or back on the elevator. We (me and the other people standing around in the hall) are trying to figure out how to get him back inside where it is warm. He didn’t seem too angry about it…he seemed to think it was funny.