Posted by: Bruce Proctor | February 1, 2017

Dream: “Oh, My True Love is Dying!”

1-26-17 1 a.m. Thurs

“But OH, to be recognized ­­­–by HIM!–as he came through my door,” she said. “It was the HEAVEN of my life!”

I hadn’t seen her for decades, but I caught a glimpse of her saying this on a recent TV interview, and I knew she was dying. So I had to see her once again, at all costs.

My love for her–and between us–was almost of the magnitude of her legendary love, but it had not survived. She was living in the same ramshackle rooftop apartment where that legendary moment had occurred, and I had lived in an upstairs apartment in the building next door, both buildings at the top of the hill by the overpass looking down on the highway below. That apartment forever overrun with hanging and potted plants, perfume and incense, a sliding glass door leading out on the wide patio roof.

For me, it had been very much the same as, earlier, it had been for HIM, a life-changing love affair, with this dramatic, troubled, tempestuous beauty: unforgettable. And the world had not quite forgotten her, either. How could it?!

She had a gypsy manner, sharp features emphasized by lipstick, mascara, flashing eyes. When we had known each other, it was like being physically overwhelmed by a tsunami of such power that it blew us together and turned us inside out as it carried us along and through, beyond our control, wherever it would, however it would, and finally deposited us, gasping, and uncomprehending, far apart, wondering who we were and how we had gotten there.

Now I approached that same familiar door, the curious dogleg entryway on the third floor walk-up of the old wood frame house. Just as in the old days, she opened the door. Her sudden gasp of recognition thrilled me. In a moment, all the power of our love for each other those decades ago swept over us again like a revelation. She was trembling.

In a sense, neither of us had ever wavered in our passion and love for each other. We had never “broken up.” Not in the slightest. Rather, whatever had swept us held us in its torrent for as long as it demanded, and by the time it deposited us, dazed and lost, again on our own two feet, we were irrevocably far from each other, and on to other fates.

Now, at the famous–or infamous–door again, here we were, in full recognition and remembrance of all that we were to each other then, and in fact–realized now–still were to each other. It was a heartrending moment for us, realizing now that the flood that had carried us then was still silently carrying us even through all the decades of our separation. All that we had shared. All that we had meant to each other–and still did.

Yet, now, would we stay together?

No. We could see the love that supported us was still here, undiminished. The tenderness was still there, the power, and now the mutual recognition. But our fate had joined us for just this one last time. We had no idea why; it was simply obvious.

Her fate was to die a legend, larger than life. Mine was to continue, never a public figure, hardly a shadow in the eye of the world, hardly an afterthought to her blazing comet of–not a career, so much as a bursting through the great, wide world, lighting it ablaze everywhere as she went.

But in our chapter, she and I were everything to each other–and we fully saw it now–and not discounting everything and everyone else in our lives–still were, our tears and emotion carrying us through to the end, on to eternity, in some way still together.


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