Yesterday, I didn't get to touch him.
But I brought up the psychic thing. We were talking about my mom... I was, I mean. He was silent mostly and I laid on the couch looking up not at him and I just let all sorts of things spill out, viscera floorwards, but poetic, wistful, funny... He was kind of mesmerized... I turned around at one point and he was watching and I said What??? And he said What?? And I said, You were... looking at me like I just came crashing into your office from the moon... and he said, Oh, no, not at all...
And then I said... I know you don't believe in them. But I do and I take some comfort in... communication with... spirits... Like my dreams about her... But they're never...
"So, you enjoy these dreams that you feel are- you enjoy communicating with your mother?"
"Well, no, because they've never been good." I looked at him. "It's always like I'm panicked, I'm asking myself, what the fuck happened, didn't she die?? When was that? Did I tell everyone she was dead? Like, she's often not there, but her presence is there, but it's, it's dread, I'm in the basement of my old house and there are canvases everywhere, and they're charred..." I sat up and hugged my knees. "And then there was one where she was sitting on, we had this big yard you know, with a, a patio, and she was sitting on the patio with her feet on the grass in a nightgown and, she said, Don't you know? Don't you know I'm dead? Touch my face," and I put my hand on my cheek, "See how it's cold?" Julian kind of nodded, slowly.
"I knoooow, they're just manifestations of my own uncertainties, my emotions, constructions of my mind, right, yes, and all that shit. I know." He didn't say anything.
"Whatever they are, explained or unexplained. Magic is just a matter of semantics. I'm sure I sound like every walk-in wacko. But. So it goes." I laughed. I wasn't looking at him.
"I have predictive dreams too." I looked at him and half-smiled. "Crazy, right?"