Devonne Brown

I received an email from a friend yesterday, the father of my high school sweet heart, broke his hip a few days ago after reading my “Origin” post on my blog. I keep thinking about it because the story as he put it, gave him the “wuzza wuzzas,” I assume that meant a creepy feeling. 

He told me of a dream he had and I have thought of very little since. He said my post gave him a lucid dream like he’d never had before. In the dream, he and I telepathecally talked about how to write the next scene, what the scenes meant. Part of the story told of a giant with mangled hands, that two uncontrollably laughing witches and a rescue sorceress fetched for them. One witch painfully healed his hands around the cauldron.

Will stole their words and actions for his newest play. Bad juju. Bad, bad juju for Will. 

In his dream, we sent our thoughts about it back and forth in our minds about where the scene should land in great detail. He said he couldn’t remember our communications, but he said it was so real he could have sworn it happened while we sat on a bench in his garden by the pizza oven by the pink rose trellis and red geraniums.

Today, I can’t get it out of my head. I well and truly believe his accident was related to my tale. I feel guilty, because of the “Origin” story, the bad luck extended to him. It was the origin of the “Cursed Play,” the Scottish play that made him fall and break his hip before a wine tasting in quite possibly an incredibly beautiful vineyard.

 He didn’t do the ritual to break the curse. “Turn around three times, cuss, and spit.” How would he have known? I didn’t mention it in the story. I must not have made the counter curse clear in his dream, if I mentioned it at all. If I did, I’m sure he was most put out. He “let an ambulance take him to the hospital,” a grand acquiescence on his part. He is as stubborn as a damn mule.

I also wonder if his son was part of our conversation. He had some quite strong opinions and ideas about theatre. We started our theatre journeys together. Forty-five years is nothing in a dream.

At the risk of sounding like an utter nut job, in my return email, I told him I believed his troubles came from the reading of my story. After he told me of his dream, I felt like I was part of it too. I can imagine the conversation as real as I think he did. His son may have agreed with me, we started acting lessons at the same time, mime of all things. I can still isolate the muscles in my neck, or at least remember how, and move my head sideways. I remember a lot of things from forty-five years ago.

My friend told me he’d only be laid up a couple of months whereas in the old days, he’d be relegated to a wheelchair for the rest of his life. At least he took away some of my guilt.