What's It All Mean?

I used to remember many of my dreams. This was good and useful. Why? Dreams, the images, thoughts and emotions that pass through my bean while I sleep, can be/have often been a way to understand crap I’m grappling with when awake.

Dreams can be a way of gaining insight into my tamped down emotional pains and fears.

Dreams can be my brain trying to sort out problematic real life situations—puzzling shit out. Sometimes they’re just comments or snapshots, telling me what I already know, like:

I miss The Amazing Bob.

The Amazing Bob walked in. It was as though he’d never left, never been horribly ill. We were so happy, so goddamned content as he curled into my arms under the covers. We lay intertwined and peacefully dozed, full of the mega joy-joy bliss. (source)

I miss working in clay.

The creatures I formed weren’t light, floating strips and slabs of textured terra cotta. No. They were inelegant, carved, solid things—women in cumbersome, suffocating layers of Victorian garb. More of a Botero vibe than Giacometti or Brancusi. (source)

Yeah, that dream was about way more than wanting to play in the clay again. I took from it that creating sculptures outta clay is an effective way for me to work through and drive out my anxieties, frustrations and fears.

I miss Kevin.

As it turned out, he hadn’t been dead these past 26 years. Nope, he’d been kidnapped by some unnamed, evil foreign power. Why’d they finally release him? No clue. Maybe he'd, for the last time, annoyed the croutons outta them with his caustic and creative insults. (source)

Sometimes I dream about MGH and brain surgery.

I was heading in to MGH for a spot of brain surgery… Instead of it being an all day event (my last one went 18 hours), I was told that it would take just a few hours. I pressured Bob to stay home since this wasn’t, supposedly, gonna be a big deal. More though, I didn’t want him to worry. (source)

Last night’s dream was odd—maybe more so than usual—and I don’t understand what it means.

I was sitting at the bar of The Frog and Peach, waiting for a take-out order for me and Ten (who was waiting at home). The young dude, sitting on the barstool to my left, started making conversation. He seemed pretty animated AND interested in yurs truly. It was odd. I mean the guy looked so Future Farmers of America wholesome, mainstream and YOUNG (like, mid/late 20s at most). WHY was he so focused on me—a chubby, old, deaf broad with a nerve damaged, lopsided face?  I wasn’t suspicious of his motives—he seemed so genuine. No, I was more concerned with how I was gonna break it to him that:

1. I was “spoken for” already. i.e., not available.
2. I was deaf (though, oddly, had no trouble reading his lips).
3. He was WAY too young for me. Had he failed to notice that I was old enough to be his mother?

Instead of telling him all this, I waited until he excused himself to go to the loo. I slipped out the bar door to my car and attempted to vamoose. Earnest Boy caught me as I was pulling out of the parking spot. As I rolled down the window, about to explain my Irish exit and wish him well, my foot slipped off the brake and I crashed into a parked car.

OOF!

I went back into the bar in order to find the car’s owner and spoke to a waitress. Could she help me find the car’s owner? No. Not only that, the car owner was unfindable by anyone so I was free and clear to go home without suffering the financial consequences of my doofusosity.

At this point I woke up. What’s my take away from this dream?

• MAYBE I’m not quite as damaged and unappealing as I think I am?
• It was wonderful to not have to pay the price for the damage I caused. Wouldn’t it be nice to never have to suffer the consequences of harm we’ve inflicted (intentionally or not).

Dunno, it was an odd dream.