dreams

Apr. 13th, 2011 11:37 am
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(I don't know if anyone reads these entries; sometimes I read people's dream entries if I have time but most days I skim them looking for some neat visual. Still, I have this incredible urge to write this one down. I wish I had done it earlier instead of resisting the urge because now I don't remember so much of it. However, one of the things I learned in my psych classes - including dream interpretation - was that the details of a dream are rarely important, it is the emotional content during the dream and afterwards that matters)

I dreamed after many long complicated stories that I was in my old shared house in Philly. I was surprised to be back in it but [long complicated near-forgotten details] it was "right" that I was. The thing was, I remembered my old boyfriend, the one I was seeing RIGHT BEFORE I hooked up with Jeremy. He was the sweetest, nicest guy I think I have ever dated. Anyway, I was thinking about him and how much I wanted to see him again. Then I had to deliver something to someone else in the house and upon [long complicated details] arriving to the back of the house I discover it had a whole second side to it. So I went in and was looking for the person - Margie I think it was - whose package I was carrying. Then Ted walked in and I was so pleased to see him, almost blushing and giddy. But Ted is married now and although he was apparently living in our old shared house, I had no clue as to his situation. So I talked to him carefully. He seemed pleased to see me but awkward and shy. There were so many details to the situation that I had a almost lucid moment and thought something like "wow, this atmosphere is more detailed than real life! what is up with that" In fact I couldn't keep up with the constant stream of detailed input and I think I split off at one point. I REALLY wanted to talk to Ted, reconnect with him in some way because even though he was probably the best boyfriend I ever had (and stupid me threw him over for Jeremy) he was also a good friend whom I very much admired and respected. I felt vaguely self-conscious, as if I was like a groupie or something, but Ted was being very quiet and internal. I couldn't figure out if he wanted to talk to me or if he was just being polite or if he actually was overcome with as much relief and happiness as I felt. I felt really naive and vulnerable because its rare for me not to discern someone elses motivations and direction. Plus the constant stream of detailed random information (the color of the blanket on the floor, tiny glints of light that came from a faux-diamond necklace on the dresser, Ted's Punk rock t-shirt that kept changing band names, the way the dingy paint was bubbling off the wall in spots, how the shadows from the windows were flickering across my skin etc) was overloading my empathy. I wanted so badly to "say the right thing" to make him comfortable and talk to me, give me a hug, tell me where we stood but I was frozen with uncertainty. It was like seeing a unicorn at a carnival... you know if you do things just right, it will come to you but its so hard to figure out what's right when there's so much sensory noise going on around you.
Then Ted left the room and I was so very sad. I realized I was having a dream and this was my one chance to connect with him. I didn't want to wake up and lose that fleeting moment i had where we were standing int eh room smiling at each other. If I couldn't have anything concrete, I could have that at least. I wanted to follow him but I didn't know if it was "right" or whether his leaving was his way of closing the door on our friendship.
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I dreamed I insulted Ted Nugent's muffins. He was not pleased and I played it off like a joke. Boy he looks weird in a chef hat.
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When I was a little girl, I used to draw and write stories. I think I wrote my first "real" story when I was about seven years old. I got an idea in my head and persuaded my mother to type while I dictated. It was called "The Bus Driver's Adventures". Looking back on it, it was not very good but then again, I was only seven years old. Then, as now, I had difficulty bringing it to a close. I think I just abandoned the storyline after about four chapters and began other projects. I was very project-oriented as a child, come to think of it... I can recall building Radio Shack kids' science kits (a radio, a generator, an electro-magnet), trying to use all the legoes to make a city, sewing and knitting for my doll-house (more fascinated with the house than actually playing with the dolls themselves). Miniatures especially entranced me. I would spend hours putting things in the dollhouse and then close it up and look through the windows. I was somewhat obsessed with making things "realistic". I collected stuffed animals but I only liked animals that looked "real" - no pink bunnies or blue doggies for me!
But mostly, I made up stories. Once I learned to write, I wrote stories all the time. I tried to draw pictures to go along with my stories but my impatience with my own lack-of-talent and technical ineptness often made me ask my best friend Jill to do the drawings for me (she was extremely gifted).
I wrote a lot of wacky stuff back then, usually because my wackiness was what got the rave reviews. It was easy for me to begin a tale and wind it all over the map of the imagination before bringing it to a bizarre ending. I discovered that bizarre endings were not only popular, they often solved the problem of how to finish off a tale that actually has no moral tale or "message". My protagonists had a habit of turning into other creatures (or other genders!) and flying off to enjoy other (untold) adventures elsewhere. Elsewise, they ended up marrying someone and living "happily ever after"

You see, I grew up with tons of fairy tales told to me all the time. The hidden part of me that was naiive and romantic, clearly showed whenever I told a story. It also showed in my drawings. Psychiatrists and psychologists believe that children tell their innermost feelings through their drawing and imaginative play. If that's so, then apparently I had a secret deep longing to be a princess. Despite my tomboy nature, I obviously coveted long beautiful dresses and waited to someday meet my prince (or princess) who would wisk me away to an imposing castle where we would live happily ever after.
On the other hand, if drawings and imaginative play show what lies deep within the heart of a child, I must have had a serious dichotomy going on. Because the other half of my imagination was one of swashbuckling and heroism. Just as I might tell a tale of a princess who turned into a snake before meeting and marrying her alligator prince who later turns into a princess so they can get married under the lake, I would weave a story of being a pirate who one day decides to go on land and save the hapless old man from the fierce dragon who has put a spell on the old man because he's really a handsome prince in disguise and now they can both jump on the back of a turtle and fly up to the moon to get married and live happily ever after.

I dreamed of being a princess and being saved. I dreamed of being a pirate and saving a princess.

(Good gravy, I've been bi-trans-gender-sexual since I was a child!)

What did you used to imagine?

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