My husband is a social worker and whenever I describe a particularly vivid dream to him and ask what he thinks it means, he reminds me that we are all the authors, directors and stars of our own dreams. I happen to agree with that, but the writer in me always wants to see the ending in print and not hidden behind “What do YOU think it means?” I know there are components in therapy that utilize revelatory dream interpretations, and Tony Soprano would agree since they were often the impetus behind his tossing lamps around Dr. Melfi’s office.
A recurring dream I have is that I log on to my computer to check my blog and it’s gone. In some dreams I log on again and someone else’s website comes up. In others I call GoDaddy to complain and they tell me they see it just fine. I log on again and it’s still not there; it’s visible to everyone but me. In my waking world, I print out all my entries so it’s not like I don’t have a hard copy of what I’ve written, but here’s what I think: in my dreams the Internet is the afterlife. This blog is the proof I was here.
People keep journals and diaries for many reasons. They do it for personal expression, to record important events, to help organize their thoughts, to clarify their memories. They do it for family members not yet born, or too young to ask the things they’ll want to know when they grow up and there’s no one left to ask.
In the final weeks before my 100-year-old grandmother died, Daughter and I sat with her talking about the things she’d accomplished in her long and unusual life, and listening to her still sharp recollections. Of my grandfather, who passed away in his fifties, she said, “He was a cute boy, but he turned out not to be as smart as I thought he was. I could have done better.” The hospice nurse nearly fell off her chair, but Daughter and I ate it up. Then Grandma said of her youngest brother, for whom I was named, “He worked at a factory and they weren’t allowed to go to the bathroom during the day. His kidneys got infected and he died at 26. He was my favorite.” And so was I.
While walking through the Renegade Nation Craft Fair last weekend, I shared my dream anxiety with Daughter, who assured me I would never be forgotten. In turn, she related a dream she kept having about an upcoming trip to Costa Rica where she and her friend planned to go bungee jumping. It was a 200-foot drop and she feared when the moment came she wouldn’t be able to do it. She asked her travel companion if he’d give her a little push, and he said he was pretty sure that wasn’t allowed. So she remained frozen at the edge, alone, listening to her heart pound as the earth opened up below.
She turned to me at the craft fair with a winsome smile.
DTR: I guess it’s pretty obvious what that dream’s about, right?
OSV: Right. Don’t fucking jump!!
They should all be so easy.
Daughter’s Featured Fotos catch us Looking
in the sand
through the rushing water
at the city pavement
from end to end
Postscript: Comedy’s favorite son has left the building with the death of George Carlin, who reinvented the genre as he reinvented himself. Let us all say Seven Words in silence.