I Dreamed of My Father Again Last Night
3/24/2010 12:39 PM – 1:00 PM
I dreamed of my father again last night. Perhaps I’ve been dreaming of him frequently in the last few days, perhaps this is the first time in months. I don’t know. Since the panic attacks, I’ve tried to forget my dreams upon waking. The terror of immortal immolation given unbridled freedom by my unconscious imagination is not something that I like to hold on to.
They’ve been getting better over the last few years. The dreams, I mean. When I do remember a dream, it’s usually the normal dreams that I have had for most of my life. There was no terror in my dream of my father, just sadness. When I do remember a dream that belongs to a series, for a little while, I remember the series. I remembered the progression of my Father Dreams as they have been for a while. Those few that read the first draft of the Desert Novel know that a few years after my father died, I started to have dreams where I discovered that my father hadn’t really died, but had instead been forced to pretend to die because he was a spy and if the Bad Guys discovered that he was alive, they would have used my brother, myself and my mother to blackmail him.
These were fairly simple wish-fulfillment dreams. I understood them on waking and enjoyed them. My father and I would have spy adventures and he would help me find the Girl as well as foiling the Bad Guys. What I remembered upon waking and will hopefully forget again soon, was that the dreams started to change a few years back, even before the panic attacks. It turned out that my father had, in fact, died and by some unknown power, been brought back to life. In the dreams, it seemed that he had been brought back to life unwillingly to do some task. Whatever it was, he did it and now was just waiting to die again, which, for some unspecified reason, was expected to occur very soon. In the dreams, I have discovered that I too am dying and seeking some cure or comfort, I sought my father out. Last night’s dream, I found him again and asked him for help. He didn't. He didn't really refuse, he just didn’t really care. He didn’t want to be bothered. He’d done his part and just wanted to be left alone to die. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t sad. He just couldn’t be bothered as he made his way through a flea market, looking at things that he might want to buy for his apartment. I don’t believe in dream symbolism anymore. As dreaming creatures, I think we’re too dynamic to be put in such plain boxes. I don’t think that it means anything. It was just sad. Somehow, I knew that it was just a dream and so I left in disappointment and disgust. And then tried to seduce a girl on the fifth floor of an antiques store. I ran for eleven minutes straight today. I’m writing the instants. I sat. I’ll go to work in less than an hour. Doing is doing. Living is living. Dreams are just dreams. It's all they can be.
I dreamed of my father again last night. Perhaps I’ve been dreaming of him frequently in the last few days, perhaps this is the first time in months. I don’t know. Since the panic attacks, I’ve tried to forget my dreams upon waking. The terror of immortal immolation given unbridled freedom by my unconscious imagination is not something that I like to hold on to.
They’ve been getting better over the last few years. The dreams, I mean. When I do remember a dream, it’s usually the normal dreams that I have had for most of my life. There was no terror in my dream of my father, just sadness. When I do remember a dream that belongs to a series, for a little while, I remember the series. I remembered the progression of my Father Dreams as they have been for a while. Those few that read the first draft of the Desert Novel know that a few years after my father died, I started to have dreams where I discovered that my father hadn’t really died, but had instead been forced to pretend to die because he was a spy and if the Bad Guys discovered that he was alive, they would have used my brother, myself and my mother to blackmail him.
These were fairly simple wish-fulfillment dreams. I understood them on waking and enjoyed them. My father and I would have spy adventures and he would help me find the Girl as well as foiling the Bad Guys. What I remembered upon waking and will hopefully forget again soon, was that the dreams started to change a few years back, even before the panic attacks. It turned out that my father had, in fact, died and by some unknown power, been brought back to life. In the dreams, it seemed that he had been brought back to life unwillingly to do some task. Whatever it was, he did it and now was just waiting to die again, which, for some unspecified reason, was expected to occur very soon. In the dreams, I have discovered that I too am dying and seeking some cure or comfort, I sought my father out. Last night’s dream, I found him again and asked him for help. He didn't. He didn't really refuse, he just didn’t really care. He didn’t want to be bothered. He’d done his part and just wanted to be left alone to die. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t sad. He just couldn’t be bothered as he made his way through a flea market, looking at things that he might want to buy for his apartment. I don’t believe in dream symbolism anymore. As dreaming creatures, I think we’re too dynamic to be put in such plain boxes. I don’t think that it means anything. It was just sad. Somehow, I knew that it was just a dream and so I left in disappointment and disgust. And then tried to seduce a girl on the fifth floor of an antiques store. I ran for eleven minutes straight today. I’m writing the instants. I sat. I’ll go to work in less than an hour. Doing is doing. Living is living. Dreams are just dreams. It's all they can be.
posted by Spike at 10:07 AM
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