Those Fickle Dreams from Fairyland…

Had a dream last night that I was in a pastor in charge of a small children’s Halloween party.  I was obsessed with writing down party instructions on every possible surface, including the passenger door of my car.  DO NOT forget a flashlight! I kept scrawling over and over in fluorescent yellow marker.  Suddenly I realized I probably shouldn’t write the private details of my life on my car.  I started erasing words and lines and then whole sentences, and discovered that if I erased in one place the same words disappeared everywhere else.  But erasing anything also took away the car’s identity.  The chrome letters that spelled out make and model vanished.  What was that information again?  Where did I get this car?  Was it my grandmother’s Buick, the one with the mushy steering that my friends and I had navigated through a snowstorm?  The old man’s Chrysler, acquired through my father, that had its stereo stolen twice and then was spirited away whole one night, only to wind up totaled in another part of the city?  I couldn’t tell.  Both cars were boxy and a sort of brownish maroon, like the covers of 1950s encyclopedias.  They were hand-me-downs that I never wanted, but I learned to make do.  The words, though.  The words kept adding up and blowing away and I could never tell what was important and what wasn’t.

So what does this mean?  Is it an anxiety dream about writing in general?  About the “vehicle” that sends my work out into the world?  Is it just my Mommy side unable to quiet itself, continuously generating lists for my son’s teachers to consult?  I’m not sure.  I will say, though, that this dream filled me with unspeakable dread, and I’d love to know where that awful feeling of terror came from.

Ideas?  Insights?  Analysis?  Want to share a dream of your own?  The comments page awaits…


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