Without Explanation

I had a dream a couple of nights ago that I was working in a very nice office, with all this beautiful wood paneling.  I was sitting at my desk, with a laptop open, playing a podcast, and I was looking through the drawers.  Inside were various medical tools, scalpels and the like.  I must work in a medical supply company? 
I think it's very strange to be dreaming about work.  And maybe a sign that I'm overworked, because don't normal people dream about sex or flying or being famous or something mundanely selfish?  I always dream about small moments without explanation. 

The End of Dreaming

I actually had a dream this morning.  I was at some sort of gathering, and everyone was waiting to dance.  (There was nothing really stopping us from dancing, other than the people sort of milling about.)  I ran into Dean and Jane, who like to dance too.  And we waited. 
The woman next door woke me this morning with another one of her screaming marathons.  I overslept, so it was strangely a good thing.  I suspect if she hadn't woken me, the dream would probably have more details and make more sense, or at least make more sense in the way dreams sometimes do. 
I sometimes worry about this woman.  What could it possible be that she needs to scream so frequently about? 

The Protests

This morning I had another dream. In this one, I was in a class I took over a year ago. Jon and Mark were there. (I've been thinking about the two of them a lot lately, I have to admit. Jon and I have had some recent heart-to-hearts.) The professor was calling on people he thought weren't paying attention, asking them questions. Three questions in, he turned and called on me, asking what I thought. This annoyed me deeply because I was paying attention. "About the protests?" I asked. There was a pause. "The protests?" I repeated, louder and more forcefully. And then my alarm woke me up.

Dream Outloud

Was reading tonight and came across a cool quote from Nanon Williams on poetry: "It gives us a chance to dream out loud."  That's both incredibly true and inspirational. 

Run Rabbit Run

Had a dream this morning.  In it, I had a rabbit that roamed around outside.  And then it was captured.  I went through the fields looking for it, and then broke into a cabin and found it smushed in a box.  And then woke up before I had a chance to free it. 
I still don't dream as much as other people do, but I am dreaming more now than I was about a year ago. 

Good Morning!

My dream this morning started off normally.  I was in a classroom, and one of my old math teachers was up at the front, teaching.  Everyone from these math classes I used to take was sitting in the desks, only they were older now, as these classes were years ago.  After class ended, I put on my backpack (which was heavy) and my Dad came and picked me up. 
This is where the dream started getting weird.  We were walking along a river, and then we were walking on stepstones to get across the river, and then there was a strange sideways fountain that I think I was suppose to use as a transport device. 
I never really found out because my phone rang and woke me up.  It was Nate, sending me a text message, simply saying good morning.  The first thing I thought was "What could Nate possibly want from me?"  Not that Nate usually wants something (he's pretty good at taking care of himself, especially since the beginning of this year) but I felt like I was getting buttered up for something.  I don't know Nate's schedule right now, but it was at the time of day when a lot of people are suppose to be in class. 
I didn't reply right away because I was hoping to fall back asleep.  Sometimes I am awoken by something but it's close enough to when my body would have naturally woken me that I am unable to fall back asleep. 
But Nate hasn't texted me back yet, so maybe that means he really just wanted to be nice and actually wish me a good morning. 

The Jung and the Restless

Clearly, all of you want to hear about my freaky dreams. 
This past night I dreamed that I was at a parking lot and there was a huge party going on.  Lots of people sitting at various long tables, eating dinner.  And I ran into one of those people I have no respect for.
(Why is it that the few times I dream, I almost never see people I like, but those I don't?  Or even worse, boys it never worked out with?)
My sister and I were walking together.  She was pushing a baby stroller containing a short version of her.  Not even a baby version of her, a shrunken version sitting in the seat.  And I was floating slightly above the asphalt, watching the shadow of myself, while walking next to her. 
Like I said, freaky, right?
Maybe my psychology friends would like to analyze me?  Or, better yet, people who have no expertise analyzing it?  

Murder Mystery Dream

I'm wondering if my dreams are so strange because I love to indulge in creative writing. Maybe my dreams can't help but feel like movies.
This time, a preacher's wife had been murdered. I knew the preacher, knew he had murdered his wife, and had no way to prove it. Kristina comes to see me in the back of a bar, bringing along "pot brownies." It actually looked like chocolate cake and smelled very strongly, and, as always, I refused. Then, as she was getting high and drunk and I was drinking, I realized how I could get him to confess on national television. And I did it.
The terribly sad thing is that this doesn't sound that far off from some tv shows I've been known to watch.

I Will Tell About It

Like I mentioned earlier this week, there was a picnic for graduating honors seniors. It was mostly fine. I ran into Mikey, and he told me all about his plans to go to New York. I ran into Courtney, and she told me all about her plans to go to Japan. I told them I was still waiting. I increasingly hate the waiting. I want to tell them that I have a plan, and it involves things. Mikey and Courtney are gracious people; neither of them made me feel bad for not having anything definite, but this doesn't help me feel better.
I didn't know the vast majority of people there. There was a couple there, Lauren and Paul, and they had just gotten engaged last night. I don't know why, but it bothered me. Looking at her face, which still had childhood's freckles, and his face, unpocked. There was something too young about them. The only thing I could think about was Kristina's smart remark a few weeks back about getting married young and having a tiny ring. Their ring made me think of the rings children find in their cereal, the kind that little girls play with when they are playing princess. She picked the tomatoes off her sandwich and gave them to him.
I walked home. I slept. I had a strange dream that I've had before and has nothing to do with this. And then I realized what it was that was bothering me as I woke. Looking at them, I went back to May 1937, the Sharon Olds poems. I've always liked this poem. I've always thought that I understood the angst of knowing how deeply your parents hate each other. And I still do, but now I understand why when people my age say they are getting married, or do get married, why I think "No. You don't understand how bad this could be. Be smart. Don't do this."
But how could I tell people that? It's easy to dismiss me; after all, I've spent the last three years avoiding long-term relationships. I'm finally ready, emotionally-speaking, to try again, to really try again, with some I love, but I've discovered recently that there's no one that feels the same about me. And I could be bitter about that, but then I think of this poem. I think of books on hips, of marriage, of "we would never hurt anyone," of wrong men, of suffering, of hunger, and of paper dolls, and then finally I think "No. I'm choosing. I am choosing to take things slow. I'm choosing to be smart."

Not Again

Again, I had dreams this morning about that boy. Argh. It wasn't just like a while ago, when I'd be talking to a friend and then feel someone watching me and then turn around and it was him. No, these past couple of times he talked to me. First, I got to meet his girlfriend, which was, as you can imagine, no fun. Then he did the creepy thing where I was walking with a friend, and he was silently following me.
This has got to stop. I've been trying desperately not to think about him in any way, even though that's proving harder and harder. Part of me wants to find his real life counterpart and scream at him until I feel better. (Even though that will be a very short-lived feeling, because four minutes later I'll regret taking out my frustration on a probably-innocent someone.) There's part of me that's wondering if something else is a afoot and my subconscious is trying to warn me. I want to ask this boy if he's determined to leave me no safe harbor on this campus, in this town.
Remember when I complained about not dreaming about boys? I take that back. I don't need to dream about boys, even though what I meant was boys that were attainable and weren't going to make me feel bad about my failings. I would happily go back to the dreams that felt like Salvador Dali writing a summer blockbuster. Really. Or even better, to not dreaming at all, when it would be rare for me to have dreams within six months of each other.

Bizarre Little Dramas

Again, I find myself dreaming so much more than I usually do. Last night, it was that there was some authoritarian government that decided to destroy a group of teachers, including Laura Prepon, who were trying to teach the truth. (What this was this truth? My dream didn't go into details, but I feel, based on most authoritarian governments, it was probably something that questioned their authority.) Laura and her beau are eventually imprisoned, and she finds out she's pregnant, and he eventually escapes (with the woman who betrayed him in the first place) and goes out into the woods to start again, totally ignorant of his girl and that all the other teachers are trying to save them.
When I woke up, I honestly considered going back to sleep to see if I could finish this story, because I often find if I fall back asleep I do pick these bizarre little dramas up again.
I'm also wondering what exactly spurred this particular dream. I feel like thoughts from the past week sort of congealed together into one thing. I just saw Prepon in a recent episode of House, and, last night, I watched a television program that discussed Budapest's House of Terror, this museum that explores Hungary under both Nazism and Communism, and I'm writing an essay on African education, so that accounts for the teachers.
Why can't I have dreams about boys I could actually have sex with? Or, more generally put, why can't I just dream about the same things everyone else does?

Dreaming

I don't dream often, but today I was pleasantly surprised by one today. I was living and working at a bohemian home decor boutique. I lived in the attic, which was just a narrow room, with white washed walls and little room for a bed. It had one window, without curtains, and, because it was summer, it was always open, and the breeze meandered its way in all day.
In addition to selling fake flowers and fabrics and paint, we had a stall outside in front of the store where we sold vegetables. I worked with this handsome young man. He wasn't particularly tall but had dark brown hair that sat in tight curls on his head and dark brown eyes. I was almost as beautiful as him, with short dark hair, with thin blond highlights. We would stand near out hardwood stand, enjoying the sunshine. For some reason he loved me, though I couldn't fathom why.
My boss was this woman still in her thirties. She too, had short auburn hair and freckles. She was always eating. "Don't eat too much of my bread," she warned me. "I eat fifteen slices sometimes a day." It was perfect bread, the kind that is soft and has a slight flavor. In addition to running a store, she made candy treats, which I was trying to convince her to sell. "They would be a huge hit around here, and in Ann Arbor and-"
You know how dreams sometimes are.