What, No Time to Blog??

I hate it when people tell me their dreams.
As if the deepest parts of their subconscious should be
fair game for discussion? Please. And it almost never makes sense.
The way people tell their dreams that is.
Perhaps I got burned by this old woman
who always shared her dreams, daily, with me over the phone.
I would be sorting bills, cleaning the bathroom mirror,
having sex, or changing the cat litter, when she'd call and start
the conversation with: I had the strangest dream . . . And, in fact,
it would not be strange at all. Simply boring. I once took a Medieval Lit
seminar as a graduate student where we analyzed medieval dreams;
I've also studied a bit of Freud; and I've seen plenty of dream sequences in films I can't remember at the moment--what does it all suggest?
As a culture we are obsessed with dreams & I believe it is b/c
dreams are a _visual_ manifestation of our creativity that simply
takes no work at all . . .

I had the strangest dream the other night. It was spring/summer time.
I sat in the living room at the end of our coffee table with
a paper in front of me. To my right was my partner, to my left sat those
twin boys. A twelve year old daughter sat at the table with me. Behind us, the
television was on, perhaps playing some cartoons.

The daughter reached over and gave me her finger, her pointer finger, to glue onto the card. Yes, allow me to stress--her fricken finger!--it was not attached to her hand. In fact, it was UNattached. A body part. Not attached to a body. Yet, she did this quite casually even. And, in the dream, this was not stange to me. After all, this was a Halloween card we were sending out to family.

I looked around and my entire little family sat there holding their bloodless, little fingers,
waiting for me to glue them onto the card. Again, no blood. But let me tell you, this dream was _real_. The texture of the air, the slant of the sunlight. I wasn't dreaming. I looked over at my partner, who also sat with a finger.

I looked at the finger the daughter had given me. Around the edge, it was turning black and blue. Black and blue. Perhaps a bit green. I shouted: "This won't re-attach!! Hey--this won't re-attach! We didn't put it on ice!" The children just looked at me, mildly surprised and growing confused. I shouted at my partner: "You told them it would grow back??"

I stood up and began to shove my way through our house. My vision was canted. I grasped the counter. "Oh God, this is not a dream." I made it out the back door and into our yard.

Sunny day. Except a huge green pavilion cover the back yard, covered the sky. My partner had followed me. I spun around and slapped my partner. "They won't grow back. We can't re-attach them. How could you let me do this? How, how?"

Standing, still holding a finger, my partner tells me: "Because I love you. I just want you to be happy."