dreaming

On the rare occasions I get to wake up with her, my good woman likes to ask me about my dreams, as in, “Did you have any dreams last night?” My answer is usually in the negative, or along the lines that I might have, but can remember nothing.

My good woman is a psychologist—have I mentioned that?—so her interest in dreams is entirely understandable. I’m a bloke, so my lack of interest in dreams is understandable too. To my good woman a dream is full of symbols; to me dreams are the unconscious brain’s equivalent of emerging from your hotel in Paris and picking a direction, any direction, at random, and stepping off, then heading down any alley that catches your eye along the way.

Some people see portents in dreams, images of things to come in their lives. Fortunately, neither my good woman nor I subscribe to this nonsense.

On the occasions that she asks and I can remember what I dreamed, I know I’m in for a grilling. “What do you think this dream means?” (Nothing.) “Is this dream telling you something?” (Nothing.) “Is anything worrying you at the moment?” (These questions.)

Occasionally I have an absolute doozy, a dream so bizarre as to be almost unforgettable. Last night, for instance.

Last night I dream that my 61 year-old cycling buddy Rock wins the Tour de France. In his nonchalant winner’s speech he tells an adoring crowd how good it is to win in his home town, Melbourne. I’m sort-of, slightly pleased for him, but amazed and a bit miffed too. He’s done even less training than I have, which is close to none at all, and neglects to tell me he is riding the event.

I ask him when the celebrating hordes have moved on how he managed to do it. Just hang in with the bunch, he says, and make no mistakes. I imagine him Bradburying the field, staying upright as 188 other riders go down in un chute, a crash.

My dream then does what dreams do: takes me somewhere else. I’m moving into a dilapidated caravan full of gravel and a mouldering mattress on the floor. I have to sweep it and scrub it clean with a toothless old brush, and so on. Rock is nowhere to be seen.

As a boy and adolescent I have erotic waking daydreams but none in the dead of the night compromising my sheets. As a late middle-aged man I’ve had some marvellous nocturnal erotic encounters, though no emissions. I’d like to report these to me good woman, but she is not in any of them.

It’s best to keep dreams to yourself, if you have any.

Rock on.