Maybe I shouldn't have shared this information with the world. Maybe I shouldn't have titled this "I Don't Dream". Maybe I should have kept this to myself. Maybe my subconscious didn't realize that this is just my effort to help others categorize and understand the messages of their own minds. Whatever the cause, I have virtually stopped dreaming.
Shortly after starting this blog my dreams completely stopped. At first I thought it was because my grandmother fell ill. I thought it may have been the stress that caused my nightful mind to shut down. But then she got well, made pretty much a full recovery (thank you Jesus). Still, the dreams wouldn't come. Occasionally, I'd have a vague memory of some thoughts. Barely even a whisper of the dreams that usually shout through my mind in the night. Finally I decided it must be this. It must be the way in which I've put my dreams on display. Sharing with the world the very private things that my unconscious mind selectively chooses to share with me.
I thought of publishing my dreams differently. Maybe with less detail, or with more of a guiding tone instead of the stories that they play out as for me. But I'm actually afraid. I'm afraid that if I don't agree with myself to stop this right now I may never dream the same again. I can't risk that. My dreams...are my life. I go to sleep at night exciting for the next story that plays out in mind. Anxious to see what I'm trying to tell me. I've finally started to get back to the vivid dreams of weeks past. I can't risk messing that up.
So I will bid this blog adieu. I encourage you to seek meaning in your dreams. Pay special attention to recurring themes, people, situations, places, things. Hold them in your mind and look them up to see what they may mean. Dreams can open up new doors to the inner sanctum of the unconscious mind. They can guide you in life and make sense of things otherwise lost to us.
I thank you for reading and hope we can meet again soon.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Losing Her Identity
Chapter 1
It been so long she couldn't remember where she met him. Not that it mattered anymore. All that mattered was that she met him before all of this; before he was an actor or an actor-turned producer. And today she met him on the set of his first production. He'd invited her along with 30 or so of his "closest friends" (to use the term loosely). Some maybe but most were colleagues he'd met acting and now wanted to impress. They were all seated bleacher style waiting for the next take as she joked with about the movie.
"So this is what it's come to," she kidded him.
He knew she thought the movie was a long shot from box office gold. Although she respected the plot, the actors he scored as a new producer dangled the entire project a bit close to a thumbs down. She loved him enough to say so. She cared enough not to say so in front of his “friends”, so instead she gave him light-hearted jabs. Everyone must have thought the jabs funny because as she walked away to leave him to his scene the "close friends" began calling out other movie titles for her to comment on. Urbia (a play on the word suburbia; a movie made to show that gritty, urban films could have that same inane plots as sitcoms set in the suburbs) was the first. She railed it as a desperate attempt at humor made by people who have only gotten as urban as Manhattan. The crowd laughed and threw out another. She suddenly realized she was positioned in front of the bleachers on a sort of stage. Then came another. All movies she'd seen, surprisingly since she wasn't much of a movie-goer. Even the ones she'd liked she was able to rip on unabashedly. He watched on silently, delighted by the way she unknowingly worked the crowd. Whether it was his girl or his movie, whatever impressed these people put him at ease. To her, it was like a stand-up act. It wasn't about impressing people which is why she was so good at it. She never imagined herself on stage, or maybe she did. Was her graceful conversion to center of attention a result of her unrealized wish to be there or was this just another act she so easily put on to assimilate. Unaware of his elated feelings, she suddenly felt she might be stealing his thunder. As if doing an actual stand-up act she thanked the crowd before walking off the imaginary stage.
Having already said her good-bye to him, she turned back only briefly while she walked down the long, man-made dirt road surrounded by fake trees with fall foliage. Apparently, it was cheaper to create this part of the scene rather than trying to go on-site for it. When she looked back she saw him leaping through the air, probably reenacting a scene. Watching him it was almost like with each hop he was momentarily frozen in mid-air, the layering of his shirt, sweater and jacket flapping loosely then pausing in its position. She looked away and shook her head. He'd always seemed larger than life to her, now even more so. When she turned back again he was upon her.
"What are you doing here?" she questioned.
Without a word he playfully tackled her to the ground. Clouds of dust billowed around her. She remembered someone once telling her that dust symbolizes the aspects of oneself being ignored or neglected. Laughing she thought 'surely, this is innocent.' Soon he had her pinned, her stomach to the ground, which had become as soft as clouds. Just as she thought 'where did all the dust go?' he'd taken to the back and side of her neck. He put his mouth to where he was sure she couldn't resist. She knew he just wanted her to stay. "Oh...you...actor-types,” was all she could muster.
Chapter 2
The shoot went fine that day. Afterwards most of the crowd and crew retired to a small mansion on the grounds nearby. It must have belonged to an old friend of his. He acted very familiar with the place. It was decked out like a hippie pad from the 60s. Everything was earth tones and seemed messy, disheveled. It wasn’t dirty, just neglected. The two of them had gotten close again during throughout the day, so no one gave a second look when they headed to a large bedroom off the patio. She was so extremely attracted to me him now. It was if her mind had checked out. Or blacked out, woke up and was infatuated. Where had the day gone? He lit a joint. Maybe that’s where it’d gone. No, she couldn’t have. She wouldn’t have.
“Have some,” he offered.
“I quit,” she was reminded of how little they knew each other anymore, “April 1, 2006. Right before I graduated. I had to get serious.”
As soon as the words came out of her mouth, she could almost see them fly over his head. Here she was talking about getting serious to an actor-turned-producer who still smokes weed in between takes. His version of getting serious had nothing to do with not smoking weed. How different they were right now. Just the fact that he offered was a wall between them. It made her feel as though her identity or sense of self was being compromised or disrespected. She had to go to the bathroom, but true to any hippie hang out the bathroom wasn’t closed off by doors. A thin veil of strings decorated with small plastic cereal box replicas was all that kept the rest of the house from seeing her take care of business. He instructed a crew member to pull down the strings. She gave him a look to say ‘as if that’s going to help.’ Still, she couldn’t help being impressed by the way he continued to command the crew even after the workday had ended. She admired the large Jacuzzi tub as the crew member situated himself as a sufficient block. Once she was sure no one could peak she quickly made do. Back in the room she found him laid out on the bed, thoroughly enjoying his joint. She felt out of place. To ease the awkward feeling inside of her she made a flying leap onto the bed. He coughed and looked into her eyes. Suddenly they didn’t seem so far apart anymore.
It been so long she couldn't remember where she met him. Not that it mattered anymore. All that mattered was that she met him before all of this; before he was an actor or an actor-turned producer. And today she met him on the set of his first production. He'd invited her along with 30 or so of his "closest friends" (to use the term loosely). Some maybe but most were colleagues he'd met acting and now wanted to impress. They were all seated bleacher style waiting for the next take as she joked with about the movie.
"So this is what it's come to," she kidded him.
He knew she thought the movie was a long shot from box office gold. Although she respected the plot, the actors he scored as a new producer dangled the entire project a bit close to a thumbs down. She loved him enough to say so. She cared enough not to say so in front of his “friends”, so instead she gave him light-hearted jabs. Everyone must have thought the jabs funny because as she walked away to leave him to his scene the "close friends" began calling out other movie titles for her to comment on. Urbia (a play on the word suburbia; a movie made to show that gritty, urban films could have that same inane plots as sitcoms set in the suburbs) was the first. She railed it as a desperate attempt at humor made by people who have only gotten as urban as Manhattan. The crowd laughed and threw out another. She suddenly realized she was positioned in front of the bleachers on a sort of stage. Then came another. All movies she'd seen, surprisingly since she wasn't much of a movie-goer. Even the ones she'd liked she was able to rip on unabashedly. He watched on silently, delighted by the way she unknowingly worked the crowd. Whether it was his girl or his movie, whatever impressed these people put him at ease. To her, it was like a stand-up act. It wasn't about impressing people which is why she was so good at it. She never imagined herself on stage, or maybe she did. Was her graceful conversion to center of attention a result of her unrealized wish to be there or was this just another act she so easily put on to assimilate. Unaware of his elated feelings, she suddenly felt she might be stealing his thunder. As if doing an actual stand-up act she thanked the crowd before walking off the imaginary stage.
Having already said her good-bye to him, she turned back only briefly while she walked down the long, man-made dirt road surrounded by fake trees with fall foliage. Apparently, it was cheaper to create this part of the scene rather than trying to go on-site for it. When she looked back she saw him leaping through the air, probably reenacting a scene. Watching him it was almost like with each hop he was momentarily frozen in mid-air, the layering of his shirt, sweater and jacket flapping loosely then pausing in its position. She looked away and shook her head. He'd always seemed larger than life to her, now even more so. When she turned back again he was upon her.
"What are you doing here?" she questioned.
Without a word he playfully tackled her to the ground. Clouds of dust billowed around her. She remembered someone once telling her that dust symbolizes the aspects of oneself being ignored or neglected. Laughing she thought 'surely, this is innocent.' Soon he had her pinned, her stomach to the ground, which had become as soft as clouds. Just as she thought 'where did all the dust go?' he'd taken to the back and side of her neck. He put his mouth to where he was sure she couldn't resist. She knew he just wanted her to stay. "Oh...you...actor-types,” was all she could muster.
Chapter 2
The shoot went fine that day. Afterwards most of the crowd and crew retired to a small mansion on the grounds nearby. It must have belonged to an old friend of his. He acted very familiar with the place. It was decked out like a hippie pad from the 60s. Everything was earth tones and seemed messy, disheveled. It wasn’t dirty, just neglected. The two of them had gotten close again during throughout the day, so no one gave a second look when they headed to a large bedroom off the patio. She was so extremely attracted to me him now. It was if her mind had checked out. Or blacked out, woke up and was infatuated. Where had the day gone? He lit a joint. Maybe that’s where it’d gone. No, she couldn’t have. She wouldn’t have.
“Have some,” he offered.
“I quit,” she was reminded of how little they knew each other anymore, “April 1, 2006. Right before I graduated. I had to get serious.”
As soon as the words came out of her mouth, she could almost see them fly over his head. Here she was talking about getting serious to an actor-turned-producer who still smokes weed in between takes. His version of getting serious had nothing to do with not smoking weed. How different they were right now. Just the fact that he offered was a wall between them. It made her feel as though her identity or sense of self was being compromised or disrespected. She had to go to the bathroom, but true to any hippie hang out the bathroom wasn’t closed off by doors. A thin veil of strings decorated with small plastic cereal box replicas was all that kept the rest of the house from seeing her take care of business. He instructed a crew member to pull down the strings. She gave him a look to say ‘as if that’s going to help.’ Still, she couldn’t help being impressed by the way he continued to command the crew even after the workday had ended. She admired the large Jacuzzi tub as the crew member situated himself as a sufficient block. Once she was sure no one could peak she quickly made do. Back in the room she found him laid out on the bed, thoroughly enjoying his joint. She felt out of place. To ease the awkward feeling inside of her she made a flying leap onto the bed. He coughed and looked into her eyes. Suddenly they didn’t seem so far apart anymore.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Now bad news.
If you read the previous post you'll see that this 'bad' dream followed a very good dream - hence the title. This dream took place at my maternal grandparent's old house on 87th and Princeton, where oddly enough several of my dreams centered around violence take place. Growing up I remember feeling unsafe at this house. I love my family, but there was a time (especially when I was young) when the corner across the street from their house became a spot frequented by gang members and drug dealers but not much by police. There were holes in some of the walls and ceilings where stray bullets had come through. When there at night, the kids were told to stay away from windows and watch TV on the floor instead of on the bed or couches. I think back now and wonder if that's why my grandpa starting laying down on the couch to watch TV. As the only member of my family that never lived in that house (or in my paternal grandparent's house just down the block) and to grow up in the suburbs, these were very unnerving times. Now at the age of 26 and still never having lived in the city of Chicago, these thoughts seem even more foreign.
My mom, dad, sister, and I were at my grandparents house. I must have been getting ready for bed because I'd wrapped my hair and tied it up with a blue bandana. Not sure about going to bed though because I was wearing one of those old-school pullover coats that we all had in like 7th grade. Looking at myself in the mirror with that bandana and coat on I thought to myself how I looked like a gang member. Almost before I could get the though through my head, I heard a commotion outside. A gang member rival to the gang I had inadvertantly dressed myself up like spotted me in the window and was readying his weapon. Before I knew it he was in the window with his gun pointed right at us. My parents crouched down on the floor, so did I. I started pleading with him, insisting that I wasn't a gang member and to please leave us alone. I put my head down half hoping he'd just go away, half hopeing that if I didn't see it coming the shot wouldn't hurt as much. I heard shots fired. They were quiet, not nearly as loud as they should have been considering the gun was maybe a foot away from me. But I didn't feel anything. When I looked up he was gone. My mom and dad each had a single bullet hole in their foreheads. My brother (who wasn't previously in the dream) trudged over to the wall where my parents lay slumped. He too had been shot in the head. My sister sat on bed next to me. I couldn't tell if she'd been shot. I was suddenly overcome by sadness as I realized my entire family had been taken from me all because of some stupid bandana and coat. I begin thinking to myself how this gang violence has gotten out of hand - a thought that comes to mind each and every day in the real world.
The police and paramedics must have came and taken my family away, though I didn't see it happen. Next thing I know I was in front of a camera, pleading with the public to help capture this person who'd killed my family. I was threatening him. Saying that whether or not he is caught his death will be followed by a hell unlike any hell he has experienced on this Earth. I had lost everything and hoped that his death was as painful as my life right then. I didn't wake up in a fit. Instead I opened my eyes slowly, it being morning and me not being in a deep sleep to begin with.
The dream clung to me. it made me angry and exhausted. It made me feel the pain of all those that have lost their innocent child, mother, father, cousin, friend to gang violence. As I start to come to I think 'let's turn on the news and see who else the animals have killed this past night'. Not many shootings to report today and oddly no murders. A UPS driver shot in the back in West Englewood in a robbery attempt. Now in critical condition. Maybe all the murders happened in my dreams last night. If I could do that every night for the City of Chicago I would. I'd never have a sound sleep, but a mere cost if you ask me.
My mom, dad, sister, and I were at my grandparents house. I must have been getting ready for bed because I'd wrapped my hair and tied it up with a blue bandana. Not sure about going to bed though because I was wearing one of those old-school pullover coats that we all had in like 7th grade. Looking at myself in the mirror with that bandana and coat on I thought to myself how I looked like a gang member. Almost before I could get the though through my head, I heard a commotion outside. A gang member rival to the gang I had inadvertantly dressed myself up like spotted me in the window and was readying his weapon. Before I knew it he was in the window with his gun pointed right at us. My parents crouched down on the floor, so did I. I started pleading with him, insisting that I wasn't a gang member and to please leave us alone. I put my head down half hoping he'd just go away, half hopeing that if I didn't see it coming the shot wouldn't hurt as much. I heard shots fired. They were quiet, not nearly as loud as they should have been considering the gun was maybe a foot away from me. But I didn't feel anything. When I looked up he was gone. My mom and dad each had a single bullet hole in their foreheads. My brother (who wasn't previously in the dream) trudged over to the wall where my parents lay slumped. He too had been shot in the head. My sister sat on bed next to me. I couldn't tell if she'd been shot. I was suddenly overcome by sadness as I realized my entire family had been taken from me all because of some stupid bandana and coat. I begin thinking to myself how this gang violence has gotten out of hand - a thought that comes to mind each and every day in the real world.
The police and paramedics must have came and taken my family away, though I didn't see it happen. Next thing I know I was in front of a camera, pleading with the public to help capture this person who'd killed my family. I was threatening him. Saying that whether or not he is caught his death will be followed by a hell unlike any hell he has experienced on this Earth. I had lost everything and hoped that his death was as painful as my life right then. I didn't wake up in a fit. Instead I opened my eyes slowly, it being morning and me not being in a deep sleep to begin with.
The dream clung to me. it made me angry and exhausted. It made me feel the pain of all those that have lost their innocent child, mother, father, cousin, friend to gang violence. As I start to come to I think 'let's turn on the news and see who else the animals have killed this past night'. Not many shootings to report today and oddly no murders. A UPS driver shot in the back in West Englewood in a robbery attempt. Now in critical condition. Maybe all the murders happened in my dreams last night. If I could do that every night for the City of Chicago I would. I'd never have a sound sleep, but a mere cost if you ask me.
Good news first...
A great dream about work (yes, work!) was followed by an alarmingly violent dream. One of those that I wake from calm, but looking up at the ceiling in a dead stare wondering what the hell is wrong with my subconscious. We'll start with the good one.
Me and several of my co-workers were doing a product presention to a classroom full of people. Literally, it was classroom. Now we're in sales, so we're always doing sales pitches, presentations, and product demos. To this many people though, rarely. With that many people on our side, never. Just as we were getting introduced by the meeting emcee a lady spoke up. She had power and we'd met with her before, but she suddenly didn't want us there and didn't want anything to do with our products. She kicked us out of the room! We were dumbfounded. Here we were all prepared and raring to go and she kicks us out. The entire room followed because, apparently, she was too powerful or too much of a bitch for any to go against. As my co-workers filed out of the room I tried to reason with her. I explained to her that we'd discussed this entire presentation before and she'd agreed to give us the floor. I insisted it was very unprofessional, no downright inappropriate for her to gather her entire group for a presentation then dismiss the presenters. She was sympathetic to my case and agreed to let us move forward with our presentation. Once she let up, one of her counterparts agreed, announced the room that we would be moving forward, and invited us back in. I went out into the hall (remember this is a classroom so where else would we have been dismissed to but the hallway) and let everyone know I'd calmed her down and we could go ahead with our schpeel.
Me to the rescue! We went ahead with the presentation and knocked their socks off. It was interactive, animated, and informative. Everything any businessperson hopes a sales pitch will be. The audience ate it up. Throughout the presentation the pride I took in saving the day endowed me with a phsyically good feeling. It was clearly the best work dream ever. It was a peak then came the valley....
Me and several of my co-workers were doing a product presention to a classroom full of people. Literally, it was classroom. Now we're in sales, so we're always doing sales pitches, presentations, and product demos. To this many people though, rarely. With that many people on our side, never. Just as we were getting introduced by the meeting emcee a lady spoke up. She had power and we'd met with her before, but she suddenly didn't want us there and didn't want anything to do with our products. She kicked us out of the room! We were dumbfounded. Here we were all prepared and raring to go and she kicks us out. The entire room followed because, apparently, she was too powerful or too much of a bitch for any to go against. As my co-workers filed out of the room I tried to reason with her. I explained to her that we'd discussed this entire presentation before and she'd agreed to give us the floor. I insisted it was very unprofessional, no downright inappropriate for her to gather her entire group for a presentation then dismiss the presenters. She was sympathetic to my case and agreed to let us move forward with our presentation. Once she let up, one of her counterparts agreed, announced the room that we would be moving forward, and invited us back in. I went out into the hall (remember this is a classroom so where else would we have been dismissed to but the hallway) and let everyone know I'd calmed her down and we could go ahead with our schpeel.
Me to the rescue! We went ahead with the presentation and knocked their socks off. It was interactive, animated, and informative. Everything any businessperson hopes a sales pitch will be. The audience ate it up. Throughout the presentation the pride I took in saving the day endowed me with a phsyically good feeling. It was clearly the best work dream ever. It was a peak then came the valley....
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Passion & Politics
She was held by a man last night. He came to her door though she thought he might never again. How could he leave his family again? His wife, so perfect; a role model, a woman she’d never think either of them could betray. Yet here he was. He towered over her in an unreal way. Her arms were just at his waist as she clung to him in the doorway exclaiming that she didn’t think he’d come back. Just his hold on her was somehow comforting. Her heart beat so loud and fast in her head that she couldn’t make out his words. She led him inside or moreover he led her. His power over her was immediately clear, sensual, and seductive. Such a powerful man he was in every way. He offered her a drink from her own cabinet. Something he must have purchased specifically for his visits. Something she figured would collect dust until during some desperate snow storm she’d have nothing left to keep her warm and would have to imbibe. Knob Hill whiskey, a strong drink that she’d only toasted with her father after breakfast on Christmas morning. He asked her if she knew anything about the drink, like about its history.
“No,” she said.
“Do you know when it was first made?” he asked.
The question was obviously a test. She should know this somehow, but the longer she thought about it the farther away she got from the answer and the more impatient he became.
He smiled, “Your shoes. What is that number on your shoes?”
She looked down. The number ‘86’ was imprinted on the lip of her camel-colored loafers. They were a designer brand and, at the time, the significance of the number escaped her. He was always so smart and observant. Eighty-six was the year in either 1900 or 1800 when Knob Hill was first distilled. It was right on the bottle. He figured she would use her loafers as a hint, but the question had gone over her head. He didn’t mind. It was fun to mess with her, to watch all that nervous energy wash from her face as she tried to think. She was smarter than she knew or than she let herself be. When the riddle was found out and they returned to their current surroundings the sexual tension had only intensified. It was a torturous feeling they both feared they could not do without.
She knew that he controlled her. Around him she was nothing more than a flower, wilting in his hands, delicate to his touch, a sad and lonely weed of her former self when he was away. He knew that she let him control her. She was not like this normally. Normally she was controlling, sometimes bossy, and always leading. To control her as she wanted to be he had to be precise, so he did it with care. He had to be hard, but sincere. He needed to be dominant and powerful, as he always perceived himself to be. This reverie of their personalities fit like puzzle pieces. What a shame they worked so well together.
“No,” she said.
“Do you know when it was first made?” he asked.
The question was obviously a test. She should know this somehow, but the longer she thought about it the farther away she got from the answer and the more impatient he became.
He smiled, “Your shoes. What is that number on your shoes?”
She looked down. The number ‘86’ was imprinted on the lip of her camel-colored loafers. They were a designer brand and, at the time, the significance of the number escaped her. He was always so smart and observant. Eighty-six was the year in either 1900 or 1800 when Knob Hill was first distilled. It was right on the bottle. He figured she would use her loafers as a hint, but the question had gone over her head. He didn’t mind. It was fun to mess with her, to watch all that nervous energy wash from her face as she tried to think. She was smarter than she knew or than she let herself be. When the riddle was found out and they returned to their current surroundings the sexual tension had only intensified. It was a torturous feeling they both feared they could not do without.
She knew that he controlled her. Around him she was nothing more than a flower, wilting in his hands, delicate to his touch, a sad and lonely weed of her former self when he was away. He knew that she let him control her. She was not like this normally. Normally she was controlling, sometimes bossy, and always leading. To control her as she wanted to be he had to be precise, so he did it with care. He had to be hard, but sincere. He needed to be dominant and powerful, as he always perceived himself to be. This reverie of their personalities fit like puzzle pieces. What a shame they worked so well together.
Friday, July 17, 2009
The Amnesia Dream
I had an amnesia dream the other night. In the dream I’d woken up one day and didn’t know how I’d gotten to the particular point in time. I was in high school or college – can’t determine which one exactly, it was more like a mixture of both. I had been an active student, but I remember thinking ‘this isn’t the school I went to. I went to Marian Catholic (HS)/Saint Xavier (Univ).’ There were pictures of me hanging up around the school with other students on a trip to Ireland – or was it the Netherlands – no it was Ireland. I know it was because I regretted not being able to recall visiting the land of some of my ancestors. Looking at these pictures I realized that the last grade I last remembered attending was the 3rd grade. After the 3rd grade everything was blank. This is interesting because in real life the 3rd grade was the last grade for which I attended private school; it wasn’t until high school and college that I returned to Catholic institutions.
I decided that in the third grade I must have gotten amnesia and gone on living my life not realizing who I was. So I’d gone down a completely different path. But how did I know the path was different. How did my dream self know that my real self went down a different path. I must have been looking in on the dream from the outside at some point. My conscious and unconscious collided. I think that the amnesia was caused by real-life me falling into the middle of a dream. Real-life me couldn’t remember attending the dream school because it’d happened in the dream. This would also be why I could only recall things that happened in real life – changing schools in the 3rd grade, going to Marian Catholic HS and St. Xavier University. I spent much of the dream contemplating this. Walking the halls of my dream school (which eventually became the path down Jackson Blvd that I walk every morning to work – it must have been getting close to wake-up-get-ready-for-work-time usually as the morning progresses my dreams will shift to a work setting) wondering how I knew of a different path at all if I couldn’t remember anything.
Then people in the dream began saying that I must have amnesia now. That would explain why I didn’t remember going to that school or on the trip to Ireland. So a debate ensued as to whether I was just waking from amnesia or had just fallen into amnesia. I was convinced that I’d just woken up from it. How else would I remember the 3rd grade, but nothing else? Everyone else thought I’d just fallen into amnesia. I woke up not knowing what to think.
My favorite Dream Analysis website had the following to offer: to dream about amnesia suggests that I am trying to block out the rejected or negative aspect of myself and that I am afraid of change. (http://dreammoods.com/cgibin/dreamdictionarysearch.pl?method=exact&header=dreamsymbol&search=amnesia)
Interesting…around the time I had this dream I’d finally decided to go back to school for my MBA in Marketing. And not to follow my fashion design aspirations by returning to the Illinois Institute of Art until I’ve completed my marketing education. Because, let’s face it, nowadays a higher education isn’t complete without an MBA; at least for my generation it’s not. This is a scary thing: paying for college. I have no idea how I’m going to do it. My parents did it before and I’m still paying off those loans. The best I’ve been able to come up with is cancelling cable and that’s not going to get me very far in some of the most expensive MBA programs in the state. Maybe that’s what the dream was telling me. It was making me recognize my fear because I certainly am not feeling its full wrath during the day. I’ve buried my head in my determination to get accepted to these schools and doing well on the GMAT and all the great things I’ll learn and people I’ll meet when I get there. I’m trying to ignore the 300 lb. gorilla in the room wearing a big, red sign that says TUITION.
Now this negative aspect about myself that I’m trying to block out… I’m not so sure I’m ready for that yet…
I decided that in the third grade I must have gotten amnesia and gone on living my life not realizing who I was. So I’d gone down a completely different path. But how did I know the path was different. How did my dream self know that my real self went down a different path. I must have been looking in on the dream from the outside at some point. My conscious and unconscious collided. I think that the amnesia was caused by real-life me falling into the middle of a dream. Real-life me couldn’t remember attending the dream school because it’d happened in the dream. This would also be why I could only recall things that happened in real life – changing schools in the 3rd grade, going to Marian Catholic HS and St. Xavier University. I spent much of the dream contemplating this. Walking the halls of my dream school (which eventually became the path down Jackson Blvd that I walk every morning to work – it must have been getting close to wake-up-get-ready-for-work-time usually as the morning progresses my dreams will shift to a work setting) wondering how I knew of a different path at all if I couldn’t remember anything.
Then people in the dream began saying that I must have amnesia now. That would explain why I didn’t remember going to that school or on the trip to Ireland. So a debate ensued as to whether I was just waking from amnesia or had just fallen into amnesia. I was convinced that I’d just woken up from it. How else would I remember the 3rd grade, but nothing else? Everyone else thought I’d just fallen into amnesia. I woke up not knowing what to think.
My favorite Dream Analysis website had the following to offer: to dream about amnesia suggests that I am trying to block out the rejected or negative aspect of myself and that I am afraid of change. (http://dreammoods.com/cgibin/dreamdictionarysearch.pl?method=exact&header=dreamsymbol&search=amnesia)
Interesting…around the time I had this dream I’d finally decided to go back to school for my MBA in Marketing. And not to follow my fashion design aspirations by returning to the Illinois Institute of Art until I’ve completed my marketing education. Because, let’s face it, nowadays a higher education isn’t complete without an MBA; at least for my generation it’s not. This is a scary thing: paying for college. I have no idea how I’m going to do it. My parents did it before and I’m still paying off those loans. The best I’ve been able to come up with is cancelling cable and that’s not going to get me very far in some of the most expensive MBA programs in the state. Maybe that’s what the dream was telling me. It was making me recognize my fear because I certainly am not feeling its full wrath during the day. I’ve buried my head in my determination to get accepted to these schools and doing well on the GMAT and all the great things I’ll learn and people I’ll meet when I get there. I’m trying to ignore the 300 lb. gorilla in the room wearing a big, red sign that says TUITION.
Now this negative aspect about myself that I’m trying to block out… I’m not so sure I’m ready for that yet…
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