A friend of mine at school had a little business for herself. She figured she was quite good at analyzing dreams (read: spout Freudian bullcrap from a book) and had advertised on her door in the boarding house that she was doing so.
Naturally, when you inhabit a colorful dreamscape like mine, you are bound to want to look for some explanations about why you’re suddenly dream-boinking Viggo Mortensen on an IKEA chair in the boarding house.
So, I turned to her. And got the explanation that my subconsciousness was telling me I need intimacy in my life.
Right. Still doesn’t account for the shagging though.
So, why am I telling you this? Well, because I’ve started noticing something is off about my dreams. They’re not about sex, which is weird, since I seem to dream about what I’m most confronted with in my life. (by the by, I can’t really recall ever having a sex dream…)
No. They are of a much more random nature. Observez-vous.
A few nights ago, I dreamt I was in London. Although it wasn’t really London, but a meta-London that my brain made up for me. At some point, I was distributing flyers for a gay-and-lesbian alliance rally. Then, I lived in a store, where the loo was in the dressing room. I pee’d all over a faux-Hervé Légère dress. And in the end, the poet Rainier Maria Rilke showed up at my door.
Go ahead. Try and analyze that. Meanwhile, I’ll just leave this here to distract you.
(PS: my sincerest apologies for this post.)