I am no longer so bothered by the graphomania of our times, as my exasperation with all of this writing—this global writing delirium—has evolved into disinterest, and even some compassion, too. So what if everyone’s a writer! What’s the harm, really? The more the merrier, I now say. And why, to be fair, should I be bothered by the maniacal writing of others when, in fact, I avoid assiduously the work of others? To have an opinion on something that does not concern me seems inappropriate, even indulgent. I thus now exist inside of a protective bubble, reading in quiet isolation only those words of my own creation.
Instead of being irritated by writers, I am on to something else. I have concluded that there are very few things more irritating than a friend (or worse yet, a lover) who describes with great specificity a memorable dream. I have long maintained that it is easier to tolerate epic tales of traffic, the weather, home renovations or the accomplishments of a friend’s child than it is a thirty-second description of even the most fantastical dream.
Now, if only these friends and lovers were content to limit themselves to the facts of their dreams, then perhaps we could withstand this dream-telling agony. If only . . . Sadly, though, we are not so fortunate, for these same people insist not just on reciting their dreams, but on interpreting them as well—an undertaking that can only magnify our irritation. As if we have not endured enough boring detail—and then I found myself walking down a long, dark hallway with an orange light in the distance, a fancy show poodle dancing on its two hind feet as if it were a prima ballerina—we then find ourselves subjected to the most banal and predictable analysis—this long, dark hallway may signify my fear of death, while the poodle, of course, could only represent (pause, deep breath, pause) my narcissistic mother.
When this friend or lover describes a dream and then imposes upon us the most speculative interpretation, we have no choice but to feign great interest in their unconscious—for rejecting a person’s unconscious may be even more punitive than rejecting a person for the most conscious, purposeful act. This may sound odd, I know, for should we not grant every accommodation to the former and punish the latter?
Now, I maintain that the conscious action is not what it seems. On only rare occasion is the conscious action a considered action: the conscious action is often nothing more than the extension of an unconscious thought, the manifestation of the unknown, and thus indistinguishable therefrom. This conscious action may be purposeful, of course, but its true motive is often a mystery.
So, why is rejecting a person’s unconscious—scoffing at their dream—as unpopular as punishing them for their bad acts? Well, it is possible because the unconscious is the molder of the conscious, the primordial stew—the cause, the basis of our impulses, our stupid decisions, our smart ones too, our addictions, our prejudices, our innocence, our poetry, our song, our clumsy, regrettable gropes. To reject the manifestation of a person’s unconscious—the dream—is to reject a person’s very essence. And what could be crueler than to reject the essence of a human being?
And so it is, when a friend or lover says I had the craziest dream last night, that one must access great reservoirs of discipline. One must brace oneself for a mind-numbing exercise in self-restraint, mustering the skills of the finest actor. One must look the friend or lover in the eyes with great earnestness. One must lean forward, touch their hand and say tell me all about it—for to do otherwise would be akin to declaring something along the lines of I am revolted by your foul soul and by every molecule in that bag of meat you call your body.
Which brings me to my obstructive sleep apnea . . . Even though I have none of the obvious risk factors—obesity, smoking, thick neck, deviated septum, throat tumor, sinusitis, huge tongue—my airway closes several hundred times per night, causing me to wake up repeatedly for a split second and gasp for air. In addition to problems like chronic fatigue, high blood pressure, increased risk for impotence, heart attacks, and irritability, sleep apnea prevents me from dreaming.
I have often wondered if my irritation with people who describe and interpret their dreams is caused by my inability to have them. Maybe my distaste for the dream teller is not based on philosophy or disinterest in the mysteries of the mind, but rather on a jealousy that has evolved into deep resentment. Maybe, as my curmudgeonly aunt from Paris once said, we hate what we cannot have.
But things changed for me last week, and I suspect that my tolerance for dream tellers may increase as a result. What happened is that my dentist made for me a mandibular advancement device that pushes the lower jaw forward a few millimeters. This device, which resembles an athlete’s mouth guard, lifts the tongue and soft tissue away from the back of the throat and permits an uninterrupted flow of air through the pathway. I no longer wake up throughout the night, attaining instead a sleep so deep and dream-infused that I awake refreshed, often with a series of deep lines on my face from the creased linen.
As if I have been administered powerful psychotropic drugs, my unconscious now crackles and barks, with each night bringing the most vivid and odd images, some terrifying, some lovely. This explosion of surreal narrative is, I believe, my mind making up for years of dream deprivation—my unconscious stretching its legs after a long journey.
By the side of my bed, I now keep a pad and pen. And when I rise in the morning, I write down every memorable detail of every memorable dream. There are awful nightmares and silly dreams, erotic ones and dreams that are so bizarre I don’t know what to make of them. But regardless of content or meaning, I reduce each one to writing, preserving them and converting the ephemeral into something with a hint of permanence. And what a beautiful endeavor this is, to take this melting gossamer thing—this fleeting story that disappears when we open our eyes—and wrap it in mesh, buttress it with struts, give it heft and longevity.
Despite this explosion of dreams, though, I have not told anyone about them, neither a friend nor a lover. Several of my dreams have been worthy of disclosure, but when I imagine my reaction to the recitation of this same dream by another, I shudder in horror. I concede that I could not impose my dream on anyone but my most hated enemy, someone I hold in the lowest regard.
Allow me, please, to describe a dream I had just last night—where I visited my former wife Abby (who exists in real life) at the apartment we once shared. With her were two young children: my son (who exists in reality, whom I have loved and provided for since his birth) and a girl whom I did not know, a rosy-cheeked girl of eight or nine. The girl in the dream looked familiar to me—as if I had met her before—but I could not recall her identity.
Shortly after my arrival in the dream, Abby placed her palms over the girl’s shoulders and guided her toward me. I examined the girl’s face, and noticed that her irises—a flickering green with a soft dusting of graphite—resembled my own. She had puffy lips and a high hair line that could be passed down only from my ex-wife. I looked at Abby, who, sensing in my expression a vague recognition, nodded in affirmation.
“My daughter?” I asked. “Our daughter?”
Abby nodded again. My son did not appear to be surprised that he had a sister. Instead, he moved to the corner of the room and played with a toy truck. As I watched him, I thought about the thousands of hours we had spent together during his short life. I thought about my divorce from his mother, which in turn prompted me to run through my considerable shortcomings, those which had contributed to the demise of our marriage: anger, jealousy, spirits, insecurity, ambition, depression, and more spirits.
In this dream, I turned my attention back to the girl—my daughter—who now stood before me. I wondered how I could have neglected her to the point of not knowing her, how, to her exclusion, I could have focused all of my attention on my son. As I stared at her, I became suffused with a great and expansive love, the most powerful love that a father can feel for a child, and at that moment I adored her as much as I had ever adored my son. I tried to hug her, to correct the damage of my neglect, but the girl was frightened and withdrew, a rejection that reinforced my regret. Exhausted, distraught, I lay down on the couch and cried.
The girl looked around the room. She appeared to be considering her next action and, after a brief pause, approached me. She grabbed my foot, wiggled my big toe playfully. She then climbed up on the couch and lay down on top of me, placing the side of her face on my chest in the most comforting and profound way. I clutched her, and in just a few seconds I had become fully connected to my daughter, intertwined, integrated, as if I had pulled her from her mother’s womb.
I began to stroke the girl’s hair, my fingers tickling her left ear. Alarmed, she reached up and pushed my hand away. I wondered why she had reacted in such a way, and I again stroked her ear—and it was then that I felt something odd, a strange contour of the upper blade, a plump, floppy lobe, cartilage that was thick and busy: the mutated ear of a rugby player.
My daughter opened her mouth and tried to form a word. Her lips twisted and her tongue flapped about, slapping against her front teeth. Awaiting some message from her, I nodded in encouragement. But rather than speak, she made a peculiar groaning sound—the sound, perhaps, of a wounded animal. She examined my face, brushing her fingertips across my chin, then again twisted her lips. She smiled, and in this twisted smile—gnarled and imperfect, a kind, angelic smile—I could see only the purest manifestation of inviolable goodness.
The girl was frustrated by her inability to speak, and she pointed to her ear. After a few seconds of confusion, I came to understand that the girl could not hear: she was deaf. My heart ached with such acuity that I was momentarily pulled from my sleep, but quickly slid back into a dream state.
I turned to Abby. “She’s deaf?” I asked.
“What are you talking about?” she replied. “She’s fine.”
“Fine?” I said. “I don’t think so. I don’t think she can hear.”
Abby stared at me with fury. She approached our daughter and dropped to her knees, lowering her head in deference. She cupped the girl’s ears in her hands. “No,” Abby wailed, “no.”
And then I woke up in a jolt, panicked and frightened. I awoke with a painful image of my unknown daughter and my former wife. I awoke with a rapid thump in my chest. I awoke with no sense of relief that it was just a dream. I awoke with the fear, the terror, that I would never see my daughter again.
I awoke with the most profound regret for the life I had led.