Existentialist Dreaming

When I told Mona that my dreams seem to be broken lately, she accused me of malingering.

“Don’t start acting crazy on me, Harry.” she said. “It’s not going to work.”

“Why does it always have to be about you?” I replied.

“Of course it’s not about me. It can’t be. You never dream about me.”

“Please, just listen for once,” I begged. “Last night I dreamed I went out in the snow to feed the chickens. When I opened the door to the coop, there was another door inside. It wasn’t connected to anything, like a floating plane, half in – half out. In the dream I became confused. I thought to myself, this isn’t right. It defies the laws of physics. But then I realized I was only dreaming. I told myself to get rid of the door and it vaporized. But I wasn’t satisfied. The dream is spoiled for me now, I thought. So I woke up and told myself, you have to remember this, so you can tell Mona about it in the morning. This isn’t the only one I have had like that. There have been others, but I can’t remember them. You know me, I hardly ever remember my dreams. But I know this, remember them or not, they have been unsatisfactory, lately. I don’t know what to do. My dreams are broken.”

“So, you are telling me that your dreams are broken,” she huffed. “This just proves that you don’t love me anymore. You’re so damn selfish.”

Whenever she says this, and she says it a lot, I always scoff at the idea of it. But I am coming to think there may be something to it. So I have resolved to love her more. Maybe she’s right. As absurd as it may seem, there may be a link between these fragmented dreams and the way I go through life.

“I don’t mean ‘broken dreams’ like in some sappy love song,” I said. “I mean my dreams, my actual night time dreams, aren’t working right. Like a broken television, or when the projectionist gets the reels mixed up in the movie theater, things are happening out of context.”

“You don’t love me as much as I love you,” she said.

This is probably true. I don’t love her has much as she wants me to, but I love her enough for me. Is there something wrong with me? Do other people think like this? I don’t like talking about our relationship all the time, like she does. I think it should just happen, without any special engineering. But I have to admit, when I just let it happen, there is an element of selfishness that seeps in from my end. I’m always trying to impose my will on her. That’s okay, it never works anyway.

“I would take a bullet for you,” I said. “I would jump in front of a train to protect you.”

“Really?” she cooed and hugged me.

This always works. Sometimes I feel guilty about using it. But I mean it. I would make that choice. I would give up my life for her. There are a million reasons and they have little to do with love.

“If I were drowning, would you save me?” she asked.

“Of course I would.”

“If I was drowning and one of your children was drowning at the same time, who would you save?

“Not a problem. Both my kids can swim.”

“Don’t try to wiggle out of this,” she said. “If you won the 10 million dollar lottery this week, how much would you give me?”

“I’d give it all to you,” I said.

“That’s better.”

“But what about my dreams?” I asked.

“Just love me more and everything will be alright,” she said.

Lottery by Camper Van Beethoven


in dreams

She was dressing for work.
I was just laying there
watching, listening
to her early morning
bird song.

"I dreamed again
last night," she said.

"Another bad dream?"
I asked.

"No. You were in it
again. So many times
you've been in my dreams.
Do you dream about me?"

"Sometimes," I lied,
since I never dream.

"How do I look?"
she was curious.

"I can't remember,"
I lied some more.
"How do I look
in your dreams?"
I asked.

"Younger," she said.