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3 dream fragments: 8.13.15

August 13, 2015


My parents are assembling a dedicated studio/office for my father, and I wander over to help out. I like putting puzzles together!

At some point, something in the environment makes it plain to me that my parents must still have an active sex life. And they are (I perceive) trying to get me to leave right now so they can get on with it. Later, I tease my father about how all that sex is good for his heart’s health.

I’m feeling playful & light-hearted when I say that. He sort of scowls and says nothing. I’m disappointed that he didn’t respond in kind, but my overall good spirits do not change.

= = =


On a grassy football field, 2 long ‘chorus lines’ of white women in their 50s and 60s, all with bright blonde hair, wearing bright (almost neon bright) peach hoodies. They prepare themselves to perform a Haka.

= = =


I’m in a warren of a very large room. In the corner I head over to, lawyers are packing into boxes thick case books (that look like encyclopedias), from 3 ft. high shelves. I try to strike up a conversation, but most are too busy to pay attention to me. The one who replies looks like she could be a woman, is large and solidly-built, wearing dark non-descript clothes. White skin, straight strawberry-blonde hair in a military cut. She’s directing things and is clearly not only highly capable but respected by the others. Her manner is no-nonsense, but she’s also kind to me, a stranger.

I pick up a book from the shelf and flip through it. It has papers and trinkets stored there, so I take them out, pile them in my lap. When she sees that, she says, “Books that are ‘too filled’ with other people’s treasures, we leave them here. People should have hiding places available to them. People shouldn’t have to justify hiding places to other people.”

I start putting the papers and keys I found back into the pages. I return the book to the shelf. I wondered about what the papers and the key had meant to someone. Would they find them again?




  • Self-organizing/bottom-up.
  • Both of my parents in a dream is unusual; them interacting, even more so. Them being a functional, happy, married pair, despite ‘late middle age’ (in the dream)… unprecedented.
  • My comment about my father’s ‘heart health’ was a pun on cardiology. So, love of words, feeling clever.
  • Playful, light-hearted.
  • Experimenting with social interactions; rolling with however they turn out & staying on an even keel.



I follow a bunch of New Zealand accounts, including the All-Blacks [national rugby team], on Twitter.

During our 2005 visit to New Zealand, Spouse and I saw a performance of a Haka at the Auckland War Memorial Museum. The audience was cautioned ahead of time that it was a religious rite, so we shouldn’t clap or do anything appropriate for entertainment. Once it started, the religious/sacred nature of it was very very clear to me. It was… one of the most intense experiences of my life.

Whenever I see a Haka performance, I cry. (In a good way.)

= = =

The bright-blonde women in their 50s and 60s, wearing bright-peach… clearly my mother. But 2 long lines of them?

Both of my parents were tow-headed as kids. My mother’s hair (I think) turned light brown, but as soon as she was old enough, she began dyeing it blonde, and never stopped. I don’t know that I ever saw her natural color; even when it was all-grey, she gave it a blond rinse. My father’s hair turned dark; I grew up thinking his hair was black, it was so dark, but it was just really dark brown. When I was a kid, my hair was red; it turned light brown around age 8 or so, kept getting darker.

Any character in a dream that reminds me of my mother in any way is automatically disturbing (but then, memorable). I don’t want to identify with any character that reminds me of my mother.


Hiding places, I get, but why lawyers? Why case books in particular? Well, rules maybe. And sometimes rules are superseded by deeper concerns.

I have papers in some of my own books. At least one photograph (of teenaged me).

The key I saw was an old-fashioned one, very intricate, with a cylindrical barrel. (How did it fit imperceptibly into the casebook?) It was a bit like… the key to the bathroom on the middle floor of my grandparents’ house. The bathroom I got locked into as a kid. I mean, I accidentally locked myself in. I was 5 or 6.

I was fine spending a lot of time in that bathroom, right up until the point I realized I couldn’t get out because the key was stuck in the lock. I yelled for help, but nobody heard me. Long story short, hours later, the police got me out. And then I was in really big trouble from my parents, especially my mother.

But when I remember being trapped/hidden that day, I first picture myself playing in the bathtub, looking out the wavy-glass window panes, feeling like I was… inside the walls, sort of. Like I was… part of the house. I could see my parents and my aunt and uncle all talking on the driveway, outside that window. I could see the garage behind them one way; Mrs. Nocerino’s house behind them at another angle. But… they couldn’t see me. I liked that.

I thought: “I know things. I know things you [adults] don’t know. And I’m not going to tell you any of them.”

I also… didn’t need to talk to anyone else in that room. I liked silences.

That was the hardest part of being rescued by the police. Hours of lovely silences by myself, very suddenly broken up by everyone talking over each other, trying to figure out how this could have happened, and explaining to the police why they weren’t at fault. Why it was the kid’s fault. Within our family, when adults said that, the ‘discussion’ was over, and you the kid had lost. Again. When they said it to the police, though, that’s not what happened. They had to justify themselves. They had to explain, over and over, how it happened that I had been trapped in the bathroom for hours and hours and no one had noticed. How it was, that the kids were allowed to have the run of the house with no adult supervision but that was okay because the adults were “always within calling distance”, and yet, here was this tearful kid explaining that she’d called and called but no one heard her.

My parents didn’t like being questioned. By the police. About their child-rearing practices.

It was really unsettling to have stranger adults… care about my well-being. Insist that I should’ve been treated differently, better.

Days, weeks, later, I tried, gingerly, to talk to… probably my mother, since I spent the most time with her, about the whole thing. The good parts, though, too. But… it was a disaster. I got yelled at again. She couldn’t listen to anything I said.

= = =

I miss my grandmother. I… have mixed feelings about my grandfather, since he didn’t like girls, yet he seemed to like me. (Not enough to let me play with trains, or to touch metal things in his workshop.)

I miss that house. That house was as much a member of my family as any relative.

Neither of my parents’ 2 houses were members of my family. I don’t miss their houses. Sometimes I think about the trees and flowers in the yards.

Sometimes I miss the Triangle.

= = =

I like hidden spaces. I like keys. I like silences.

I like knowing things that other people don’t.

I like secrets.

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