Nurse the Hate: Hate Dreams

 
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I had a dream yesterday where I was a passenger on a bus driving down a bleak highway.  It was impossible to exit the bus except during the stops at specific stations.  Behind me out of view a woman with an English accent was speaking to a companion seated next to her regarding a man they had noticed trudging outside in the rain.  Her lilting voice peaked my curiosity so I looked out the window at the man.  I was the man.  I looked very tired and unsure of where I was going, just mindlessly walking.  I pulled the wire of the bus trying to get the driver to stop so I could help myself and get out of the rain.  The bell rang with increasing urgency but the driver didn’t flinch.  The bus just kept driving.  I watched myself disappear as we drove away.  

I don’t know why I had this Bergmanesque dream.  I don’t know what it means.  I am glad I wasn't playing chess with Death.  I'm not much of a chess player.  I do know that the only thing more boring to others than dreams is talking about your fantasy football team (which mine won yesterday by the way).  The only exception to that rule is if the person you tell the about the dream is a cast member in that dream, in which case they will find it fascinating.  As an aside, never tell someone that you had a dream about them dying unless you really want to mess with someone's mind.  Everyone becomes superstitious when you foretell their demise.

It would be a nice diversion to seek treatment with a psychoanalyst where the two of us would spend an inordinate amount of time discussing the content and potential meaning of my dreams.  I would definitely go to a Freudian.  I think that would be the most enjoyable and offer the least amount of possible benefit.  “So my mother was sitting in a rocking chair in a very revealing gown while knitting a sweater.  When I looked closer I noticed that the yarn she was using was actually coming from my father’s beard.  My father sat at her feet crying and naked with his beard acting like a spindle.  I knew the sweater was meant for me.  No one spoke.  Then I boarded the train and went into a long tunnel where my teeth promptly fell out.”  The doctor will take off his glasses and clean them carefully as he thoughtfully prepares his next utterance.  He places the spectacles back on his face.  He then makes lengthy notations in a notepad without even glancing at me.  “Interesting…” he says.  He then stares at me as I stare back for the next 18 minutes in silence.  The session ends.

I need to look into my health insurance plan for this type of coverage.  Maybe I can go to Austria for this therapy.  I will sit outside during the morning in a chair with a blanket across my legs while gazing at a distant white mountain top.  “Herr Miller?  Are you ready to take the waters?”  I nod yes and am placed in an antique wheelchair to be rolled into a severe white tiled spa where stern meaty armed women work me over with 1920s era medical equipment giving me forced hot spring enemas and agonizing massages.  Then will follow more analysis.  Then a bleak dinner of a watery porridge followed by silently sitting in a common room where an old phonograph plays Germanic marching band music.  Lights out at 8.  Never 8:01.  Always 8 on the dot.  After a month I will take an ocean liner back to The States.  I will smoke cigarettes and gaze forlornly at the cloudy horizon.  At dinner at the captain’s table I will sit mostly silently until someone breaks the ice.

I say my good man!  You’re a Yank I gather?  Back to the States?  “Yes.  I had the therapy at The Rudolfinerhaus.”  Taken the waters my good man?  That will put you back on the path!  Good man!  Chip chip!  I will then smile meekly and sip my gin, pausing to light my unfiltered cigarette.  “Excuse me all.  I’m afraid I must retire to my cabin.  I am suddenly overcome with exhaustion.  I wish to thank you all for a splendid evening.”  The other diners will exchange glances.  I push my chair in and walk away slowly.  That poor man. 

Or I could watch a little TV and just forget about it.