TR=dad?

Last night dreamed a colleague was explaining to me that his wife was having an affair with another man.

Then, somewhat later in the dream carousel, found myself traveling with my father, who in the dream was Theodore Roosevelt. I was going with him through Germany where everyone unaccountably spoke French. Very positive feeling throughout.

storm of correspondences...

This morning I sat about writing a little story related to some high school events. Not long after I got a telephone call from a company that was putting together an alumni book for my high school. Hmmm... (I declined to participate. Ultimately the hs experience is a granfalloon.)

anxiety dream #4

In this dream I was in bed when Sandy came in the bedroom and tried to get into the attic via the pull-down stairs. She reached up and pulled them down. I told her to be careful because she has shoulder problems. Then, inexplicably, the entrance remained open but the stairs themselves disappeared. She produced a short stool from somewhere and stood on it, then leaped to the hole in the ceiling. I cried out because it looked very dangerous, and sure enough she was unable to completely make the leap. She clutched the attic floor with her upper body but slipped down and landed with a horrible cry on the floor of the bedroom. Her head took a serious blow. I tried to get out of the bed and get to her but my legs were paralyzed. Using my elbows I dragged my body to the edge of the bed. She was lying on the floor, where I could see that the back of her head was smashed up. I desperately called her name to no effect.

I woke with anxiety.

post dream

Today we planted that fig tree. Myself, Sandy, and Zack. We named it Christy's Fig after the person who gave it to us, and performed a little mock-sacred rite to honor the event, dancing around and singing a birthday song. It was moving despite the silliness.

Every act has roots in the past and branches in the future.

anxiety dream #3

My brother and mother want to build a large greenhouse on my property. I am somehow made to believe that I owe this to them. My wife is opposed. She and I walk around the backyard discussing the possibility. The backyard is a dream rhyme for the backyard of the house I lived in when I was 13 years old. And now, as I write this at 3am, I think of the fig tree that we were given by a friend a few days ago and the fig tree that grew in that early backyard. My chest feels heavy with anxiety and guilt.