Mindful (Mindless?) Explorations

By Rita Killer,

Dreams and fantasies. Where would romance writers – or readers – be without them?

A couple of weeks ago the Washington Post ran article about dreams. Among other interesting assertions, the article stated that there is now an enormous prejudice against dreaming (who knew?), and that many people continue to believe that interpreting dreams is, at the very least, a waste of time because (in their opinion) dreams are meaningless.

The human mind is such an incredibly complex piece of internal real estate that I doubt that anything that goes on in it is entirely without meaning. Nor do I have anything against dreaming. In fact, I dream almost every night – and I even remember most of them.

Which is how I know that even if it is possible to interpret their meaning, I don’t particularly want to. If there was ever a time to let sleeping dogs lie, so to speak, this is one of them.

I once dreamed that I was dancing on stage at the Kennedy Center.

With Henry Kissinger.

Now, why in the world would I want to know what that meant?

Another time I dreamed I was running up (and down) the escalators late one night in the recently defunct Hecht Co. being chase by some people who were trying to kill me. I mean, sure I owed them a few dollars, but that seemed to be carrying things a bit far.

As most of my friends (and what few readers I may have) know by now, Pierce Brosnan has been for some years the object of many a fantasy of mine. Curiously enough, however, I had never actually dreamed about him until a few nights ago.

In the dream, Pierce and I had been friends for many years, but were never romantically involved. (Right away, I “interpret” this as a dumb dream.) Anyway, one day he calls and asks me to visit him in New York. (Did I mention that in my dream he is fabulously wealthy?) At first we just enjoy sitting around chatting – having what the British call a good old “chin wag.” (Being of Irish decent, Pierce might not want to call it that, but, hey, it’s my dream.)

Then one afternoon – in his glorious and appropriately dreamy penthouse apartment with a view overlooking Central Park – we decide to dance. There we are dreamily swaying in each other’s arms – and it happens.

We both have to go to the bathroom. Now, having been good friends for so many years, we have no trouble telling each other that nature calls. Moreover, in the course of the (brief) discussion we discover that each of us has recently been experiencing some minor bladder control problems.

Suffice to say, throughout the rest of the dream every time we reach a point of potential intimacy, our respective bladders signal a halt to the proceedings. Moreover, and for reasons that make no more sense that the rest of this crazy dream, throughout Pierce’s beautifully appointed home – there is only one bathroom. Thus, it always comes down to an issue of whose need is the most urgent – his or mine. At first he insists that he should go first because male plumbing is on the outside and therefore he can’t hold on as long, but just to be fair about it we soon take turns going first.

Later on at some point we go swimming and he doesn’t like my hair after he sees it wet. (Can’t say as I blame him on that. Neither do I.) Still, his attitude offends me and we have an argument. But we make up quickly, and to soothe my hurt feelings he whisks me off to some island (the name which begins with a “W”), where he has yet another beautiful home – with only one bathroom.

Since these bladder problems seem to coincide with any moves toward intimacy, we soon decide to give up on sex and just enjoy lying in bed holding each other and talking.

Still later, back in New York, we are standing in the lobby of his building waiting for the elevator. When it arrives, who should step out but – Dr. Phil. Pierce decides he wants to do one more James Bond move just to get it out of his system, so he punches Dr. Phil in the nose. Now, Dr. Phil was not alone in the elevator. There was a woman with him. I don’t know who she was, but it wasn’t Robin. So I punch his female companion in the nose.

End of dream.

Paging Sigmund Freud. Paging Sigmund Freud. Please call your office.

I woke up laughing out loud, which is not a bad way to start the day.