A Nightmare

I was in a house, in some house that was my house, doing stuff. The decor was reminiscent of the mother’s house in Lena Dunham’s Tiny Furniture. I saw green, brick-red, white, brown, etc. (i.e., the dream was in color).

Two other females were with me in the house. One was a tall woman, an adult, dressed in slacks. She was doing her stuff. She was not evil or threatening. She felt like my husband: a supporting presence in the background. The other was a child, about the age of my child alter – perhaps seven; she was in her room, came out with her blanket in hand to see what was going on, and the first woman gently shushed her back.

I was busy trying to accomplish some task, but I had just nicked my finger on something again (like the paper-puncher that keeps biting and bloodying my fingers). I was trying to put a band aid onto the wound. But two things were impeding me. First of all, the band aid was of a new material and had a new method of application, with thin strips of plastic to pull off on all sides. (This has actually happened to me in recent months. I regard this as a metaphor for today’s head-spinning technological development. Every time I buy a new batch of band aids, there is new material and a new way of putting them on. I mean, you put band aids on for decades in one specific fashion. And suddenly, every few months there’s something new. The new developments, while beneficial, are almost impossible to keep up with. So do they help or hinder?)

The second problem was that I already had band aids on three other fingers. I pointed this out to the tall woman. I even showed her how the new wound had exactly the same shape as an older wound I had on the opposite hand in the same place (serial neurosis). The band aids I was already wearing were impairing my dexterity to such an extent that I couldn’t get the new band aid on. I ended up with my entire hand wrapped in a huge band aid like plastic wrap.

My fumbling turned into acrobatic gyrations, and I ended up on the floor in the doorway, one knee in the air over my head, the other knee and my head on the ground. In the meantime, the child had come out of her room, the woman had gently shushed her back, and she said something to me like, “I just need to finish this up and I’ll be out of your way.”

Then she left, and there was a close-up of me lying on my back in contorted, agonized thought, trying to figure out answers to my problems. (19 June 2014)