Dreams - Poetry of the Mind
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Dreams - Poetry of the Mind - Yael Eylat-Tanaka
DREAMS
POETRY OF THE MIND
Yael Eylat-Tanaka
Copyright
Copyright © 2014 Dreams – Poetry of the Mind
by Yael Eylat-Tanaka. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publishers except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
CONTENTS
Copyright
Prologue
I Dream in Color
The Bath
Frustration
The Townhouse
Emeril Lagasse
Disorganized
Hallelujah!
The White House
The Birthday Card
Have I Nothing To Say??
The House in Kendall And My Disappearing Husband
The Oak Sapling
The French Bakery
My Kissing Friend
On Holiday
Sam Waterston And The Electronics Meeting
Alain Delon And The Accountant
The Awful Genie Box
No One Is Listening To Me!!
They Were Not Army Ants
The Red Fiat
The Almost
Lover
The White Camel
The Men Across The Street
The Old Ladies
The Townhouse
I Can’t Breathe!
The Wad of Money
The Old Folks’ Home
The Sailboat
The IVC Test
Mud In My Neighbor’s Yard
The Stormy Ocean
The Black Convertible
People In The House
The Black Kitten
My Neighbors And The Yellow Volkswagen
Three Newborn Tigers and Lot 273
Lydia’s Missing Daughter
The Jewelry List
The Fish
Three Houses In A Row
Can’t Get Back Home
Our House in Miramar And The Black Bra
Suggestive And Very Embarrassing!
A Beautiful Apartment In Israel
Our House in Miramar
The Large Panties And Furniture Out of Place
Jealousy
The Tall Roses
The Paintings, The House, and David
The $20 Tip
My Friend and President Clinton
A Chocolate Mess
Comfortable Seats On The Bus
My Mother And The 80-Foot Cliff
Returning From Our Trip
Dr. K and the Epidural Injection
The Old House In Perrine
Do You Dream In Color?
My Mother and the Convertible VW
Can’t Get Back Home!
The Queen of England
The Horse and the Snake
The Golf Partner – Who Really Wasn’t
A Busy Party
The Attack
The Pink-Flowered Curtains
The Ocelot
My Mother and the Creamy Éclair
Rainy (and Expensive) San Francisco
The Undesirable Townhouse
Collapsing Furniture and the Broken Tooth
Roof Repair at Kendalltown
Getting My House In Order
Road Trip!
My Car Was Stolen!
The Spider and the Beetle In My Ear
Myrna Loy at the Cinema In Israel
So Many People at the Train Station!
The Hotel Apartment
Pregnant!
Job Obligations
They Found Phoebe!
Missing the Train
Someone Stole My Car!
All That Incense Turned To Flames
The ALF on the Edge of the Hill
Everything Was Weird in the Philippines!
The Keys
Four Speeches a Day
The Hand Game
The Blue Colonial
At the Beach
The Printer and the Ink
Diane Sawyer – Among the Classiest of Journalists!
Kidnapped to Vietnam!
Boating Down River
My Two Cats
The Watercolor Palette
Some Time Off
The Patio Chairs
My Clones
Where Is My Husband!?
The Piano and My Irresponsible Husband
EPILOGUE
Things To Do With Your Dreams
Prologue
The Poetry of Dreams
The mind is a magnificent, complicated, mysterious repository of our conscious and unconscious thoughts. Whatever we think about; whatever we fret about, or rejoice over; whatever our aspirations or frustrations -- all is recorded in our minds. Significantly, our unconscious mind is even more prolific than our conscious mind, and is responsible to a great extent for the dreams we create. Yes, we are the creators of our dreams. Our dreams serve a function: to deal with frustrations, to work out problems, and come to grips with difficult situations. We create dreams as a way for our subconscious to grapple safely with our waking, conscious life. Thus, although some dreams are frightening and unpleasant, they are nevertheless less threatening in sleep than they would be in the waking state. That is not to negate the terror produced by nightmares; still, dreams serve a purpose, and that purpose is often to express something we are not able to express during wakefulness, either because we are not aware or simply have not been able to accept a situation, or to communicate to us issues about which we may be anxious. Our task, then, is to delve into the story
we create, examine its symbolism and see where it may lead us.
I named this journal Dreams - Poems of our Mind,
because our dreams are full of symbols and peculiar creatures we frequently do not find during wakefulness. As in written poetry, our dreams frequently are not linear, not logical,
oftentimes erratic, sometimes erotic, often chaotic. It is our mind that creates this poetry. Poetry itself is a form of communication which speaks obtusely, frequently mysteriously, almost always with meanings open to far-reaching interpretation. Our dreams can be said to be a conduit between the subconscious and the conscious. The poetry that is produced is full of twists and turns, ambling, rambling, frequently nonsensical. It is then that we are called upon to reflect on our dreams in our waking state, uncover their meanings, ponder their connectedness to our lives, the struggles we are experiencing, the people who compete for our attention, along with our own desires. Our dreams are puzzles to be solved.
Dreams are cryptic, mysterious and oftentimes disturbing. They can be considered messages, but not in the sense of metaphysical or otherworldly; rather, they are our own messages, our own feelings and interpretations of our waking lives that manifest as images in the night. Our dreams are not prophecy; but they are a form of communication. Our waking lives are filled with all sorts of experiences, stresses, obligations, noise, action and reaction. We are not capable of unraveling everything, from what happens to us and our subconscious decisions about events, to our thoughts and feelings about what happens. When these are powerful enough, they express themselves as dreams.
Some people find it helpful to seek the help of an outsider, a therapist or a friend, to dissect and understand their dreams. But just as in therapy, if you were to ask your therapist, So, what did my dream mean?
he or she would no doubt turn the question back to you, in what is now the familiar retort from a therapist, "What do you think it means? Admittedly, this can be frustrating in a culture that seeks instant gratification and immediate answers. But in truth, our dreams, albeit puzzling and mysterious, were created by us, in our own minds, as a result of our own life experiences, and therefore are ours alone to interpret. There are no hard and fast symbols that mean the same across the board, such as those espoused by Sigmund Freud. Even the illustrious Freud once said,
Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar."
I write about my own dreams. These are the poems that have emanated in my own mind. Sometimes the interpretation is quick to reveal itself, the meaning clear. Often, it is not. Therefore, not every dream comes with a ready-made interpretation. Indeed, sometimes the interpretation is too intimate to be revealed.
For purists, please note that I have not attempted to write scientific explanations for whatever personal interpretations I may have put forth. These are my interpretations, of possible meaning to me.
So relax with these stories. Stay attuned to their suggestions. Contribute your own, if you wish. Explore the possible meanings within the poetry that you write in the night.
The Dreams
I Dream in Color
Last night I dreamt that I was walking along, wearing a white summer dress and a lacy silver shawl. A man was walking behind me, and was thinking that the shawl was very pretty indeed. I was slender, perhaps 20 pounds lighter, and was feeling well; no anxiety about who that man was.
The Bath
Interesting how often I dream of our former home in Miramar. And each time, there is a magnificent bathroom on the second floor which contains two side-by-side bathtubs. They are side by side in some dreams, but last night I dreamt that they were situated head to toe. I marveled at counting five separate toilets in that bathroom. There were many people there, some bathing, others just talking, as in the Roman baths of old, sitting around with towels on for modesty. That bath scene may have been triggered by Spartacus, a new movie made for cable that is quite raw and brutal, depicting the gladiators and general bacchanalian goings-on in that culture, with homosexuality and lots of unbridled sex and violence all around. I remember leaving the bathroom to get back to another room in the house, and for that purpose had to take an elevator which led me to a train. The train ride was long, going through fertile valleys, and I realized that I had taken the wrong train, and could not possibly get back to the house in time. I don't know in time for what. A friend of mine was riding the train with me, and when the conductor let us off at the station, the friend offered to take me on horseback to visit some friends. Horseback? I was a bit scared of horses, and I remember sitting behind him with my legs dangling on the sides of the horse, and being afraid that if they touched it, the horse would buck up. But it didn't, and we arrived at the friends' house unharmed. We visited a while, and then had to return to my house, and back we returned on the horse.
In view of all the sexual goings-on in the movie, I am almost resigned to the symbolism of the train and the horse. But I think it's more than that. Why the recurring double baths? Why did I take the wrong elevator and been led astray, so to speak? Do I not know my own home?
Frustration
Tears that never stop; sobs that don't abate, all related to technology snafus. I received an audio file from one of my former doctors which I transcribed,
but not on the correct platform, since I was no longer part of that company. Still, a dictation is a dictation, so I attempted to contact the manager to inform her of that transcript. The problem came when I tried to transmit the finished report to her. As it was not in proper form, I had to type it, scan it and transmit it that way, but somehow it wouldn't work. So, I contacted the Help desk, and got a young woman who seemed to be totally absent
and merely read the long-winded instructions in a dreadful monotone. She would not be interrupted, but simply rambled on and on in that awful monotone. I hung up, and tried to get back to my report on the screen, but all the icons were gone, replaced by thumbnails of pictures I had taken! Both sides of the address tab were busy with picture thumbnails. I restarted the computer, but to no avail. I then got on all fours, disconnected wires, reconnected the internet, did everything they
tell you to do to get back to where you were before; but all I could do was cry. There was nothing to get me back there. I cried and cried, and of course, my tears only made me more bleary-eyed, and less able to find the connections. I've seen cartoons of this -- trying to locate the end of a wire in a nest of wires. Is this my cue to go wireless? And my husband was no help. He is not computer-savvy, and just walked around the room, completely unsympathetic. I hate that dream.
The Townhouse
We moved into our townhouse, which we purchased for $105,000. From the front door, it was a long room comprising the living/dining area, with the kitchen at the end. The ceilings were low, the mere required 8 feet or so, and the walls were covered with a small-print pink-flower wallpaper. Ugh. All the windows were covered by sheet-like print draperies, some of which were open slightly. The kitchen had sliding glass windows that led out to the terrace. The terrace was relatively large compared to the inside unit, and there was a corner at the opposite end which I remember was pleasant enough. The terrace was surrounded by a high brick wall with steel bars (for decoration). And under a skinny tree stood several bicycles, some functional, others rusty discarded remains. No real vegetation to speak of. There was a staircase to the side of the front door leading to the upstairs bedroom(s), and underneath the staircase was the desk and books and odds and ends of the people/children still living there. The children had several pets, one short-haired small cat who was adorable, friendly, gentle, multicolored yellow and gray, who only had one eye. They also had two dogs, one of whom had a wound on its shoulder, and as the child showed me that wound, the dog would cringe away slightly, evidencing its pain. It was hot inside, until someone thought to turn on the air conditioning. And as we thought about what to do with the pets and the children, the owners said not to worry, that they will take care of themselves. I miss my house, with the gorgeous vaulted ceilings and bright colors.
Emeril Lagasse
I received a fax regarding some stat work. As I filled out the form, I saw that the work involved making two steaks and a lobster. But that's not what I do! Being stubborn, I rose to the task. I don't know where I found the steaks, but I somehow prepared them, but the task of bringing them upstairs to the party involved putting them on a white tray with their brown juices running off the edge, making a big mess. When I saw what happened, I was mortified, because I had put one of my watercolor paintings underneath the tray, and that painting was completely ruined, to the point where it tore in half. I took a wet cloth and cleaned up the carpet where the steak juices had run. The party was rowdy, crowded and noisy, but somehow I found Emeril Lagasse who agreed to help me. I had the task of cutting the lobster in half longitudinally through its body. OMG, there ain't no way I could do that. It's cruel! Somehow the dream ended before I actually had to do that. Emeril offered to come upstairs and help me, but I had to warn him that my tiny kitchen was terribly messy, as I hadn't had time to clean up (which is so unlike me).
Disorganized
Typical of many dreams, last night's was a jumble of images, indistinct, without a story.
My desk was messy, a couple of cats meandered in and out of the bookcase, and I had a conference with someone about having lost a couple of jobs worth $20,000.
Hallelujah!
My dreams have been muddled lately. Too much going on, too many characters, too much clutter on my desk. There are cats moving in and out of the paperwork, and uniting the broken images are the haunting chords of the Hallelujah by Leonard Cohen, the strains of war, the pangs of pain, the sadness and the rain, hallelujah.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T2NEU6Xf7lM This version is performed by some very talented young men.
The White House
We were driving around a tree-lined neighborhood when we came upon an open house. We decided to go inside to look. The walls were painted white, and had hard corners. The rooms were separate, rather than the open layout we prefer. The master bedroom was down some narrow stairs, and the bed itself was curtained off by sheers. The grandmother was lying in the bed, and said that she didn't mind if we continued to look around. We went back out, and were greeted by children running after some small animals and some parrots. The house seems too big, too complicated, had too many rooms and too many sheer white curtains. The real estate lady later told us that the house had 1600 square feet, which didn't make sense, because it seemed so big.
White - the color of death? the color of purity?
Birds - I had written about my pets the day before.
Complicated house design - Is it reflecting my currently complicated mind, and all my worries?
Why the repeating theme of a house?
The Birthday Card
I found a card that I had intended to send to my friend, Sheila, but it was dated 1982. It had a bas-relief iris on its face, a very beautiful, abstract rendition, with purples and blues against the white background. In the end, I tore up the petals and threw it out.
Have I Nothing To Say??
I unplugged the baby from its cocoon (which was barely 12 inches long), but somehow didn't know how to unplug the cocoon off the main line. When Hideo saw me struggle with the lines, he shook his head in exasperation, as if it was so obvious. I had to remind him that I wasn't in charge of that on a regular basis, and there was no way for me to know how to do that.
Later, we were walking through a shopping mall, and he stepped in to talk to some friends, and I overheard him say, Yael doesn't have anything to say.
I was furious, and stormed in, angry and hurt, spitting a profanity at him in front of our friends.
I have been very angry at him lately. That I have nothing to say
is not true, but I'm so conflict-phobic that I hold my tongue in an effort not to escalate our troubles. I do, in fact, have quite a bit to say, but in truth, I'm afraid that I'll cross the border and throw in everything but the kitchen sink by saying everything and anything that comes to mind, and in my current confusion, that would not be productive. But what specifically do I want to say? How do we bridge the gap that has formed between us?
And what of the tethered baby? Ah, yes. Possible interpretation: I feel like a baby, a child at least, and in some ways tethered to this marriage. It's too late to get a divorce, and besides, I don't want to in any event. I want my husband back, his playfulness (baby?), our joy together. Something has gone awry, and I feel helpless to fix it (like a baby in a cocoon).
The House in Kendall And My Disappearing Husband
We were staying at a posh hotel, and when I was left alone for a couple of minutes, I went to the screen to look at a map of the area. There, I saw a house being advertised that looked very similar to ours in Miramar, and I remarked to myself, I know this house!
It had a similar color scheme to my own, the pale pink, Tropical furniture, tall silk trees and white walls. There were columns and sconces and curved wall edges, and there was a gathering of several people with everyone milling around happily. When I looked closer at the map, it showed the road right in front of the house with big letters Kendall Drive.
Aha! Now I know why this house is so familiar, I thought.
We then left the hotel on a tour bus. The area was hilly, and the bus had to gingerly make its way down the hill to the road. It was at our destination that my husband and I somehow became separated, and I spent what seemed like an eternity in a frustrated search for him. I even wound up at our hotel's fancy dining room where the maitre D' refused to call in, or even tell me