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Verity Too?

Dreamed 2000/11/5 by Wayan

THAT DAY

I'm building the World Dream Bank. Work all day, relentlessly. Edit twenty or more dreamtales--all eleven in my small-press book Birth Dreams, then comb the rest of June '93, then most of July.

Take some breaks to eat, stretch, read, but... I really overdid it. Up late. Can't do this! This isn't a college paper where I can pile up sleep-debt and catch up on the holidays. This is the holiday--the Long Hauliday. To build this thing, I have to read and judge ten thousand more dreams. I'd better pace.

THAT NIGHT

Mom bursts in my bedroom, up for a nag. She drags
a huge box of used clothes she's sure I'll wear--
toddlers' jumpsuits, little princess dresses, a fat stack
of baggy pants for geezers built like tanks, not lanky me,
all checkered hideous. Litter my floor like seaweed plaid
festooning a beach after Typhoon Burpo the Clown.

Mom declares "No one cares about your stupid dreams,
they're worthless. Get a job!" Absently, she adds
"Your trouble's all in your jeans." I think she means
"You're sex-obsessed, like all you men." Like dad?
When she's worse, sex-obsessed, always & again
warning my cock oppresses dates, sisters, friends.

She clarifies. She means genes! "Ugh, your dad's
heritage! That whole family's just weak." "Then why
did you marry in? I didn't choose you OR him!" She
stomps out. Castoffs litter my room. Thanks, mom! I,
half-dad weakling, ponder my gene-doom: inferiority.

In sails my painting teacher Verity. Not a word. She
sits on my head. Ow! Not a bird. Stone bones! Verity
intones "All that your mother tells you is truuuuue."
I'm getting a smidgen annoyed now. Verity, too?

My painting teacher sits on my head. Dream sketch by Wayan.

NOTES IN THE MORNING

2017

Now, years later, I do think my problems are genetic--but not quite as my mom said. I have Asperger syndrome. And we do love our work! In a neurotypical human, a huge crazy project like a library of a thousand dreams might signal neurosis, avoiding some other problem. But for an Aspie, it's kinda... normal. These days I just go with the creative flow. Just try to pace it--rest, stretch, remember to eat. And in 2000, I often didn't.

Until this dream. I did pace myself better, and the nag-dreams faded. Sorry, mom, didn't even look for a dayjob, just did my art. Over the next year, I built the World Dream Bank. Millions of readers later, my mom looks wrong about that.

Thanks, O Gentle Reader, O No One, for caring about my stupid dreams.



LISTS AND LINKS: my mom - her art: the Marcia Pagels Memorial Gallery - dream moms in general - nagging & criticism - family values - teachers & mentors - artists & the arts - workaholism - creativity - dreams about the World Dream Bank itself - dream poems - her friend Jenny dreams of Verity's Wings

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