It’s Friday, and I really am in love. Albeit, against my will. I have my share of weird dreams on most days, but this one really takes the cake. I imagine my brain decides to put on a show in the early hours of the morning, that is infinitely more interesting than my real life, to remind me I should make my life more interesting. Usually, these involve espionage, big guns and explosions, escape plans – i.e., things that don’t happen to me in real life, and things I am not even interested in, in cinema and fiction. But today, I was offered a love story. Of sorts. Fasten your seat belts. This is a good one.
Robert Smith of The Cure and I are about to get married. It is very low-key, and he looks like the picture above from the video of “Lovesong.” So far, so good. I mean, in terms of grooms, you can’t ask for more, right? In fact, you’d be happy with far, far less. Look what I have here: expert writer of (a very disparaging quote) “gooey love songs” and that is only one of his many talents. Plus, what bride, especially one with big, black, curly hair, won’t be glad to say her groom has bigger hair than her?
Except that he backs out at the last moment. And, wait for it, I am actually relieved and happy about it. See, I do not suffer the daytime fantasy of marrying rockstars even if they make perfect songs, but in the dreamworld at least, happiness should come from a marriage taking place, not from its not taking place. And you haven’t even heard the best/worst of it yet.
As we discuss this, moonlight falls on Mr. Smith from the window and, you guessed it, he slowly turns into a werewolf. I have absolutely NO IDEA where that came from. Enlighten me if The Cure have a song about werewolves. Even if they did, I don’t know about it. So, how did this happen? And not to offend Mr. Smith or his fans, but, it kinda fits. Let’s just say, he made a very attractive werewolf.
But, that was only the first act. The bulk of the dream was us dealing with his, uh, werewolfery?, especially since he forgot who I was. Yes, you read that right. As if not getting married was not enough. I’d rather have those action-movie dreams, thank you very much. This kind of emotional frustration is something even a The Cure song can’t cure.
Before it could be resolved, before he could finally remember who I was, I woke up. At 5am, in my bed, no werewolf in sight. Since then, I’ve been trying to make sense of this. It’s easy to put down the first part to some sort of commitment phobia, and the exposition of the werewolf as a confirmation of why the phobia was justified, but I wouldn’t be sticking around through all that if I wasn’t committed, right?
People forget as they write their dreams down that when they were having them, they weren’t aware that they were in a dream. Perhaps, my phobia was simply not knowing Mr. Smith well enough to, of all things, marry him. And if we’re going to have a predictably Freudian analysis here then sure, not marrying Robert Smith was a sexual thing, him turning into a werewolf was a sexual thing, my constant struggle to remind him who I am was a sexual thing. In fact, my writing this down is a sexual thing. My writing in general is a sexual thing. My being born at all is a sexual thing. And you and I will both agree, the last sentence was the only true sexual thing of the whole lot.
I can find some reason behind why Robert Smith appeared in my dream. I’ve been thinking about writing a post on my love for pop music for quite a while. The other day I wondered, “I wish my life was as good as a The Cure song.” This was probably when I was on a long, hot drive going somewhere, listening to “Pictures of You”. I’ve loved their music for years, but I’ve never been a big fan. That is not to say I don’t think they’re not that good. In fact, they are beyond any words that can do them justice. But, I’d probably want to marry the song “Pictures of You” instead of Robert Smith, if I could. That is all the romantic interest I can muster, weird and truthful though it is.
Let’s have a blog party! Share the weird dreams you’ve had and we’ll all have a laugh making pseudo-intellectual Freudian analyses of them.