Dreaming out of the box
I keep thinking about all of these possibilities. Shiny ideas and possible futures “out there” that could be “here” if only I worked toward them. It used to be that these possibilities kind of freaked me out. There were too many, and the noise from all of them being out there was too great and distracted me from devoting my attention to almost anything.
I have always enjoyed dreaming about doing things more than actually doing them. I am a fantasy-maker. Although there are a few things I do that generally live up to my idea of how much pleasure I’ll obtain from doing them. For example, sewing, crafting, moving furniture, painting, playing with legos, irritating my dogs, and writing. Or maybe that, for some reason, before I embark on these types of tasks I’m not proleptically fantasizing. I will take more note, next time.
I used to think that my fantasies were slightly…unsanctioned. As a child I was told by many adults around me that I was a “dreamer” type, and I could tell by the tones of these adults’ voices that the “dreamer” type wasn’t something they thought was one-hundred-percent a good thing. This “dreamer” label worried them. I could see them asking-as if little strands of ticker tape were coming out their ears with their inner monologues typed on them in Courier font-“What will become of her?” And, “How will she survive?”
I’m still alive and I’m healthy, safe, and comfortable. I have acquired several of the big ticket items that establish people-in the eyes of other people-as an “adult.” I’ve received a great education and I’m employed, married, and I look okay. I’m also pretty happy, although I’m not sure that’s a metric for measuring one’s adult-ness. And I still daydream.
The negative dreaming / good life correlation is obviously debunked. But it’s still there.
Western culture is as much fascinated as afraid of dreams and the act of dreaming is at once something to research and fear. Freud tells us our dreams are secret codes, and, more and more, films, books, and art depict the tragic ends of those who stay too long in nebulous realms. Dreams are seductive precisely because they afford us that window into the dangerous: “What would happen if…?” But I’m a little afraid that dreaming is becoming something that only other people-film makers, authors, and artists-are allowed to do for us. We plebes in cubicles aren’t safe in dreamworld. We can only consume the dreams of others.
I rail against the notion that my dreams are somehow too dangerous for me to navigate. That I should not have a fantasy life, and that, instead, I should get up, shower, make myself presentable, go to work, leave work, go to the gym, go to the store, go home, walk the dog, watch an hour of prime time television, and go to bed only to do it all again the next day and do it in such a way that I focus each moment on tasks at hand. Any deviation from that focus requires I relish in a moment of shame-which I probably won’t confess to a sympathetic soul, later-in which I acknowledge that I haven’t maintained my focus as I should have. And, as a result of doing all of this for a few years, I grow slightly depressed and bored with my life and end up turning toward sanctioned methods of getting some excitement: buying things, enrolling in expensive classes that are structured and planned-just like my life, and further placing myself into other boxes even though it’s the box that suffocates me in the first place.
I’m messier than that. And I firmly believe that this is a good thing.
I have always enjoyed dreaming about doing things more than actually doing them. I am a fantasy-maker. Although there are a few things I do that generally live up to my idea of how much pleasure I’ll obtain from doing them. For example, sewing, crafting, moving furniture, painting, playing with legos, irritating my dogs, and writing. Or maybe that, for some reason, before I embark on these types of tasks I’m not proleptically fantasizing. I will take more note, next time.
I used to think that my fantasies were slightly…unsanctioned. As a child I was told by many adults around me that I was a “dreamer” type, and I could tell by the tones of these adults’ voices that the “dreamer” type wasn’t something they thought was one-hundred-percent a good thing. This “dreamer” label worried them. I could see them asking-as if little strands of ticker tape were coming out their ears with their inner monologues typed on them in Courier font-“What will become of her?” And, “How will she survive?”
I’m still alive and I’m healthy, safe, and comfortable. I have acquired several of the big ticket items that establish people-in the eyes of other people-as an “adult.” I’ve received a great education and I’m employed, married, and I look okay. I’m also pretty happy, although I’m not sure that’s a metric for measuring one’s adult-ness. And I still daydream.
The negative dreaming / good life correlation is obviously debunked. But it’s still there.
Western culture is as much fascinated as afraid of dreams and the act of dreaming is at once something to research and fear. Freud tells us our dreams are secret codes, and, more and more, films, books, and art depict the tragic ends of those who stay too long in nebulous realms. Dreams are seductive precisely because they afford us that window into the dangerous: “What would happen if…?” But I’m a little afraid that dreaming is becoming something that only other people-film makers, authors, and artists-are allowed to do for us. We plebes in cubicles aren’t safe in dreamworld. We can only consume the dreams of others.
I rail against the notion that my dreams are somehow too dangerous for me to navigate. That I should not have a fantasy life, and that, instead, I should get up, shower, make myself presentable, go to work, leave work, go to the gym, go to the store, go home, walk the dog, watch an hour of prime time television, and go to bed only to do it all again the next day and do it in such a way that I focus each moment on tasks at hand. Any deviation from that focus requires I relish in a moment of shame-which I probably won’t confess to a sympathetic soul, later-in which I acknowledge that I haven’t maintained my focus as I should have. And, as a result of doing all of this for a few years, I grow slightly depressed and bored with my life and end up turning toward sanctioned methods of getting some excitement: buying things, enrolling in expensive classes that are structured and planned-just like my life, and further placing myself into other boxes even though it’s the box that suffocates me in the first place.
I’m messier than that. And I firmly believe that this is a good thing.