Dream of the Giant Octopus Head
In my dream the decision came easily to have another child. I've been dragging that one out for years, agonizing over it, creeping ever closer to it, then backing away. The dream swept all that away; I based my decision on a discovery about the layout of the kitchen. There was a room off the kitchen, much like a morning room, but not modern or sunny, with a space suitable for a small kitchen table, a giant dollhouse/play area, and even room for a small child's table. My reasoning was that the child could play there easily while I made dinners -- thus rendering manageable the most challenging hour of the day. This discovery about my kitchen came from visiting a woman whose house had the same layout as mine. Her breakfast room was set up this way for her children, one of whom was a small girl, the other a fully grown boy with extreme mental retardation. He had the mental capacity of a three-year-old. As the woman moved through the rooms of her house showing me the boy's playthings, I recognized many of them as duplicates of my girls', and it hit me with great force that as sad as I have felt to give up their dollhouses and blocks and foam puzzles, it would be far sadder never to have to put them away, to be trapped forever with cabbage patch dolls and pink wooden houses, and I thought again of what an older father told me, that growing up is what we want for them.
This woman's son, despite his extreme retardation, looked perfectly normal -- no, beyond normal. He was an Adonis, with supple muscles and a lean build and very beautiful blond hair that suggested he'd stepped off the Titanic. He looked worldly and rich, as though he'd misplaced his dapper white suit. In fact, I had been part of a crew who helped him onto an ocean liner just previous to the kitchen dream. He had missed the boat and had to be ferried out specially and hoisted onto a platform on the outside of the ship where he stood, naked, in a kind of limbo, without proper supervision and where it became clear to me for the first time that he was not normal.
This is what comes of reading Paul Bowles, I see.
As simple and final as it was to decide I wanted another child, I also dreamed that the large university library rearranged all their holdings. I paid no attention to commotion and disorder of the move because I had my own business to attend to, and anyway there was an article about a giant fossilized octopus head that had been hauled ashore and set up as a tourist site. I wanted to read it. The article showed a small girl entering the mouth of the octopus, which was large as a funhouse and hollow like a human skull, with openings in the face where the eyes and mouth would go. Tentacles ranged from the base of the creature, forming long winding slides -- you used these to exit the building and it looked fun in a creepy sort of way. Something about the octopus struck me as urgently familiar, and I spent a long time reading the article, trying to remember my connection to it. When I looked up, I saw that the librarians had moved the children's book section to the front lobby, where I stood -- a temporary configuration, part of a reading initiative, I supposed. The entire space was taken over, as their holdings were large and they were doing quite a professional job of it. I left immediately, having no children with me and no need to stay.
This woman's son, despite his extreme retardation, looked perfectly normal -- no, beyond normal. He was an Adonis, with supple muscles and a lean build and very beautiful blond hair that suggested he'd stepped off the Titanic. He looked worldly and rich, as though he'd misplaced his dapper white suit. In fact, I had been part of a crew who helped him onto an ocean liner just previous to the kitchen dream. He had missed the boat and had to be ferried out specially and hoisted onto a platform on the outside of the ship where he stood, naked, in a kind of limbo, without proper supervision and where it became clear to me for the first time that he was not normal.
This is what comes of reading Paul Bowles, I see.
As simple and final as it was to decide I wanted another child, I also dreamed that the large university library rearranged all their holdings. I paid no attention to commotion and disorder of the move because I had my own business to attend to, and anyway there was an article about a giant fossilized octopus head that had been hauled ashore and set up as a tourist site. I wanted to read it. The article showed a small girl entering the mouth of the octopus, which was large as a funhouse and hollow like a human skull, with openings in the face where the eyes and mouth would go. Tentacles ranged from the base of the creature, forming long winding slides -- you used these to exit the building and it looked fun in a creepy sort of way. Something about the octopus struck me as urgently familiar, and I spent a long time reading the article, trying to remember my connection to it. When I looked up, I saw that the librarians had moved the children's book section to the front lobby, where I stood -- a temporary configuration, part of a reading initiative, I supposed. The entire space was taken over, as their holdings were large and they were doing quite a professional job of it. I left immediately, having no children with me and no need to stay.