Be you Catskill hickster or Bushwick citiot, we all have an inner life that unfolds elsewhere. It’s a singular experience in the sub-consciousness world of sleep. Mine is especially active. The dream starts out with me getting a lap dance from a male comedian, while dressed as Santa Claus. Distant memories of good times. I am on a lake. The lake separates me from Samm. Somehow I get across the lake (without the comedian) and Samm is having a party in her rather palatial digs. Her house is a cavernous Adirondack style “cabin,” more a lodge than a house. It’s filled with good looking people, men and women and a few kids. It looks like the combination of a Denniston Hill Foundation summer fundraiser and a Hauser and Wirth opening. In other words, it is the art world that I feel so alienated from. Hiring a therapist to give me an exegesis of this dream would be like paying somebody to fix a clogged drain. As much as I hate the job, I can manage. Yet, this obvious plot line does nothing to allay the true terror this nightmare elicits. It’s real. It fucks me up.
As the social night terrors continue, I’m on a balcony overlooking a room of people—not really interacting— but listening intently to various conversations that drift up from below. Samm is nowhere to be found. The crowd is talking art and I recognize certain pieces extolled as “brilliant.” They are talking about my art. But then, I realize they are not talking about me, but talking about other artists who have done similar, if not exact, versions of my work. I don’t immediately react but continue to listen. How can I respond without looking like a needy asshole? “Then last year he bought and branded a cow…….” This is the last straw. Finally, I can’t stand it anymore. I work my way into the crowded room, find the woman who was talking, gently touch her elbow and whisper, “I did that in 1979…..” The woman screams, “HE’S HURTING ME WITH HIS HAND!” and pulls her arm away. Now all eyes are on me. I touch another woman’s elbow in an attempt to illustrate just how gentle my touch is and, she also screams, confirming the previous woman’s complaint of my abusive violence. There’s no explanation that will suffice. I am the guilty party. The skunk. Everybody glares at me and thinks I should leave.
The nightmare goes on like that, with me finally rebelling, getting in fights, giving the finger to everyone, etc…..Finally I find Lassie laying behind a door. I grab her leash but I can’t find the end. The leash is a mile long. She looks at me with those Lassie eyes, pleading to go out. I can’t help her. I want to go home but can’t remember how I got across the lake in the first place. I’m stymied. Then I wake up with Cheeky scratching on the window to get in out of the rain. Phew. I’m drenched in a cold sweat.
This one dream encapsulates my entire neurotic inner life of insecurity and fear of abandonment and rejection. I sure don’t need a therapist to recognize that. I woke up so rattled and confused I literally didn’t know what day it was. Al Jazeera had Trump on talking of killing some ISIS leader and I thought it was Monday, not Sunday. As the stable genius rattled on and on all I could think about was this dream. Why am I having such night terrors? Consciously I feel pretty good. I did a new piece in the Social Sculpture Park and saw a good buck the other night. The pre-rut is kicking in and there’s plenty of action in the woods. Perched 20 feet up in a tree, watching grunting bucks chase does, paw the ground making ground scrapes, and spar in the open woods, is one of my most favorite ways of spending time. Awake I’m a happy deer hunting man. But unconsciously I am obviously a tortured mess.
That’s where the writing comes in. To air dreams, pathology, neurosis and petty grievances in public seems to have a therapeutic effect—on me at least. I don’t know how it affects the reader. I guess that’s what the comments box is for. Walter Robinson seems to be the only one to take advantage. His soothing words of encouragement and undying support for my struggle are always appreciated. I hear you Walter. To all of you who have reached out with concern over my mental state and suggestions of therapists, after a recent post, thank you. I think I’m good for now. I’m still waiting to hear back from the two shrinks I emailed. If they ever return the email (and I’m still lucid) I have a planned response. Now back to that lap dance.
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