Dream On

I was slightly admonished this weekend for "not letting myself dream".
That's bullshit, I replied.
You're afraid to dream, was the response I got to calling bullshit.

And then it was time to be alone and think about this - what are my dreams? Frankly, I don't have any. Take Europe for example, only because itís the example that I was failing to dream about.
Maybe thatís not a good one though Ė itís totally possible that I donít dream of going to Europe because a thousand times, I'd rather see South America, Africa, or India.
I dream of going to Cuba and wandering down a twisting road in a bright swirly skirt, flip-flops and a bikini and seeing all of the old cars and smelling the dirty heat. I see myself going to Brazil and hearing the lushness of the jungle breathing just outside wherever city I am in, of lying on a beach and feeling completely inadequate next to the South American bombshells that would likely surround me.

But Europe?
In my head, Europe is full of Americans with fanny packs and there are so many places that I haven't seen or experienced in the States - crossing the Atlantic to be reminded of the generally rude and aging quality of the Global Perception of Americans isn't really my bag. I see enough white people every day.
Even in high school and college, I really didn't have any desire to go to the Olde Worlde, unless I was going to some country estate and I could pretend that I was a little farm girl, taking care to hide the one-too-many litter of kittens born in the stable, so that the Master wouldn't find them and have a Footman drown them.

But I digress.
It was a poor example because I donít really want to go there when I could go to Honduras or Morocco and breath heavy, spicy airÖ the only place I really think about in Europe is Paris. I would like to go to Paris in the springtime because I imagine how easy it would be to have an entire vacation on a very blurry line between day-dream and actual life in Paris. It's such a setting, you know? Like Venice. I could do Venice because it's already a scene and I wouldn't be tempted to make up extra details. All I would have to do is be allowed to wander in my day-dream reality, as a uniquely gentle American traveler. One who learned to be polite in Eurpoe by watching Rick Steves' Europe on PBS, which I LOVE. I love Rick Steves, in his dorky glasses and his soft body. He's so polite and so willing to learn about the real local culture that I could go to Paris or Venice and pretend to be hanging out with Rick Steves' crew and not suffer from feeling like I wasted a trip by being up in my head the whole time.
My bad.
The point is the dreams themselves, not the example of European vacay gone good.

I donít dream of things the way most of us perceive that dreams should be.
ďDonít you dream of writing the book,Ē Iím asked.
No. I write everyday and someday Iíll figure out how to sell it.
ďDonít you dream of building your dream house,Ē Iím questioned.
No. I do dream of being in a bigger apartment later this year, though. I TOTALLY miss having a real kitchen and Iíd love to have a little yard for my little Rosie-dog.

Dreams for me don't take on the form that they do for lots of people. Ask me what my dream house is like and I'll tell you how I feel there, or I'll give you a specific scene. Like the one where in my dream house, me and my significant other are taking a Saturday afternoon in the Fall to do some work outside and we're listening to James Taylor and around 1 in the afternoon, we stop for a bit to eat lunch on the porch steps. In this dream, I can feel the way my jeans fit me and I can taste the way the air is still warm but the undercurrent of whatís coming is winterís coldÖ.
Öbut I couldn't tell you what the place looks like.
These dreams feed me the same way that dreaming of vast fortune or perpetuated fame feeds someone else.

I never hear a crowd screaming my name, or a secretary paging me to pick up NBC on line 4, or even of having a driver and considering how much I hate driving, you would think that I might want to write that down:
ďNOTE TO SELF: Dream of having a driver.Ē
No actually, that would be a bad idea. I would dream of having a driver and then Iíd be in the Bitchiní Honda DRIVING and Iíd be pretending to be driven and as you can imagine, destruction would ensue because I would wreck the car and probably be left with disfiguring but non-life-threatening injuries in which, worst-case scenario, I never am a pretty girl again, and best case scenario, my jaw gets wired shut so that I donít have to worry about being so damn pretty since all the weight will finally be lost.

My dreams, like my writing, are scenes. They aren't a novel.

Why I don't "dream big" is because I dream ALL the time. My head is having one fantasy or another at any given time. I pretend to be a frontier girl when it's really cold and time to go to bed in my flannels. I pretend to be a Shaman when I am walking in the more deserty parts of my town. I pretend to be a world famous yogi when I go to the studio, a respected trainer when I go to the gym, a retired synchronized swimming champ when I get in the pool to swim, a personal shopper to a rock star when I go to buy clothes.

I am confessing to the World Wide Web that there's not a whole lot I do or say in daily living that during DOESN'T trigger a complicated journey into make-believe. When I catch my eyes on a really green-looking day day? I become an Irish nanny, whoís newly in New York and who just passed by the mirror while running to the crying baby and noticed that I no longer look like the skinny sad girl that I was in Belfast Ė Iím now red-cheeked and shining and happy to be with such a good family when so many girls end up with families where the father takes a bit too much of the drink and the mother is cold and jealous of youth.

Last night, I was an extra in a video. The experience was AWESOME. But do I dream that Cameron Crowe will see it and be all, ďWhoís that GIRL? Sheís a star! Sheís what Iíve searched for and she's what will COMPLETE my next movie! Eat it Nancy Wilson! EAT IT!!!!!Ē

Iím super-excited for Namoli and I can't wait to see it on LOGO and be proud of her and with her. I'm excited to show my friends and family, like, "Wait! Okay! See me? Right there! No! Argh. Hold on, hold on I'll be back. Wait, is it here? Yeahyeahyeah! Okay! Yay! That was me! OK hold on, hold on... in one.... more... second.... Did I look super fat? I don't even CARE - I'm on TV and Namoli's FAMOUS!!!" (Sidenote: Namoli? I'll TOTALLY be your Goto Girl on copies and stuff when you're ready to expand the staff.)

No, there was no Courtney-Cox-from-music-video-to-sitcom-star moment for me. I was, however; deep in fantasy that I was an Alvin Ailey dancer spending my winter break in Tucson and I dropped by the shoot to help a sister out, you know?

Dreams for me arenít the same, I guess. I dream right now, all day long, and I love it. Itís my alternate reality, my Pisces birth rite, the reason why I canít always remember what you just said, and why I forget where my keys are every time I need to leave the house.

Iíll leave the big dreams to the big dreamers, not because my daydream world is safer but because itís home and I love it there. Iíll hold hands with, write letters for, and watch the big dreamers play their concerts but Iím not built in a way that says, ďMy dream is to cure cancer.Ē

Hell, I hear the word ďcancerĒ, and Iím immediately preoccupied with pretending that I have just learned that I have the Big C and Iím planning for the road trip through Mexico that me and Rosie are going to take in the Bitchiní Honda, before my illness takes over and renders me a shell of a woman on a beach in a quiet corner of Cabo, whispering just loud enough for Chelsea (whoís figured out that the end is near and whoís flown down to spend my final days with me); I say it earnestly while she pleads eyeball-to-eyeball with me, begging me to hold on and to not die. Even though I can see that my best friend is scared and sad to lose me, I say to her, "Tell the kids, the kids with the dreams.... tell them to NEVER stop dreaming."

arizonasarah at 8:57 a.m.

previous | next