Note. We sometimes publish “off-topic” articles and poems. This is one of them. If you wish to wish to make comments, post dreams or poems of your own, or speculate on the nature of reality, feel free. Dream interpreters especially welcome! (Editor JSM)
If Freud could interpret this dream, he would come up with a sexual meaning; no doubt about that. If Jung could offer his interpretation, he would dig up a totally different meaning: all nebulously mystical, and with much talk about the “archetypes”.
Please don’t get me wrong. It’s not vanity that prompts me to relate this dream. Everyone has dreams, and each person’s dreams are equally important to the person who dreams them.
I relate this dream only because it’s important to me, personally. If you have time to read this and tell me what you think the dream means, that’s fine. If you don’t have the time, that’s fine also. No problem.
I am in a Catholic church. Mass is about to start. The pews are full. The usual chattering and rustling of papers. The church bears no resemblance to any church I have ever been in. A kind of dream church.
I am sitting in a front pew in an orange dress, leafing through a glossy magazine, something I never do in church. To the left of me in a white shirt sits a teenage youth; and his teenage girlfriend sits next to him on the other side.
I am admiring a center-fold picture of an underwater scene: deep-sea fish with phosphorescent eyes swimming around in the green depths . . . lots of coral and weeds and aquatic vegetation. Maybe the magazine is a National Geographical.
Suddenly the teenage boy says to his girlfriend, “Oooh, look!” and stabs his finger at the picture. His fingernail pierces the page. I turn to him reproachfully and say, “Did you have to make a hole in the bloody page?” (My exact words). No answer. The boy is embarrassed. His girlfriend gives a low titter and whispers, “Why did you make a hole in the bloody page?”
An uncomfortable silence.
I decide the atmosphere is all wrong. I don’t want to sit next to these silly teenagers for the next hour and pretend to pray. I need to get out in the fresh air! So I jump to my feet and make my exit by a little back door that leads . . .
I can’t find any exit.
The walls are too high. There’s a hole in one wall, but it’s too small for me to thrust my body through.
I feel trapped.
I guess I can enter the church again by the back exit door, but I don’t want to sneak into the church again.
While I’m wandering round feeling lost, I discover these open French windows. They lead into a spacious, well-decorated room. This is obviously the living room of the priest’s house, which is attached to the church.
I enter the room . . .
As I enter, two housemaids or housekeepers in Victorian uniforms pop into the room from nowhere. They are the priest’s housekeepers. Most Catholic priests nowadays have these live-in housekeepers who cook and clean for them and do their shopping — usually one housekeeper, of course, not two.
“Ha ha! ho ho! hee hee!” the housekeeper maids chirrup in chorus. “Would you like us to show you around, lady?”
They are like mad parakeets, their eyes popping out on stalks. They are obviously retarded, with a lot of screws loose.
“No thanks, can you just let me out?” I ask politely.
“Ha ha! ho ho! hee hee! Come this way, lady!”
They are elderly woman and look like sisters — like mad sisters in a Victorian melodrama.
We make our way through the house. Every single thing I say in passing through the rooms is met with crazy cackles and squawks of parakeet mirth. The Mad Sisters are quite harmless, it seems, but they are obviously totally round the bend.
I can’t help wondering how they can possibly look after the priest and do all his housework. “He’s obviously taken them on as servants as an act of Christian charity,” I say to myself. “For the love of Christ, he is prepared to be looked after by a couple of raving loonies who belong in a nuthouse! Hmmm . . . how can this holy man possibly spend his days in the presence of these two birdlike imbeciles who can’t stop rolling their eyes and cackling uncontrollably like crazy parrots?”
I reach the front door and am released into the open by the Mad Sisters.
“Goo-bye, dear lady, goo-bye! Ha ha! ho ho! hee hee!”
I give them a farewell wave of the hand and step outside. With relief. Freedom at last! The outside world!
This is when I wake up . . . with a sickly feeling . . . and with a sense of exhiliration laced with panic.
“Hey, where am I? . . . What next? . . . Is life itself a bad dream? . . .”