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A fatherís pseudo-Freudian interpretations, 
written for his son and daughter.

1. Youíre having a dream that youíre awake in your bedroom, but frightened by a noise. Light from the hallway, seeping through the three-inch crack of your open door, calls to you. You jump out of bed, throw open the door, run in the blinding light to your parentsí dark room. 

But when you get there, you notice that your parents are gone, that their bed is made, that they havenít been there for probably 20 or 30 years. Things smell like dust. A breeze blows through an open window, billowing the old curtains, but itís hot and dark. You are alone and scared. 

But youíre not really alone. You feel him hiding in the shadows by the door -- the very tall octopus. Heís oozing in the dark with purple ink and evil smell. Heís waiting for you. 

Fuck it. You make a break for it, and just as youíre about to escape your parentsí room into the safety of the lighted hall, he grabs you, all eight arms wrapping around you, squeezing the life out of you. You canít breathe. 

Interpretation and suggestion: Quit fighting. If we fight to escape our parents -- i.e., our parentsí bedroom and house, their traits, their ridiculous influences, their many-tentacled love, their God-awful stupidity -- they only hold on tighter. The octopus only squeezes harder. So tell the octopus you love him. Once he lets you loose, say you have an appointment but that youíll email later. Then run. 


2. (This one specifically interpreted for my son.) Youíre standing on a pitcherís mound and though you were once a pretty good pitcher, you now canít even perform the simple task of engaging the wind-up. Every time you step back, or kick up your leg, or drive to the plate, you drop the ball. 

The hitter -- this big, burly idiot -- is leaning on his bat like a cane, smirking, while you balk and balk and balk. The crowd is beginning to murmur. Your catcher and your coach come to the mound, uninvited, for a conference. They say you look drunk -- canít you even throw one pitch? Youíre miffed: Is this really any of their God-damned business? Youíre the one thatís dealing with this. Not them. Not them!

But on the next attempted pitch, you drop the ball again. Boo birds revel in your failure. Youíre standing there, on the mound, and everyone in the world knows you suck. This will be on ESPN.

Interpretation and suggestion: Sexual frustration is not uncommon. But when it leads to a lack of confidence and, therefore, difficulties in other performance areas, itís time to relax. So, take off your shirt, turn your hat backwards, and start humming your favorite song. You can even try the breathe through the eyelids thing. But do not try to throw a strike. Instead, try to bean the idiot batter (Heís not a batter at all; heís your sex life, your libido, as it turns out.). Bean him in the face. Draw blood. Let the blood flow on that fucker. Stand over his limp body, the dusty clay caking his bleeding eyesocket. Draw a finger to the mixture, taste it. Blood sugar sex magik. 

When you wake up, find a sex partner or arrange for some private time.


3. (This one specifically interpreted for my daughter.) Your lover has just told you that itís over, that he is sleeping with some big-breasted Trixie and you, by the way, are horrible in bed. You say, How can you do this, how can you treat me this way, how can you be so cruel? We have something, we love each other, weíre meant to be together.

Your heart is separating into 1,000 tiny pieces. You canít breathe. You think you might die. 

I never loved you, your lover says. 

Interpretation and suggestion: Sometimes our dreams are the gateways to truth. Your lover is an asshole. When you wake up, call him and say, offhand, that youíre seeing someone else. When he comes knocking on the door of my house, desperate, puppy-eyed, looking for you, Iíll take care of the rest. 


4. This time, youíre flying over your neighborhood. Holy fuck, youíre flying like a superhero, in front of your friends, who are watching from below, shouting that youíre going to fall, that you canít fly, as if flyingís against the rules. And youíre showing them, no, youíre not going to fall because you can fly. 

God damn, it feels good to fly. You dive-bomb them, your so-called friends who want you to fall. But then, you remember that theyíre right, you canít fly, not at all, that this is just a dream and you hope it lasts, because it sure is a long way down -- and thatís when you start to fall and your friends start to cheer.

Youíre heading for an ugly collision with the unforgiving ground.

Interpretation and suggestion: Fuck your friends. Theyíre jealous idiots with uncaring parents, and the only reason youíre hanging out with them -- and dreaming about them -- is because I canít afford a better house in a better part of the world. But Iím trying, really trying, and in the meantime, youíve got to fly, Kid. You can fly. Look at the sky -- donít look down! The sky -- itís all that matters. You must never take your eyes off the sky. If this fails, blow into your thumb. 

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