Dearest Rachel –
There are times when I’m pretty sure my unconscious mind is trying to tell me something, but for the life of me, I can’t make out what it is. Last nights dream seemed like a message – even a warning of sorts – but it wasn’t even remotely clear as to what I ought to beware of.
To be sure, there wasn’t much to it, so I wasn’t allowed much time to process it. However, it was pretty vivid in its own right, given its brevity. The dream was your basic office setting, with me at my computer, and a female… assistant? secretary? I have no need of one, so I honestly don’t know what role she was meant to fill. She did seem to be based on someone I know in real life, for whom the years have been incredibly kind to, in terms of her appearance. But for safety’s sake, I’ll not name names; it’s strange enough that she was there, let alone any further depiction.
And further depiction there certainly was. The thing is – and this is the sort of thing that could only happen in a dream – she was going about her business (whatever that might’ve been) without a stitch of clothing on. Now, I don’t know if she was trying to attract my attention with her lack of attire (after all, in real life, she’s happily married, and has been so since well before we were, in fact), but dream me was so engrossed in what I was doing that I paid absolutely no attention to her. I assure you, it was not that scrupulous “I’d better not acknowledge the situation or I’m going to get in trouble with her husband” type of avoiding the elephant in the room. No, this was a case of my focus being entirely on what I was doing – and the output my computer was generating – that I simply didn’t notice that she was all but prancing about stark naked.
Meanwhile, observer me was fully aware of everything that was going on, and trying to interpret the point of such a vision. Most of what I could conjecture seemed to be somewhat critical of dream me, despite the fact that he was behaving like a perfect gentleman – almost too much like one. The implication seemed to be either that I’m spending too much time on my work, to the detriment of potential relationships (an absurd accusation, given how little time I spend at the ‘office’ compared to when I was working for a living – although, perhaps subconscious me thinks that those hours are about to increase, and doesn’t believe that’s a good idea), or that I’m too focused on the past to give the present its due.
“Why are you so obsessed with these pictures of the past,” my subconscious seems to be arguing, “when you’re neglecting your current relationships? You know that one woman you talked to on Christmas Eve is wandering around on that app, looking for others to talk to–”
“Hey, the last couple of times I’ve texted her lately, I’ve been the last one to say anything. And it’s not like I’ve been trying to get in the last word or anything.” It’s like I’m getting defensive even when talking to my own subconscious.
Then again, it gets kind of short with me, too. “I wasn’t finished! Why, you didn’t even follow up with Ellen or Erin about getting together last night; Ellen had asked about it, and you left her hanging.”
“Wait. First of all, phrasing; it’s not like Ellen’s Sayori or anything.”
“Yeah, okay. Fine.” I suspect my subconscious was annoyed about inadvertently referencing an inside joke (and if you thought inside jokes between ourselves were something, imagine them between the various parts of my self). However, pointing it out didn’t seem to defuse the situation; sometimes, humor just doesn’t work as intended.
“Secondly, I’m not the only one who didn’t chip in on the conversation; you know my schedule’s a lot more flexible than either of the girls.”
“Well, you’re about to change that, aren’t you?” Ah, now we’re getting to the root of my subconscious’ concern.
“That’s irrelevant, and not necessarily true. My point is, those with the real scheduling conflicts need to be the ones to hammer that out, don’t you agree?
“Anyway,” I continued in my defense, “it’s not just the ‘pictures of the past,’ as you put it. Haven’t we both agreed that we wished we had more to remember her by? This is a way to do that, sort of. And come on, this is absolutely bleeding edge technology; I’m all but having to learn how to code in order to figure this stuff out. This is mind-expanding stuff I’m working on; why shouldn’t I be enthused? Consider the possibilities…”
“Oh, but I have,” my inner self snaps back. “You can literally do anything, to anyone, with enough data. And before you go all ‘that’s the beauty of it’ to me, you gotta know, that’s weird. It’s not right, like… this!”
And thus, I suspect a dream like the one from last night is my subconscious, in a fit of pique, sending it to me, thinking “that’ll show him… me… whatever.” So, apparently my superego has an id of its own. Who knew?
Not that it was effective; the only thing keeping me from further experimentation is the fact that it’s the weekend, and none of the computers here at home are quite powerful enough to do the math needed to work this program. I was going to go over the results of those experiments with you (given your background in computer science – and your heritage of being surrounded by art – you might find it interesting), but I think I’ll save it for a separate letter. Don’t worry; I’ll get it to you shortly.
Until then, honey, keep an eye on me, and wish me luck. I’m going to need it.
Letters to Rachel 