I woke up this morning not knowing the time. I’ve been used to waking up between 2 and 4 am. This morning however, it was 8. I woke from a dream that felt like the cocoon of a womb, a dream latent with imagery almost too obvious.
The dream was exceptionally vivid. It was a comfortable dream, as if I were in a womb, a place in which I was free to express myself. Rather than being in my Psychologist’s office we were in a town apartment he owns. It was strangely arranged. The living room had a large kitchenette. Some of the rooms were other living rooms and none were bedrooms. Each was a different kind of study area.
It was a brownish grey in the room, largely because the blinds to a floor to ceiling window on one of the walls were partly shut. The outside world didn’t seem to matter, even if we stood near them, We would only stand there to talk. Julie was with me but, we spoke separately, as if it were two sessions. There was a large felt couch next to a desk with fossils and other ornaments as well as piles of paperwork. My therapist, for much of the session was behind the desk but, every so often we would walk, talk and explore the house.
At one point we were in the kitchenette. He was making tea or cooking eggs I can’t remember. Julie was talking at a pace . I remember wanting to say something but, it wasn’t my turn to speak. There was a formality and cadence to the session that was at once formal and relaxed. An order but, an order in which we could speak freely when it was our time to speak.
I remember we were discussing life. But, not just our own lives, we were discussing the life of the mind. We were trying to find a way to free ourselves from it, to connect with the world in such a way that we were no longer let down by our bodies and the effects of our bodies on our minds. Every so often I would pick up one of the artifacts lying around, or I would inspect one of the stands in the room, looking at pictures or memories of his. He dismissed them irrelevancies, things that were unimportant but, there, there for the space to be filled. And each space was filled with ornaments from another age, objects like fossils and ancient Greek or Roman artifacts.
When it came to my time to speak I lay on the couch. I remember it was felt, I could rub my face into it for comfort as I told him that I didn’t know how to shake the melancholy that I feel. He seemed to take what I was saying but, reminded me that it was passing, not a part of who I am but, a part of how I am. Something to be gone when the windows did open and we could look outside. I felt dismissed in that moment, as if I were a child being told by an adult that my feelings were those of someone who hadn’t yet realized or developed kind of understanding ‘adults’ have.
Later we walked into one of the smaller rooms. At this point he was showing us a filing cabinet in which he kept papers. The papers were the psychologies, the minds of those people he has worked with; a collection of minds that had been to his home. I could tell that this was a place only a man could live. It felt like a place in which a man, dedicated to study and with little time for order lived. It did not have the woman’s touch of careful ordering. It was at that point that I woke up.