October 3, 2015

In my dream I was having a conversation with my wife, Julie, and another guy, who could only be described as young, dark, and handsome in a Dr. McDreamy kind of way. At some point one of them, I can't remember which, said something to the effect that "It was a swimmers' conversation." And then they laughed knowingly while I joined in the laughter without quite being aware of what was funny.

Later that night, I was having a different, separate dream altogether when I found myself at the bathroom door of the house I had grown up in on Meade St. I knocked on the door. I think I knew who was going to answer, and then Dr. McDreamy did. I saw his face and said, "I'm sorry, is this a swimmers' conversation?" And just as I said this, I saw Julie over his shoulder sitting on the counter, naked. I could see her bare breasts, and she had one foot tucked up toward her crotch, and the way he didn't answer my question immediately let me know that a swimmers' conversation had been code all along, a way of referring to those too old and frightened to get in the pool.

What do I do when I make a work of art from my dreams, and those dreams reveal my deepest insecurities about my relationship with the person I love? I suppose the thing to do with a work of art is to share it, and yet the dreams I have just recounted are so raw, so heart-rending, that to share them seems unseemly somehow. Not to mention the embarrassment to Julie, who is bound to be torn by my subconscious characterization of her as feckless at best, unfaithful at worst.

And yet, there it is. Shared as a way of letting others too old and frightened to get in the pool know that they are not alone in their insecurities about what that means to their relationships with those they hold most dear. And shared as a way of letting those in the swimmers' conversation know that we understand, really we do, their need to be with another, even as it may break our hearts to say it.

But. Enough of such soap operatics. This was, in the end, only a dream. The fact is that Julie has no one with whom she share swimmers' conversations, and I feel no need to give her permission to find someone. If you feel cheated by this climax and resolution as those who are met with the words "it was only a dream" near the close of a story invariably are, I invite you to remember the words which began this entry, "In my dream..." and be appeased. If, on the other hand, you feel as though the dream itself was real enough that no such apology is warranted, then welcome to my nightmare in which these are the stories my dreams tell me.