In the summertime, I dream more and fuck less. The dreams are formulaic, even for dreams, while the sex, though less frequent, tends to be stranger and harder. And yet even the most obvious of these warm weather phantasms will somehow yield epiphanies, while what I believed to be random hookups or casual scenes are afterward exposed as the culmination of psychodramas enacted by some mysterious somatic energy of which I’m only vaguely aware. What is it about the season that makes contact with my unconscious so very on-the-nose? It’s almost irritating.
Even just writing the above graf has ferreted out another one of those epiphanies I mentioned: the dreams and the sex mirror each other! But of course they do. My dreams often involve me being forced or obligated to kill someone else1, usually someone vulnerable and helpless. Death features in my sex life, too, whether implicitly in the form of risk-taking, or explicitly as consensual violence. As a hypochondriac who wears sunblock every day, I’ve clearly figured out how to compartmentalize that which the dreams suggest (evoke? foretell? fetishize?).
What would happen if I were to compartmentalize a little less? But before I can work up the courage to find out, the summer is already drawing to a close. By the time September arrives, the dreams : sex ratio will be restored to a flirtier balance. Any scorekeeping my body will be doing will happen on a strict need-to-know basis. Bruises will yellow, nerve damage will rewire (hopefully), and the antibiotics? They’ll do what they do best. It’ll be as if nothing ever happened.
Thank you for your patience during my little summer vacation. I’ve been using this time to recover from writing my third novel, rest, read, and have fun. I’ve also been developing a new series about the Method, a pet interest of mine, and I’m excited to share the first installment with you soon. In the meantime, I hope you’re drinking enough water, eating enough food, and taking your deepest breath of the day first thing in the morning.
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From my journal: Dreamed about an old man who lived in my house and wouldn’t die. Laid him down when no one was home and held a pillow over his face. He struggled but I didn’t have to try too hard. Suddenly someone was coming home. I left the room, with the man still alive. He couldn’t speak, so he wouldn’t tell, but he wanted a hug from me.