Dream of: 28 July 2012 "Afraid Of That"

ghosts never appear to the waking

I'm at a party apparently being given in the home of writer James Joyce (1882-1941), which home also somewhat has the feel of an art gallery where an exhibit is taking place. As I mingle with other guests (I've been drinking a little alcohol), I meet a black-haired woman (perhaps 40 years old) and we begin talking. I quickly realize that she has read some of my dreams which have obviously entranced her and she asserts that she can secure the publication of some of my dreams in a magazine. I'm unsure whether to take her seriously, but she gives signs that she is interested in working with my dreams. I'm feeling so good from the alcohol, I don't really care whether she is sincere. I'm simply enjoying myself being here. Besides, I'm thinking more in terms of publishing the dreams in a book than in a magazine and I have already compiled some dreams into book form. Although I've assembled dreams in publishable form, I haven't yet actually published in commercial form. I know, however, that I will publish books of dreams at some point. Regardless of whether the woman can be of use in the publication of my dreams, she nevertheless interests me. She flatters me. I wryly joke, "Well, when do we get married?"

The thought in some way rings true because I've always thought that if someone were interested in me the way this woman purports to be, we would probably join together permanently. This woman, however, doesn't seem like the woman with whom I would settle down. She seems more like someone with whom I could be a close friend. She is dressed all in black in a 1920s American style. She is so persistent in wanting to publish my dreams, I think I might give her a chance and finally I ask, "Have you ever done anything like that?"

She answers, "No."

At the same time that I say, "I was afraid of that," she mumbles under her breath the same words, "I was afraid of that."

She seems to have anticipated that I would be wary of someone who has never published anything before. That is why she hadn't mentioned that fact. I have the feeling that I somehow know this woman from somewhere, but I can't quite remember who she reminds me of.

I walk over to Joyce and pull up a seat in front of him. Perhaps 50 years old, he is wearing his round spectacles, probably has on a hat, and is probably wearing a long brown coat. I vaguely recall having seen him in a movie just a few days ago in which he had seemed to have returned to the living world as a ghost. In the movie, he had talked with someone and he had also played the same saxophone which he had actually played in real life. As he now leans back in his easy chair, I start talking to him and tears come to my eyes as I speak. I don't mind that the black-haired woman steps up for a moment and regards me in my emotional state, then steps away.

I want to tell Joyce how important he is to me and how he is one of the most important men in my life. I want him to know that fact. At the same time, however, I'm also thinking about my affinity to the writing style of Marcel Proust and how Proust might be more to my liking than Joyce. In the end, however, I decide for Joyce and I say to him, "You are number one."

Indeed, I think Joyce is my all-time favorite author.

Joyce and I seem to be old acquaintances, but now a new friendship-bonding is taking place between us. He has made himself imminently approachable to me.

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