1. You’re having a dream that you’re awake in your bedroom, but frightened by a noise. Light from the hallway, seeping through the three-inch crack of your open door, calls to you. You jump out of bed, throw open the door, run in the blinding light to your parents’ dark room. 

But when you get there, you notice that your parents are gone, that their bed is made, that they haven’t been there for probably 20 or 30 years. Things smell like dust. A breeze blows through an open window, billowing the old curtains, but it’s hot and dark. You are alone and scared. 

But you’re not really alone. You feel him hiding in the shadows by the door -- the very tall octopus. He’s oozing in the dark with purple ink and evil smell. He’s waiting for you. 

Fuck it. You make a break for it, and just as you’re about to escape your parents’ room into the safety of the lighted hall, he grabs you, all eight arms wrapping around you, squeezing the life out of you. You can’t breathe. 

Interpretation and suggestion: Quit fighting. If we fight to escape our parents -- i.e., our parents’ bedroom and house, their traits, their ridiculous influences, their many-tentacled love, their God-awful stupidity -- they only hold on tighter. The octopus only squeezes harder. So tell the octopus you love him. Once he lets you loose, say you have an appointment but that you’ll email later. Then run. 

2. (This one specifically interpreted for my son.) You’re standing on a pitcher’s mound and though you were once a pretty good pitcher, you now can’t even perform the simple task of engaging the wind-up. Every time you step back, or kick up your leg, or drive to the plate, you drop the ball. 

The hitter -- this big, burly idiot -- is leaning on his bat like a cane, smirking, while you balk and balk and balk. The crowd is beginning to murmur. Your catcher and your coach come to the mound, uninvited, for a conference. They say you look drunk -- can’t you even throw one pitch? You’re miffed: Is this really any of their God-damned business? You’re the one that’s dealing with this. Not them. Not them!

But on the next attempted pitch, you drop the ball again. Boo birds revel in your failure. You’re standing there, on the mound, and everyone in the world knows you suck. This will be on ESPN.

Interpretation and suggestion: Sexual frustration is not uncommon. But when it leads to a lack of confidence and, therefore, difficulties in other performance areas, it’s time to relax. So, take off your shirt, turn your hat backwards, and start humming your favorite song. You can even try the breathe through the eyelids thing. But do not try to throw a strike. Instead, try to bean the idiot batter (He’s not a batter at all; he’s your sex life, your libido, as it turns out.). Bean him in the face. Draw blood. Let the blood flow on that fucker. Stand over his limp body, the dusty clay caking his bleeding eyesocket. Draw a finger to the mixture, taste it. Blood sugar sex magik. 

When you wake up, find a sex partner or arrange for some private time.

3. (This one specifically interpreted for my daughter.) Your lover has just told you that it’s over, that he is sleeping with some big-breasted Trixie and you, by the way, are horrible in bed. You say, How can you do this, how can you treat me this way, how can you be so cruel? We have something, we love each other, we’re meant to be together.

Your heart is separating into 1,000 tiny pieces. You can’t breathe. You think you might die. 

I never loved you, your lover says. 

Interpretation and suggestion: Sometimes our dreams are the gateways to truth. Your lover is an asshole. When you wake up, call him and say, offhand, that you’re seeing someone else. When he comes knocking on the door of my house, desperate, puppy-eyed, looking for you, I’ll take care of the rest. 

4. This time, you’re flying over your neighborhood. Holy fuck, you’re flying like a superhero, in front of your friends, who are watching from below, shouting that you’re going to fall, that you can’t fly, as if flying’s against the rules. And you’re showing them, no, you’re not going to fall because you can fly. 

God damn, it feels good to fly. You dive-bomb them, your so-called friends who want you to fall. But then, you remember that they’re right, you can’t fly, not at all, that this is just a dream and you hope it lasts, because it sure is a long way down -- and that’s when you start to fall and your friends start to cheer.

You’re heading for an ugly collision with the unforgiving ground.

Interpretation and suggestion: Fuck your friends. They’re jealous idiots with uncaring parents, and the only reason you’re hanging out with them -- and dreaming about them -- is because I can’t afford a better house in a better part of the world. But I’m trying, really trying, and in the meantime, you’ve got to fly, Kid. You can fly. Look at the sky -- don’t look down! The sky -- it’s all that matters. You must never take your eyes off the sky. If this fails, blow into your thumb.