Dream Diary

Psychology, Writing January 1, 2014

It amazes me constantly that adults say things like “My dream is to . . .” or “My dream came true” or “I know if I work hard enough, my dream will come true.” On American television, of which I am a passionate viewer, such things are expressed all the time. Which is odd to me because I work hard not to make my dreams come true.

I’ve been keeping a dream diary for about six months now; here are some excerpts, dates and names redacted:


I’m on a terrace observing a sort of kingfisher that can stand on its head. We (elsewhere in the house) are deciding how a string of murders took place. The kingfisher is an immediate suspect and in the distance a wolf is the other suspect. But perhaps we are wrong, because later I am in bed in a deep, unremitting sleep in a room that looks uncannily like the room I live in now and uncannily not. Though asleep, I am strongly aware that a man (whom [sic?] in my sleep I have deduced is the actual murderer and who perhaps is aware that I am aware) is trying to get inside, through the door and windows. Outside, of which I am also profoundly aware—though asleep—it is incredibly bright. Somehow I am able to thwart the murderer’s attempts to enter, but I am still in bed and asleep and able to sense mounting danger. I am afraid for my death and still I cannot get out of bed. This is how much I want to sleep.


. . . I work for a business (am a partner in?) that washes women’s hair and promises improvement. (No hair is cut.)

A blonde client with curly hair. A bathtub full to the brim. Its temperature is hard to maintain.

The blonde woman asks if we do psychological testing in order to determine why she has bad hair.

I am confused. I say the bath will take care of everything.


M trying to kill me with a piece of thread around my neck.


An assortment of images from an assortment of dreams: very neat shelves of books (rows of books in the same edition); our new house a disaster zone; a man chasing me on a bicycle.


I dreamt a cat was a loaf of bread.


Another M dream. This time she is a thin, trendy socialite at a party ignoring me. When I confront her, she says she never wanted to be around a [. . .] type. I am devastated.


A parent allowed (encouraged?) me to play with his/her very small child. I decided to gently, playfully jab at its stomach, but it bruised and bled very quickly, began to cry and complained to its mother.


There is an event in my new apartment (have I been allowed to volunteer for this?) and various [. . .] folk are in my house already as I enter in (on a bicycle?). N is here . . . Turns out she’s my landlady. As in real life she is attempting to help me. She has retiled and redecorated . . . brought in fresh curtains. The place looks fantastic. We decide where to put the pool table.


A new mother had to shove her baby back in to feed it.


I go to a hairdresser. She cuts my hair until it’s shoulder-length and also straight. For some reason I don’t/can’t tell her this is not what I want. I take a brief moment of pleasure in my straight hair. I notice that I now have the same hairstyle as the hairdresser. I struggle to decide how to tip her.


Wrote on the archbishop’s bed made of hunter green pleather (what was I doing there?). Got arrested.


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