You're Always a Woman to Me

I was in a music shop, looking for good record/CD type things. The shop was in a huge recital hall type space with fancy wood paneling and very high ceilings. I was seeking something rich and fascinating, and I found three CD/record type things I thought I would be happy with, and headed toward the register. As I got close to the shop clerks, those denizens of superior musical taste, I felt embarrassed by my choices. I looked down at my three packages, and although the pictures on them were interesting, and engaging to me, I realized that the music enclosed had gone out of style decades ago. I slunk out of line and went to return them to the bins, but suddenly the clerks/critics were everywhere. I went to put a Billy Joel album away, and the owner of the store, a famed misogynist, was poring over the very bin I was trying to return the album to. I pretended to be shopping, and flipped through the albums in the bin, as a large, rust-colored picture propped against the bin tried to fall over against my leg. I barely glanced at the edge of it because I was so concerned with sneaking the Billy Joel album back into the bin. I don’t even like Billy Joel, and never have. He was one of the many musicians who kind of made me feel bad about being female, and as I looked through the bin, I saw awful images of ugly old women. I was afraid the store owner would see them and see me as one of them. I hastily shoved the Billy Joel album into the bin and ran away. As I made my way to the back of the store, I looked at the last album still in my hands. I was alone now. The album in my hands had a painting on the cover. It was deep blue and gold, a sad woman curled up, turned 3/4 away. It was a bit primitive, but rich with paint. I liked it. It was streaked with purple from one of the other albums, which had apparently had wet paint on it. I put it on an empty shelf at the back of the store and ran back toward the front. I ran into the room which had had the misogynist rack in it, but the room was empty. It was draped in plastic drop cloths and its wood paneled walls had just been painted white by a female employee. I was worried that the paint fumes would give me asthma. I reached for a door handle to get out, but they had been removed from the just-painted doors, which were glowing slightly with sunlight from the front room. The doors were not latched in any way, though, and swung open when I pushed. As I entered the real world of the store front again, I woke up.

What it means to me: This dream reminded me of another I had recently, in which I was going from swimming pool to swimming pool in search of the ocean. In both dreams I was seeking something rich and fulfilling to my heart, something I needed. There is no doubt in my mind that what I seek is the experience of making art again. In the ocean-seeking dream, it seemed like it was the shallow, transparent, tedious existence of every day life that was the obstacle. I couldn’t escape the routine, the need for a safe place for the kids, where I was not even able to swim, myself, but must constantly be concerned with the details of safety and cleanliness and the work of life under fluorescent lights and smelling of chlorine.

The record shop dream was more about the obstacles within my own mind. It was, quite simply, about my inability to escape the critic within.