|100 days of Love and Hate - Day 45
||[Nov. 15th, 2006|02:18 pm]
It's very, very rare that I remember my dreams. It probably happens no more than four times a year at best. I wish I could remember more, but hey, them's the breaks.
But is there anything more mind-numbingly boring, than to be told about a dream? Seriously, is there? My god, its fucking painful. I think the problem is, people don't know how to edit. They tell you every, single detail, because it's so weird, or so interesting.
Of course you're fascinated by it you bastard, it's your dream! Most of us, on the other hand, aren't that interested beyond the first few moments.
95% of the time, when someone tells me they had a dream the other night, I can feel a part of me die. It's that little bit that is interested in people and their stories. The part that can sit their patiently while people tell me the ins and outs of their life. It, like me, can't stand to hear dreams.
People tell you the whole dream, every bit that they can remember. And being a dream, it's rare that there's a narrative flow, so what you're getting is a confused jumble of detailed information that, at the end of the day, you stop being interested in after about 30 seconds. It means nothing to you, but the teller, they're so lost in trying to dredge up every little bit of it, they totally miss that your eyes have glazed over, that you're wishing for sudden bout of explosive diarrhea just so you've got an excuse to get away, that the first bit was okay but for God's sake, get to the point or shut up!
But no, forced to sit there politely while people rabbit on. It's rude to cut in and say, "Okay, you've been going for five minutes now, is there a point to this story?" Though apparently it's not rude to force someone to lose valuable minutes of their life sitting through the detailed, demented wanderings of a dream. Of course we want to hear about your dreams, cos you're just so damned interesting all the time!
NOTE - Telling someone you've had a dream about them and then not telling them about it is crap. If you're not going to tell them what the dream was about, either because it was nasty or sexual, don't tell them you had it in the first place you sucky bastard!
I had a dream I remembered the other week about my dad. I think it's about the fourth I've had about him in the ten years since he died. It was long, drawn-out, weird. When I told the couple of people I thought may have been interested in the dream, what they got was the last little bit. The bit that was relevant, in its way, to my family history. My dad was made King Barry, but Barry being not a very regal name, they used his family's nickname for him, so he became King George.
See, you're bored already. So were they. And that's the short version.
Can you imagine if I went into all the detail, the conversations, the things that happened that had nothing to do with the most interesting (to me and me alone) bit? You can, can't you. I can hear the snoring. You don't care, and nor should you, it wasn't your dream.
When was the last time somebody bored you shitless with a gaming anecdote? Well that's what it's like to listen to other people's dreams, baby! Just because you find the whole thing interesting, that doesn't mean others do. If you're so sure that people want to hear about your dreams, ask yourself this -
When was the last time someone regularly asked what happened next with breathless anticipation during the telling of one of your dreams?
When was the last time anyone said "That was cool! Thanks for telling me that!"
Or do they all say, "Yeah, that was freaky," with feigned interest?
Every one has a story attached. Scars often show someone who has lived. Sometimes the stories are ordinary, "I slipped with a knife." Sometimes the stories are tales of childhood mishaps, "I tried to run under a table when I was four." And sometimes they more unusual, "I cut open my hand on a VCR and the muscle was hanging out."
I love scars. My politeness often stops me from asking about it when I see a big scar on a woman, since many women are self-conscious about them. Which means when I noticed the huge white scar on the leg of my real estate agent in Melbourne, I didn't ask her about it. But I wanted to. If I see her again, I think I shall.
A friend showed me some scars she got during childhood that were pretty damned impressive. I feel privileged to have seen them. Another showed me her recent dog bite. Very cool. Got upper and lower teeth marks from the one bite.
My dad had a cool scar. A 1-inch long pucker in his cheek from a broken beer bottle to the face. The original cut was big enough he could stick his tongue through it.
I used to be embarrassed by my scars, mainly because I had a girlfriend who used to count them, and regularly ask where I got them from. Most of them were from fights, but they were never that big or serious looking. This was back in the days where I got a lot more sun. Believe it or not, I brown up a treat, so the scars showed up really well.
I had a lot of scars, but haven't had any new ones for quite a while, and most of my old ones have faded. I was quite annoyed a while back when I went to look for one particularly impressive one and couldn't find it. Even checked the other arm. Faded to the point where even I don't know it's there.
But I still have the scar on my willy from catching myself in the zip a quarter-century ago. I actually had to undo the zip to get it out.
Buy me dinner and I'll show it to you.