Deeply fascinated by the mind of C. G. Jung, I have taken to reading his Psychology of the Unconscious over coffee on Sundays. I turn what he writes around and around in my own thoughts. There’s a lot to take in but I fixate on the way he speaks of nightmares and their feminine nature. I’d no idea that was a thing, though it’s not lost on me that a guy would somehow deem the source of terror to be female.
It’s convenient for a million reasons not worth getting into except to say that they can turn you into whatever they want in their fantasies but only a woman knows exactly what she is and, believe me, terror isn’t the half of it.
Lilith. Female as murderess, mother as blood thirsty. Isis. Trickery and mayhem, slithered within new life, rebirth, womanhood. All the while I wonder why as sexual a creature as myself has never once had a dream wherein I was riding a horse, apparently, according to Jung, an indication of one’s sexual desire. Nor was there ever even a single horse in any dream I have ever had that I can recall. Horses are lovely. And I never think about them ever at all in the least.
The day is coming on sticky, humid, heavy in the way heat is heavy right before it really knocks you out. I can’t decide between the blue floral printed bikini or the olive green high-waisted one, so I put both on my new credit card because they are on sale and I am admittedly not the most disciplined when it comes to impulse buys nor am I quick to make any kind of hard decisions on a hot summer Sunday in late July. Come to think of it, they might look cute mixed and matched. I am a genius but only by accident.
I put some laundry in the gentle cycle, pour another cup of coffee and wonder about the way our minds wander all throughout the day without relent. We sink into music and poetry. We think dirty thoughts as we touch ourselves in the dark. We paint strange murals on the walls of our private dreams. But all the while underneath, there we are, alone with the tangled up complication that we ultimately will always be.
There is something about this day I don’t want to start. I don’t know if all fright is feminine but I do know that lately it’s been harder than usual for me to relax. I abandon Jung and Freud and all the rest of the human race living and deceased and begin to browse through a website for sandals with a high wedge heel. I’ve given up cigarettes and my anxiety ebbs and flows through my thin simmering veins. I need something to gnaw between my teeth. I feel it now in my fingers as they click across the keys but maybe it’s just the caffeine. Either way I think I need a new lipstick. And hair cut. And maybe a lavender night cream. Something to help soothe the panic in my horse-less dreams.