Dream #13847B

Excuse me for talking about my dreams again, but this one I can't seem to shake.  My brother, wisely I think, has told me more than once that he doesn't want to hear about my dreams or anyone else's dreams for that matter unless he is featured prominently in it.  That is his policy, and he will cut you off when you start to talk about a dream to ask if he is in it.  When you tell him no, he will tell you he doesn't want to hear about it.  This is understandable and not outrageous, though this brother says a lot of outrageous things.  He claims everything he says is perfectly logical and not a bit outrageous which is a big part of his outrageousness.  This enrages certain people like my other, logic oriented brother who used to argue the illogical points of my brother's outrageous claims which my outrageous brother would ardently defend until my logic oriented brother would, red-faced and exhausted, proclaim, "Fine. You're right," which was the only thing that rattled my outrageous brother.  "No!  You don't agree with me!" And they would argue for awhile about whether or not they agreed with each other.

You would never know that my brother is so outrageous because he dresses in the most neutral way possible. This is one of his goals.

My brother did not appear in the dream I had last night.  So he will not be interested in hearing about it.  I can't actually recall any dream my brother has ever appeared in, even though I can recall many dreams, even dreams from when I was very young, before I understood what dreams were. (Not to say I now understand what they are, but from experience, I can say, for me at least, they disappear when I'm awake. Though, what does it mean to be awake?)

Perhaps I was dreaming, when, as a child, everyone would start talking very fast.  Perhaps I was sleep walking, which I tended to do.  I don't know.  But it frightened me to the point of near hysteria and the only thing that could knock everything back into its proper pace was hearing my outrageous brother's voice. So I would sit at the bottom of the attic steps, the world in fast forward until he realized I was there and would yell, "Get out of here, Stupid!" and everything would slow to a tolerable speed and all would be good again.

These are silly childhood things.  Now we see each other once a year at Thanksgiving when he comes to visit, and occasionally when I go to San Francisco which hasn't been for years.  The last time I was there, we were caught in a traffic jam going over the Bay Bridge, and he proclaimed what a waste of space cemeteries are and how all cemeteries should double as parking lots.  I laughed, but he didn't like that.  This was serious business.  When you die, he said, you can specify what kind of car you want parked on your grave.  This was his favorite part of the idea, arrived at after a half hour of heated discourse about the merits of his plan.

It's impossible to ignore my brother's outrageous ideas because he has a radio voice.  I don't say that just because he is my brother.  People come up to him everyday and tell him he should be on the radio. It's gotten so he intercepts them.  "Let me guess," he says to strangers.  "You think I should be on the radio."


Which brings me back to my dream.  What it is about dreams anyway?  You see someone on the street, and you have a dream about them that you wouldn't tell anyone, except maybe your brother who doesn't want to hear about it unless he is in it.  Which he isn't.

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