Dream: I’m in a big empty three-storey house on the flat Texas plains anxiously searching for my diary, which I’ve misplaced. I remember clearly what it looks like. It’s a two-and-a-half inch thick typewritten manuscript of heavy stock bond paper, its edges blackened by an intense fire. I know if I search long enough, I’ll find it. I hear a steady wind howling out of the North, and the windows’ dusty white curtains billow like sails.
Then someone asks me to look after a guy strapped in a wheel chair. He’s either drugged or hallucinating because he repeats one sentence over and over again. “I don’t know!” he says. “I don’t know!” I want to show him that I’m concerned. So I tell him, “Well, if you can remember, they’ll stop interrogating you.” He doesn’t acknowledge me, and carries on as before. But suddenly the straps that held him securely in the chair disappear, and he leaps up and runs toward the door. He tries to turn the knob, but it’s locked.
Then a tall, muscular man in some sort of military uniform appears. I think he’s part of a new Homeland Security force. He demands to see my ID. I produce a document but it doesn’t check out on the computer. I ask him to try again. I immensely dislike him, but I realize that if he perceives it I might end up in prison and held indefinitely without charges. He taps on the keyboard, and I feel anxious, fearful.
Analysis: The guy in the wheelchair is, of course, Vittoria. She appears in my dream as a male figure likely because I have not yet projected enough of my anima onto her. The wheel chair and its confining straps are her family, and the trauma associated with them. She rises up and becomes partially free but still desperately needs to unlock the door. Which is a metaphor of her current struggle toward self-understanding.
The Homeland Security goon is a scary figure, likely my abusive father. He represents illegitimate authority, the worst kind.
The burnt diary represents my passing through the flames of various traumas in the past. Somehow I managed to survive the conflagrations with a minimum of damage. Just the edges of my manuscript are blackened. All the pages are still readable.
* * *
When I awoke from this dream I was famished, so I ate what remained of my birthday cake. A day old, but still yummmmy.