In Dreams

So here I am, Day 75 of the Corona Virus Lockdown.

I am somewhat bored, although I've taken to riding my bike through the now deserted streets of New Orleans with a whole lot less fear my bike will get painted white and I'll be dead.  I haven't ridden my bike since moving here.  So, let's call that a big win.  I forgot how much I like to ride my bike.  It's just pretty dangerous here in the land of stupid texting drivers.  It's been a real challenge to find a way from my house to Audubon Park and the bike trail, that isn't filled with man-eating potholes, but I have had fun mapping a zig-zag route.  There is a coffin sized hole in the street on Fern and Cohn.  I think a car actually went in it a few weeks ago, and people were badly hurt.  New Orleans has, as per usual, put an orange cone near it.  I digress, but honestly, my safety, and any bicyclists well-being, is not of utmost importance to any city council member.  In fact, it's not of any importance.

Where was I?

Oh yes.  In Dreams.

Dreams are funny things.  Mine are vivid, wild, remarkable (most of the time - some are very secret), memorable and I always feel like I got a free night at the movies and I liked the movie.  But lately, with this Corona Virus shutting down my normal avenues of fun, enjoyment and drinking venues, some of us are experiencing more sinister nocturnal visions than we're used to.  I have had a few bad nights with bad dreams......my husband yelling at me, my husband telling me he was leaving me for another.....my husband dying (that was the worst one - complete with me following an ambulance to Bay 3 of a Brick Morgue where they loaded him on a conveyor belt and sent him God knows where).  I'm not sure if that dream followed the one where he said he was leaving me, and I might have killed him.....just don't remember the sequence.  Kind of sounds like my initial reaction.  But dreams do not make sense mostly.  They reflect our subconscious thoughts and fears, wants and desires.

At least, that's what my husband, the psychologist, says.  I don't tell him all my dreams.  He's less interested in dreams than in what's going on when we're awake anyhow.  Psychiatrists and Psychotherapists are more interested in dreams.  But they're always poking their noses into your most private places.  They are the crotch-sniffing dogs of mental hygiene.

So my dream that was pretty awesome this week I just feel I have to share.  I had a date with Bob Dylan.

Bob Dylan!  Wow.  And he was the young, restless, revolutionary Bob Dylan and I was my young self too.  God, I love it when I dream I'm young again.  How we fail to appreciate all that beauty, zest and intensity when we're actually living it.

Bob came to pick me up and we went back to his rather nice basement apartment where he showed me a book of physics he was reading.  Somehow, Bob Dylan reading physics doesn't quite mesh, but he may well have an interest in physics, or else this was a metaphysical moment I was experiencing and Bob Dylan and I were actually talking. I told him about the great literature I enjoyed reading and then we were in a New Orleans club, dancing to some jazzy blues.

A very tall musician who was playing the jazzy blues asked me to dance and I danced with him, but I remember looking around to see if this was making Bob Dylan upset and feeling like a 15 year old girl, unfamiliar with the ways of dancing and boys in general.  This was the best dream I've had since the Corona Virus creeped into town and stole everyone's carefree.

I think it's worth noting that I remember the tall musician's body and arms around me more than I remember Bob Dylan's.

But I was young, and my hormones were raging.