The Subconscience

Oh, dreams. I often remember them, much to the detriment of people who breakfast with me. Because I also have to talk about them. Vivid dreams often come in waves, and I am currently caught up in such a surge.

I seldom dream about men I am involved with, but Dave has done his share of turning up, both in person and by proxy. The circumstances of involvement with him are typically strange and complex- this is, after all, a relationship on Isle au Haut. He is still married, though (as it were) only by a legal thread; he doesn't have the money to buy his wife out of their house, and as it stands now they have functioned as housemates for the last three years; they've a daughter, my former student, who has now begun her first year of high school, boarding in New Hampshire.

One does not grow up with the expectation of dating a married man. At least I didn't. Sure, my grandmother might have set the pattern, but it wasn't one I expected to follow. As Dave and I got to know each other over the summer- first because our cafe schedules were similar (later I learned that maybe he attended first thing in the morning in hopes of seeing me), and then because I began working with him on his boat- the island grapevine was a live wire. Getting to know someone under the small town microscope was desperately uncomfortable, and even more delicate an operation because of his daughter's presence. Abigail, amazing girl that she is (very much her father's daughter), took it in stride. When they first discussed the relationship Abigail was a bit shocked by the age difference: "But Dad- Morgan's only 29!" Which was followed by "But I really like Morgan." It was at Abigail's request that she, Dave, and I went out hauling together, and after that day she decided "I really like you and Morgan together." The community seems to agree, and people will comment to me about how good Dave now looks, what with being happy. His wife also told him that living with him is a lot easier. When she went off for a weekend with her boyfriend she left us a lobster galette- with strict instructions that Dave was not to take credit for making it.

So as extramarital affairs go, this one's about as moral as it gets.

Yet.

The night before last, I dream that I was having an affair with the happily married boat captain, who has a two-year old daughter. Do I want to have an affair with Garrett? No. And in my dream I kept thinking, "Hold the phone, I am not interloping on a happy marriage! Something's not right here. This is the wrong married man... I could have sworn things were kind of kosher. Shit- is this my life?"

And I woke up. It was not my life. Exactly.

It seems my subconscious is a moral absolutist when it comes to conscience, even if I am living by the standards of island relativity.

It also tends to nettle me about other character flaws. Flaws, Morgan? Not you! Okay, tendencies that others might deem "worth working on."

So Dave's leaving to go swordfishing, right? In another dream I am back at Grinnell, out in the loggia, which is crowded with people. Dave comes up to say goodbye to me, and I give him a quick kiss on the cheek and send him on his way, because One Ought Not Be Emotional in Public. He leaves, and I immediately miss him, and want to give chase to say a better goodbye. Suddenly, however, I am nekked. So it is either go back to my dorm room, get proper clothes and possibly not be able to catch him up, or run through the crowd heedless of my state of undress. In classic Morgan fashion, I just dithered, torn between the two until I woke up. Oh dear- afraid of vulnerability I let the moment slip away! Such emotional cowardice!

Dear dream factory, please stop with the obvious constructive criticism and symbols. It's lame. I know that I've been spending my days working with high school freshmen who are reading The Outsiders, and that the analysis is pretty basic, but come on. Nudity? A little subtlety, please. And perhaps fabricate a dream that is not a lesson in strict adherence to the Commandments, whether set forth by Moses or Oprah.