A Dream Within A Dream

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Dreams are ephemeral tapestries woven in the deepest recesses of our minds, where reality bends and dissolves, logic surrenders to the fantastical, and the impossible becomes commonplace.

Before the first fluttering of consciousness at dawn from the final descent into slumber, we traverse this enigmatic realm nightly, embarking on journeys that defy definition and leave us questioning the very nature of existence.

But what are dreams? Are they mere phantoms conjured by an overtaxed mind, or fleeting glimpses into a parallel reality? Are they messages from beyond the veil, or figments of our deepest desires and anxieties? Throughout history, philosophers, theologians, and artists have grappled with these questions, each offering their own interpretation of this enigmatic phenomenon.

In the opulent halls of ancient Egypt, dreams were seen as divine messages from the gods, offering guidance, prophecy, and warnings. The Egyptians meticulously documented their dreams, interpreting symbols and omens to navigate the complexities of everyday life.

In the vibrant tapestries of medieval Europe, dreams were often populated by demons, angels, and mythical beasts, reflecting the deeply religious worldviews of the time.

As the Age of Reason dawned, dreams were relegated to the realm of superstition and dismissed as the mere “firing of the neurons.” However, the 20th century witnessed a resurgence of interest in the dream world, thanks in part to the groundbreaking work of Sigmund Freud. In his seminal work, “The Interpretation of Dreams”

Freud proposed that dreams are the “royal road to the unconscious,” offering a window into our deepest desires, fears, and conflicts.

Today, the scientific community continues to unravel the mysteries of the dream state. Neuroimaging studies have identified specific brain regions associated with dreaming, while researchers explore the potential therapeutic benefits of dream analysis. However, the essence of dreams – their subjective, symbolic, and often nonsensical nature – remains largely elusive.

Yet, despite the lack of definitive answers, the allure of dreams persists. They continue to spark our imaginations, ignite our creativity, and offer solace in times of darkness. Whether they are fleeting glimpses into the unknown, mere figments of our minds or bits of undigested potato, dreams hold a unique power to transport us beyond the boundaries of our everyday lives.

Many twentieth century authors wrote that dreams extend beyond their narrative function and act as a gateway to the unconscious, a place where our deepest desires and fears reside and that “dreams are the whispers of our soul, the language of our unconscious mind” and by understanding our dreams we can come to a deeper understanding of ourselves and our place in the universe.

We can dismiss our dreams as mere phantoms but I view them with with reverence and awe. I see my dreams as a sacred space, a holy veil that separates me from the unknown. I see my dreams as a metaphorical bridge between the conscious and the unconscious, the real and the unreal, the sacred and the profane and the whispers of the divine and echoes of eternity.”

By exploring the enigmatic realm of my dreams I embark on a journey of self-discovery. I confront my deepest fears and desires, grapple with my mortality, and glimpse the vastness of the universe.

Whether my dreams are fleeting fantasies or portals to another reality, dreams remind me of the many mysteries that lie still hidden within myself and the world around me.

In the final analysis, the meaning of dreams will remain a mystery. They are a tapestry woven from the threads of our experiences, desires, and anxieties, a reflection of our inner world that can be both beautiful and terrifying. Yet, it is this very ambiguity that makes them so fascinating. For in the realm of dreams, anything is possible, and we are free to explore the furthest reaches of our imagination.

So, the next time you slip into the spiritual embrace of sleep I recommend that you allow yourself to be carried away on the wings of your dreams; embrace the unknown, explore the frightening, and discover the secrets that lie hidden within the depths of your soul. For in the realm of dreams, you are not yourself – you are a God.

George Orwell’s 1984 begins with the clock striking 13

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My sympathy for women and gays began with my birth. My mother, Rose, was disappointed that she birthed a male child—as documented by my birth certificate. My first photograph showed me as a three-year-old child in the driveway dressed in a skirt..

Rose used terms of endearment that had a feminine flavor. Etymologically, the “ie” suffix for boy’s names gave the feeling that the boy was childish, less male, or even nongender. My first picture in the local newspaper identifies me as Dickie Kagan, a helpless child on a tricycle who was kidnapped.

I am now only piecing together the meaning and significance of her most common term of endearment—Dicksala. I am not sure of its origin, but I have long daydreamed about its influence. The suffix “sala” is based on the Hebrew and Yiddish way to emphasize the femineity of a name. “Sala” is also a derivative of the name “Sarah.”  From my study of the Holocaust, I learned that “Sarah” was the name Nazis used for all Jewish females. This discovery increased my sense of identifying with my feminine side.

 

I have spent time daydreaming about my birth name vs. my nickname. It has led me down a path that I have been bequeathed a second nature.  I have turned this feeling into searching for my dual identity.

Dancing at my high school reunion

In high school, I learned to dance with a male friend. In my parent’s living room, we listened to music while holding each other—sharing the male and female roles. The New Yorker dance supplied the excitement and pleasures of twirling, balancing, and embracing. Consequently, I became an excellent dancing partner at parties who understood both the male and female roles. Unfortunately, perhaps, I never adapted to the modern individualism of dancing as a form of gymnastics.

Rejection of the binary male-female division fosters identity with women, gays, lesbians, and trans people. My students, both male and female, have often celebrated me as a father figure. Often there was a family-like relationship. Several times I roomed with a former student in her apartment in Taiwan. During those times, I cleaned the house and helped with food preparations. Years later, my daughter stayed with her. My former student told my daughter that I was a great roommate.

In my research, I have had empathy for abused women, especially for prostitutes.  For instance, I discovered that Thai prostitutes fled from their oppressive families in rural areas to the city where they formed a bond with other prostitutes in the brothels. Here, they lived with other women, learning skills like sewing or knitting between their pecuniary employments. They often became literate which led to confidence and freedom to engage in other occupations.

While teaching about the Japanese comfort women during WW2 who were kidnapped into prostitution for the military, I organized specific activities to promote understanding and consciousness of their plight. After the war, Comfort Women published poetry and stories about their dehumanization. These memoirs expressed exceptional aesthetic sense and strategies for self-preservation. We read them aloud. I felt that this pedagogy was an excellent substitute for a historical narrative, as well as a means to promote empathy and sensitivity.  I tried to teach my students to learn from these heroic achievements to survive with honor and health. The moral: out of the darkness, there can be light.

In Taiwan at an LGBT parade – the sign reads “No matter what you are called, heaven still loves you very much”

In my sparse subbing as a Japanese language instructor, I was required to teach a story about two foreigners—male and female—who learned to live and speak in Japan. The narrative was full of dialogue, as would be expected in a language class. The problem is that the pronunciation of the same word, or composition of the sentence changes according to the male or female speaker. For instance, after WW2, American soldiers and government officials learned Japanese from their female language teachers. Behind their backs, the Japanese would laugh because they sounded like women. So, I invited a female Japanese speaker to teach the students how women would read female dialogues.  I read the male and she read the female dialogues with differing tones and added expressions.

Below is an autobiography I wrote in a woman’s voice–as best I could.  It has received critical comments: ” you did not write this, a women is the author, you got help from a woman, your plagiarized.