Waiting for the bus today, on my way to pick my son up from pre-K, i watched a man on line in front of me drop his teeth on the ground. They were wrapped in a sheet of plastic inside a bag, which blew down the street as he leaned on his cane and rather nimbly reached down and put both sets back into the bag. i know i’m narcoleptic, but i was not sleepwalking–i immediately checked in with that possibility because of the dreamlike symbolism of what i had witnessed. Nope, a real live man dumped his mouth out. In all its dentured glory, it became two plastic red and white arches on the sidewalk in front of me. i wanted to pick them up somehow before they got dirty; i wanted to hug him. The kindest thing i could think to do was to pretend that i hadn’t noticed a thing.

i don’t believe in stock explanations of what dream images “mean,” but when i got home i googled “dreams about losing your teeth,” anyway. The short list is something like, “insecurities about a personal loss or a sexual experience; a wish or need to nurture yourself; fear of becoming older; renewal and rebirth.” Okay, but couldn’t those readings also be applied to pretty much every dream i’ve ever had? And, i understand that i’ve already established that i was indeed awake and not dreaming, but for someone who often finds it basically impossible to draw that line, i’m okay with reading daily events symbolically. In fact, even though i was worrying over this old dude, my mind immediately jumped to X and then to my parents. Two or Three subjects that generally induce every reaction in the list above.

This reading was probably brought on by the fact that a few days earlier i’d stopped at the library to see if there were any books on the hold shelf for me. This is generally a rewarding errand, as i am constantly making requests. i found two titles wrapped in my name and a rubber band. i picked them up, swiped them at the self-service checkout privacy island, and then, as i was shoving them into my gigantic bag, took in the incriminating juxtaposition of their titles: Are You My Mother? by Alison Bechdel was fastened to Lose Your Mother: a Journey Along the Atlantic Slave Route by Saidiya Hartman. i allowed myself a dismissive, “Ha. Weird. Whatever.”

For the last few weeks i’ve been stumbling over something my therapist told me a while ago: “If it feels familiar, you’re probably best off running in the other direction.” We were speaking specifically about romantic attachments and how patterns of intimacy that were formed in childhood might not really need to hang on into adulthood if i want to have some sort of emotionally available relationship. At the time this felt like some kind of breakthrough, and i felt relieved. But, to be perfectly honest, i am endlessly revitalized by the fucked-up familiar. How could i ever trust someone who hasn’t had the carpet pulled out from underneath him a million times, even though i know that means i will never have the comfort of carpet? There is a break that is also a sensitivity and a bravery that i suppose i do fetishize. Maybe it simply takes that much to keep me awake at this point, or maybe i’m just dreaming?