What?

I had a surprisingly indecent dream the other night involving Pablo Picasso and, well...a couple of strangers. It took such a surreal and interesting turn that I considered writing about it here, but decided that this is a different kind of writing to be reserved for a different kind of blog. Or forum.

But I think I can divulge this tiny detail without polluting your minds too much: Mr. P was not potbellied, aged, or balding, but, instead, young, facially hirsute, handsome, and very Italian.

A couple of mornings ago, while I was in the shower—the place where all of my best thinking occurs—I pondered this weird dream and the fact that I had chosen this particular human model to substitute my beloved Picasso. I thought: that isn’t even my type! And then I thought: wait, do I even have a type? And then I thought: well, Ben must be my type. And then I thought: but what type of type is Ben? (See, I told you: this is some high-level analysis going on here.)

It seems I haven't ever necessarily had one; at least not from an appearance standpoint. So the Picasso stand in was probably just the last person I saw on the street, showing up as part of my subconscious' obligatory sorting and archiving activity.

And now that I’ve written this much I’m not totally sure where I am going and I’m starting to realize that all of this is totally unimportant. Oh boy. But it’s what I’ve got today, so I’m going to push forward and try to pull something meaningful out at the end. ‘Scuse me while I step away for a couple of hours. Maybe a glass of wine will help…

... ... ...

And that point, I think, is that it is interesting how we evolve as we mature. (We? OK, maybe I can only speak for myself.) I’m attracted to more practical characteristics in all of the people I encounter. I can only look at you for so long. What else have you got? Oh, you want to talk about Mid-Century Modern Architecture? Or discuss the roots of the “concept album?” You want to tell me about the linguistic scientists who decided how the Arabic language would be structured? Or the artistic, literary, and psychological revolutions that were occurring in early 20th century Vienna? I’m listening. Oh, yes, I am.   

PS: You might think it kind of wrong that I would have such a dream and then tell about it, being that I’m a married woman and all that. But just like dreams about imperfect houses and teeth falling out and flunking out of college and driving your car from the back seat, the object/subject is rarely the literal representation of what’s on our minds or happening in our lives. Likely I was thinking ahead about having to do my taxes.