The Dreamless

My wife insists she doesn't dream.  Or when she does dream, she never ever remembers it.  I dream.  Two or three different ones every night.  The best is when the dream is a really great story that continues after I wake up and then fall back asleep.  The worst is when I really want to know what's going to happen next, I wake up, and when I fall back asleep it's a totally different story.  (Well, really, the worst is when the alarm interrupts the dream and it's time to get up.  Still not very good friends with morning.)

I dream, but I don't have a dream.  If you were to ask me what the perfect life scenario would be for me, I would have no idea how to answer.  No financial, geographical, professional, or relational constraints?  No idea.

Sure, I'd like to not have to ever think about having enough money, but living within certain financial limits inspires avoidance of excess in other areas of life.  I'd love to be able to point to a spot on the globe and move there, but I also rather like where I am right now.  I wouldn't mind turning my hobbies into my livelihood, but then they wouldn't be recreation anymore.

The slacker's creed says: if you don't aspire to anything you won't be disappointed.  But this is America, damn it, the birthplace of the dream.

I don't consider myself dreamless.  I already married the girl of my dreams...and go to work every day at a dream job.  Rather, my world is filled with many micro-dreams.  But those aren't the subject of great oratory.  I dream of new tile in my kitchen; I dream of someday owning an old VW Karmann Ghia convertible; I dream of a world without 24-hour cable news networks; I dream of a grand jam session with mandolins and banjos and harpsichords and cellos and drums...and maybe a washtub bass.

Sounds easy enough.  Now, could you please hit the snooze button for me?