I had a dream about frightening beasts called Fahrenhogs. They were spiky piggish creatures that loped across the edges of my dream on two legs like men.
It started with a peaceful scene. A flock of ducks bobbed on a pond, the ones with that green-black velveteen shine. Mallards, I think. I tossed them bits of bread, but they weren’t eating. Why weren’t they eating? The people I’ve lost were somewhere behind me, and I could hear my grandfather clearing his throat to say, “Well, you see, Jimmy…” The way he always did before explaining something. Suddenly the ducks darted toward the shore in a determined way that didn’t seem natural, and they rose from the water, attached to bodies of pinky muscle and hair. They weren’t ducks at all, but the topknots of terrible creatures with drooling fangs and stinking breath. I ran through the trees. Well, Jimmy, what do the Fahrenhogs mean?
Why would my brain invent these monsters to terrify itself? And why on earth did it give them a name? I could only think of bad reasons, so I described this dream to C. because she’s good at seeing dreams as instructive, the grey spaces where transformation lives. She suggested that feeding the ducks meant nurturing my projects and plans—but right now, they feel overwhelming. There’s too much on the table. I always feel like I’m starting something, as if my work will begin once I figure things out or get smart enough. But there’s no figuring anything out. There’s just the work.
