In Greek mythology, dreams were often personified as Óneiroi, black-winged demons that enter our sleeping minds like bats to deliver messages from the gods. Last night I dreamt I drank perfume and had a minor role in a detective show in which none of us could remember the name of the president between Johnson and Ford.
This week our previous president went on trial for being sleazy, and I envy the optimists who think this might save our republic. Meanwhile, my therapist taught me how to give myself a panic attack in twenty seconds flat. He wants me to do this five times every day. I’m finally giving psychology a shot, and it was long overdue. Gutting it out wasn’t getting me very far. Each night, I drive along deserted highways with the Chromatics, trying to get my interstate mojo back. Each day, I feel a bit better, even though the world feels a little more insane.
Strange how it’s perfectly acceptable to say ‘goodbye’ in person or over the telephone, yet it transforms an email or a text message into a suicide note. In other news, I no longer understand the atheist who wants to talk people out of their gods. I often think about this line in First Reformed: “The desire to pray is itself a form of prayer.”
