I Dreamed a Dream

I was about to send this as an e-mail to Simon and Nelly. Then I realized it was the most colorful thing I'd written in ages, so I posted it here instead. Please bear in mind that "colorful" does not mean "productive."

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Dear Nelly and Simon,

I've just woken from the strangest dream and I had an overwhelming impulse to write it down and tell the two of you about it. Nelly, because she is an anthropologist who studies new age, and Simon, because he is a gamer who likes vampire games that feature the nephandi. This dream seemed to have a soundtrack, not literally, in the sense there was music, but in the sense that it was permeated by the feeling of a theme that pervaded the dream in the emotional way a soundtrack permeates a scene in a film. The two "songs," if you will, were, on the one hand, the words "Jung" and "archetypes" and an urge to tell Nelly, and the word "nephandi" and an urge to tell Simon.

Please bear in mind that I have no anticipation at all that any of this should mean anything at all to you, other than, I hope, slight bemusement that I've succumb to the purely irrational this early in the morning. I desperately need coffee. And perhaps therapy. Nonetheless, as the urge to write was overwhelming and I thought you might be entertained, I write.

In the dream, I was a student in an Antioch-like learning institution. I've been telling Nelly about my trepidations about teaching an online course at Antioch this summer. To contextualize Simon, I'll just tell him that this institution focuses on the methods that he summed up in a neat category when he told me, many years ago, that he couldn't major in English because "English departments are too fruffy." At any rate, this time, I was a student, not a teacher.

The class was located in a magical classroom space that abutted off of a picturesque scene of Venice, so one simply breezed in, as if walking in from a magical tourist brouchure or a commercial for the Olive Garden (mmm.... the Tour of Italy—a bizarre breakfast choice, I know, but suddenly it sounds delicious). At any rate, a former student of mine from Antioch, whose name completely escapes me at the moment, was teaching a course on tarot. He was from India and was actually quite quiet in class. I shudder to think that my imagination is so orientalist as to foist my penchant for the exotic onto him symbolically, but I fear it may be the truth. Naturally, there were no chairs in this room, but rather a picnic blanket. Could it be that the floor was made of glass and one could see picturesque Venice below us? How odd when I had just entered from street level. But no matter.

It was a total surprise, yet nonetheless a complete delight, that today's course would be on tarot. To be honest, the whole dream felt something like a holiday sponsored by the History Channel. Tomorrow might be Marxist political economy set in London, Berlin and Moscow. For some uneffable reason, I required no logic, no footnotes. Flitting from the decline and fall of the Roman Empire to refinishing my antique desk posed no intellectual outrage. If the chianti were chilled, all would be well. I'm not altogether convinced that the reason Venice was in the dream wasn't that my subconscious wanted something picturesque and Venice was the first image associated with the world in my commodified, overly bourgeois imagination. How artless the subconscious can be, yet at the same time, how artistic!

At any rate, Simon will no doubt be entertained to know that placed right before my ex-student stood a stack of tarot cards that clearly contained more than one deck, much as one would see a dealer use in Vegas. Indeed, seeing the stack was what tipped me off as to "the subject of today's class". I don't recall if my instructor had the perfect randomizing machine a Vegas dealer might have, but I had no doubt that the cards were well-shuffled. Indeed, they had to have been, because while all the cards had a mystical, archetypal feel that screamed out "Jung," none of them corresponded to the tarot arcana. I placed the five or so cards that he dealt me on the floor next to the blanket, so I could watch the Venetians gondola by as I examined them.

When I looked at the cards, I realized that they were constructed quite cleverly. It was as if each contained a live background that one viewed on camera. In contrast, the characters that were intended to be archetypal were not live. In fact they were sort of a fusion between photographs of real people and sketches of them. Strangely, however, when you touched the card, the figure would slide off, as if it were embossed on a cellophane film, leaving behind a silhouette of the figure, embossed on the live scene. Strange that as then instructor dealt the cards, this cellophane covering didn't simply slide off. Apparently, it took my rather clumsy touch to disturb this delicate composition. Leave it to me to be the klutz.

At any rate, when I touched the first card, the word "Pisces" resounded in my head. The moving background was simply a wave-churned sea. The figure was a brown-haired man who, after I woke up seemed to remind me of my college friend, Chris Davis (he designed the logo for my pub band). The other cards had a darker, occultish feel. This was where I started thinking of the Nephandi, rather wishing I had a History Channel special on "Who Are the Nephandi, Anyway?" I recall the cards featured backgrounds with "fire and brimstone" related themes. The cards were very clearly differentiated in my dream, but I forgot what they depicted when I woke up.Apparently, I was supposed to select a card. I was about to select one of the more innocuous nehandi cards, when my teacher leaned in to correct me, as if to say, :No, no. You want this one. Pay attention." He directed me to the "Pisces" card. I woke up.

Bizarre, no?

Love,

Talal

Magic Doors

Kirk sent me a really good letter a few days ago in response to some of the stuff I blather on about here. His letter has really set me thinking. There were a lot of very personal parts that, obviously, he wouldn’t appreciate me reprinting here, but I’m rather hoping he won’t mind me reprinting the more philosophical parts. It’s really good stuff.

> It’s funny. I don’t miss sexual innocence at all. I miss
> being able to dream without thinking about what dreams cost.

I totally understand this. I certainly don't miss sexual innocence but then again I lost my virginity in high school, which seems like a long, long time ago so I barely remember the innocence at all. I think the dreaming part coincides with the idea I mentioned above about how I just don't have anything to talk about any more. When we were younger we could talk all day because much of what we talked about involved our dreams. When you have what looks like an entire unknown future ahead of you there is a lot to think of, ponder over and dream about. It seems once you get into your 30's, especially your mid-30's, your future starts to shrink and become somewhat known, or at least predictable. All of a sudden you are making 10-year, 20-year, 30-year commitments with student loan payments, mortgages, 401(k) plans, new cars or other expensive toys. You start saving long-term, planning a family and raising children. There is no more dreaming because you now know what the future holds in store for you. Sure, life is unpredictable and you may wildly go off on some tangent, but for the most part you start to see the most likely path you will follow and your future becomes mapped out. In many ways this sucks, but there are some positives. Life is generally more stable, you will generally have the means to actually realize some of your dreams from your 20's, you begin to develop new dreams that actually are attainable. I would imagine one of the best of all positives is the satisfaction from raising children. I certainly miss the innocence but I am definitely enjoying this next stage in my life.

Wow. You really nailed that, brother. It’s harder to talk because we’re plugging away at making dreams a reality and not dreaming anymore. That perfectly defines the moment when youth ends and middle age begins. You can tell by the pattern of the conversation. When I was young, I hated routine. I hated it because the repeating pattern wasn’t my own. It took me from my dreams and chained me to a reality I found hateful. I began to develop a passion for work when childhood ended and youth began, when I started being able to shape work toward my own dreams. I started to love work. But it’s one thing to throw yourself into work with passion. It’s another to actually learn to work with skill. It’s so goddamned hard to build something worthwhile, to make a dream come true. The struggle to learn how to do that under the constraints of my illness has broken my youth. I am a man now. The word “man” now means something different. It means being someone who builds patiently—a slow boring of hard boards. It takes passion and perspective. A young man has passion. The point of middle age is to temper it with perspective.

I thought that the reason I can’t see into the dream world anymore is because I now know what dreams cost. I was passionate when I was young, but I lacked perspective. I’d do anything to make my dream into reality. I now know just how deep that anything can run. And while I believe that if I knew what my dream would cost me when I started, I’d still probably have followed it anyway (God help me), I now know that I have limits. I won’t do just anything. There is a point where I will give up the quest.

I don’t think I could have said it before you wrote me, but I realize that I believed that the reason I no longer see into the dream world is because I had lost that purity of intention, that willingness to sacrifice everything. That’s a boy’s fear. The answer is simpler. I can no longer see into the dream world because I am no longer searching for a dream. I found my dream. I’m not looking anymore.

I have to believe that when the day comes to gaze into the dream world again, that, even knowing what dreams can cost, I will have the courage to dream again and walk through that magic door. And, Kirk, I think I trust myself that much. Maybe learning to do that is the whole point of growing up.

I like Brett Favre coming back because he is entertaining, but I have my doubts about how well this affects the Packers long-term. Favre is obviously a fading (some would say already faded) athlete surrounded by some very promising young talent. He is a very, very average QB statistically which is sad because of how spectacular he was ten years ago. I believe he threw for 18 TD's and 18 interceptions last year, which is pretty bad in an era in which a QB is expected to throw twice as many touchdowns as interceptions. In the 80's and early 90's throwing 20 touchdowns and 15 interceptions was considered a good year, nowadays a good year would be 30 touchdowns and 10 interceptions. At the very least you want your QB to throw 20-25 touchdowns and 10-12 interceptions.

Beyond his statistics, think about this logically. Quarterback is probably the toughest position to learn for an incoming rookie. The Packers have some good young talent on the offensive line and in parts of the defense. They need a running back and some receivers but they definitely have a solid young base to work with. As long as the team continues to draft well they could be a contender in a few years. By that time, however, Favre will be eligible for social security and given his decline in effectiveness over the last 3 years or so you can expect him to be pretty bad. What you really want is to find a younger quarterback now and have him develop along with the team so they all peak at the same time. What you don't want is a team where the quarterback is on his last legs while the rest of the team is peaking. What you also don't want is a brand new rookie quarterback when the rest of the team is peaking. That's a recipe for disaster! The Chargers went through a somewhat similar situation this year - a brand new quarterback surrounding by a team full of talent just reaching its peak. Fortunately for the team, however, the new quarterback turned out to be pretty solid. This is the exception, however, as most first-year quarterbacks struggle to reach the "sucky" effectiveness level. I think the best idea long-term for the Packers is for Favre to retire and allow the team to bring in a younger quarterback who will be around 5-10 years.

The one other solution is to keep Favre until body limbs start to fall off, then bring in a proven veteran via free agency. This option is rather expensive, however, and may cause the team to dump some of its talent simply to fit under the salary cap. This could work, though. Still, I think the best long-term solution is to get an effective young QB to take over and allow Favre to ride into the sunset as soon as possible.

And writing like that is why I keep getting on Kirk’s case to start a football blog. He’s an excellent analyst. Normally, I’d dig in and fight, pull up some numbers, discuss scenarios, do the routine. I mean, the gauntlet’s been thrown. But this blog began nearly a year ago with a long letter defending Brett Favre to Kirk Anthony. Fuck it, anyone who wants to can read that again. I won’t write the same letter twice.

Truth is, Kirk, I could give a flying fuck if Favre retiring is the best thing ever for the Packers. I need to see Brett Favre lead the Packers to a victorious season one last time. I’ve worn his shirt for nearly ten years now, but I didn’t wear it because he was a hero. I wore it because he was the all-powerful quarterback of the Green Bay Packers. He was our boy. And he was damned good. And he won, game after game. Two years ago, that ground to a halt and he had to look at his illusions and what meant something in life. I got a lot of ribbing when Favre cried during that interview after we beat the Bears, but in my opinion, that was one of the most important moments in his career. Favre finally appreciated what he’d had.

In 1998, I reached the acme of my strength. By 1999, I was broken. I lost in every single way I can imagine. Quarterbacks hit old age early because of the demands of the sport. It’s rough to reach the acme of your power in your twenties and then have the rest of your life as an epilogue. I got sick. I know what it’s like for your life to be over and to have to build a completely new life in your mid-thirties with way lower expectations. Favre will be in the Hall of Fame and will wipe Dan Marino’s name off most of his records next year. I’ll never do the equivalent. I’ll be lucky if I get a tenure track job somewhere.

I’d like to see Favre do it one more time. For me, who’ll be an eighth year grad student. I need to see him do it with you and everyone else ragging on him. No one says anything to me, but I know how it looks. Seeing him win again would help me believe I can make it.

Kirk was surprised I watched Fight Club. I’ll write about that next time.