My elusive dreams

As a direct consequence of analytic developments I am dreaming (ie recollecting dreams on waking) vividly and often. Alas most of the dreams are incredibly stupid. The odd one here and there is not so much stupid as a terrifyingly undisguised intrusion of the parts of my psyche which feel, correctly, that they don't get enough attention in waking life, for very good reasons as it turns out. Well, I am writing all of them down, worrying, sad, funny and dumb. Straight from the dream diary, here is an account of last night's typically stupid one:

Slept very poorly last night but my own fault for drinking wine and not taking my sleeping pill. And it was a less unhappy sort of sleeplessness than other recent sleeplessnesses have been. But still, I woke from a dream that should win a prize of some kind. I was in the elegant old-fashioned Spanish Mission-style lobby of a theatre or picture palace - it seems important to me that I was standing beside a large potted palm and it was night-time - and I'd just bought a ticket, but instead of walking in (wherever in was) over the unpeopled and indeed inviting tiled floor by the ticket counter, I found myself trying to crawl over the sill of the counter itself, and to make matters stupider, I was trying to cram my body between two seemingly freestanding textured semiopaque plastic screens. I was trying to get between these without pushing them over and this was awkward and impossible because they weren't fixed in position. So there was I, trying to wriggle through some clumsy, narrow, shifting gap while nobody at all blocked my open path.

The last time I had a phase of energetic dreaming I did what I am also doing now and brought them to my doctor, in much the same spirit as cats bring headless mice or miceless heads to the people they love and trust, and got much the same response. And this seems terribly unfair to me. Why be a psychoanalyst if you do not receive the gift of a patient's dream - the more bits hanging off of it the better - with appreciation for the effort the saurian brain has made to join in the adventure, for the tributes raised up from the deep? I understand that this faint distaste has something to do with the general atmosphere of it being in poor taste of me to have read and understood psychoanalytic theory (honestly there is nothing very difficult to understand about it, except Lacan, who I am not at all convinced can be understood) but what it really comes down to, most likely, is just the fact that it's excrutiatingly boring to hear about anybody else's dream, in any circumstances whatsoever.

And you, right now, can confirm that this is true.