My Track Record

One of the ways in which I am utterly disappointing as a liberal-arts-college graduate, and as a voting citizen, is that, aside from the requirements of my job, I don’t read all that much.

If there’s a classic novel out there that you greatly admire, an absolute masterpiece of the genre, you can be certain that I not have read it. Ditto for non-fiction books. I don’t know why the caged bird sings, I don’t know how Stella got her groove back, and I don’t know for whom the bell tolls. I’m not at all proud of this; it’s just the way it has been for me for many years.

It was against this backdrop that I found myself waking up from a dream in which I had been profoundly moved by some sort of long-form reporting I had read on Slate — Slate indeed being a main source of the online stuff that I do read (quickly, during breakfast and so forth).

The piece was called “The Source.” It was a meandering nonfictional account of rock-drilling technology and immigrant workers and a bunch of other stuff that wouldn’t have belonged together unless synthesized by a masterful writer, or, in this case, by a dream. I worked my way through it on a lunch break or something, reasonably interested, and then arrived at the final paragraph.

“In the hills of ______ County in Virginia,” the paragraph said (approximately), “there is a field of giant flat rocks. In the middle of one of the rocks is a hole, no more than a few millimeters in diameter. And through this tiny hole, every day, come millions upon millions of gallons of fresh, pure water, a godsend for all who live in the area, human and otherwise.” It had the vibe of a David Attenborough-style documentary, intending to highlight a particular example of the wonders of nature.

There were several other sentences too, perhaps tying this random tidbit to the rest of the piece. And there was an overhead photograph, which did indeed show an enormous rock with a tiny hole. For whatever reason, the hole was dry at the moment captured in the photo.

As I read this paragraph and stared at the photo, I found it incredibly profound and moving. I wept, then woke up, then marveled at how strongly I had been reacting just a moment ago.

Was I finally, reluctantly acknowledging the awesomeness of nature? (Such a tiny hole! So much water! So much life dependent on the water!) Was I crying out for the information and insights that I would surely gain if I would only make reading a priority in my life? Was I just feeling hot after a long summer day?

I just awoke from a dream that featured two surprises relating to Brett Kavanaugh, the just-confirmed Supreme Court justice.

The first surprise was that I got a letter from him in the mail — a form letter, but a letter nonetheless.

“Dear Greg,” it began (in the manner of form letters generated by programs smart enough to fill in the names of individual recipients).  “Every year, millions of Americans are victims of sexual assault or related offenses. If you have been a victim — either recently or not so recently — I want you to know that you are not alone, and I hope that the enclosed ‘survivor’s kit’ will provide helpful support as you move forward with your life.  If this kit is not relevant or useful to you, please consider passing it on to someone else. Sincerely, Brett M. Kavanaugh.”

The second surprise was that, within minutes of receiving this letter and opening it and reading it, I noticed Justice Kavanaugh, wearing his black judicial robes, emerging from a guest bathroom of my home. (In the dream, I was living in a one-story mansion with hardwood floors and featuring an enormous living room with a grand piano. It somewhat resembled the residence of my late Grandmother Jane.)

I walked across the enormous living room to greet him. “Hey, Judge,” I said. “I just received your letter.” He nodded.

“You know,” I continued, “I opposed your nomination to the Supreme Court. But I was moved by this letter, even though I myself have never been assaulted.”

“One of my big fears about you,” I said, “is that you aren’t necessarily looking out for people who lead lives less privileged than yours — people who’ve been marginalized and victimized by racism, sexism, and other toxic attitudes and institutional biases. But this letter gives me hope that these people are on your radar after all, and that you will use your power to ensure justice for ALL.”

He drew in a big breath, preparing to speak. And then I woke up.

NOTE: I am reporting this dream as I experienced it because I found it interesting. The dream should not be construed as an argument for or against Kavanaugh’s elevation to the Supreme Court, or as anything other than a flight of fancy. 

I was in Woods Hole, Massachusetts, with my mother, where she was setting up a new research lab. This is notable in and of itself, as Mom is, in reality, a retired 1st-grade teacher with no special affinity for science.

Anyway, I was in the hallway of some research building when a woman in her 40s or 50s came by and asked me what I was doing here. When I told her, she said, “Oh! You should meet my daughter, Maj!” She squeezed the young woman standing next to her, then added perkily, “My husband named her after my magic breasts.”

I gave her my Jason Bateman face and then woke up.