ANNA FREUD'S
DREAM JOURNAL.
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15 December 1910
So that Father may corroborate his research with a wealth of actual case studies, I have been assigned the keeping of this nightly dream journal. I meet this designated duty with delight and look forward to writing again at dawn, which is when I am to promptly record my nightly desire-manifestations with care so as to insure accuracy.
Until then, ta ta!
Anna
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16 December 1910
You certainly have your work cut out for you today, Father! I dreamt I was in a rowboat with Josef, when, suddenly, it sprung a leak. (Oh, we simply must take the boat out again, as a family!) I began filling cupped hands with water and tossing it out in an attempt to stay afloat. Peculiarly, Josef then kindled a fire, which flame licked at my bare ankles. I opened my mouth to scream, but, queerly, no sound was emitted! How curious!
Anna
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16 December 1910 − Addendum
Father insists I copy out his rules so as to commit them to memory, no longer frittering away his valuable time with trivialities:
First, I am to omit my own running commentary and leave that to Father, for it is he and not I who is certified − several times over − to perform such analysis.
Second, I need not conclude each entry with my signature, as it is unlikely Father will confuse my journal with that of a different teenage daughter incapable of following a simple set of instructions.
And, finally, based on Father's interpretation of my dream the evening previous, it is in my best interest to consider ending my courtship with Josef, whom Father finds to be 'appetite incarnate.' Who knew fire always represents a phallus? I am learning so much already!
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17 December 1910
I was in a splendid field of waist-high daisies, arms outstretched, running joyously into the wind. Suddenly, vultures (or were they eagles?) began circling overhead. One then dove with fury and began pecking at my ribcage, eating out my liver as I looked on in mute horror (again with the screaming!) Surely this has to do with my drifting off while immersed in the study of Prometheus, that most tragic of figures. I must choose lighter bedtime reading, eh, Father?
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17 December 1910 − Addendum
I will not offer guesses when possessed of little degree of certainty. Also, I will not attempt humor.
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19 December 1910
My apologies, Father. I was being idle yesterday. But now that a full day has elapsed, I'm left with only a skeletally vague remembrance of my dream. Josef made an appearance, this much I can recollect...but what transpired is now surely lost forever! Oh well. Start fresh in the morning.
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19 December 1910 − Addendum
Forgive me, Father, for your suspicions were in fact correct. The dream in question was of a lascivious nature. Perhaps now you might understand my original intention of glossing over such an embarrassing − and, lest you forget, unbidden! − fantasy, especially when relating it to one's own father − who specializes in dream interpretation, no less! Awkward!
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19 December 1910 − Addendum
Dreams are revelatory and are never unbidden.
Dreams are revelatory and are never unbidden.
Dreams are revelatory and are never unbidden.
Apologies, Father.
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20 December 1910
I have decided I do not wish to continue keeping this journal. I hope you shall respectfully honor this wish. Perhaps Sophie would be more inclined − she's always relating to me such vivid and interesting dreams!
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21 December 1910
Although we have previously aired our grievances on the matter, I still wish to express how cruel and ruthless you are being in attaching to my weekly allowance the condition that I complete this dream journal on a nightly basis. Susan's father merely asks that she clean the linens. Why can I not have a normal family such as Susan has?
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22 December 1910
Last night's dream may be of particular interest to you, Father. It involved the English figure Father Christmas, who, on Christmas Eve, travels to the homes of children who've been good in order to reward them with gifts. In my dream, however, he gave children not gifts but orders! Nor was he the jolly, rotund figure of whom carolers sing praises. Rather, he was a feeble, selfish man with an emaciated appearance: hollowed-out cheekbones, corrective spectacles, and a poor, hunched-over, scoliosis-inclined posture. And that putrid stench of cigar smoke! How curious, eh, Father?
Your loving daughter,
Anna
P.S. − I don't care what you say: sometimes an obelisk is merely an obelisk!
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OTHER McSWEENEY'S FEATURES:
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The Compson Brothers on Larry King Live By Jamie Quatro
"D.O.B. (Death of Baritone)" By Maureen Miller
Live From The Apollo 11 By Jim Stallard
Traveling Europe in Style With Auckland Dingiroo, Dark-Age Tourist and Critic of Food and Drink: The Pleasure Cruise By John Hallmann
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