Fragile fantasies

This is going to be a bit of free association, orbiting around a topic if not quite able to secure touchdown.

I had a dream when I was twelve years old, which so affected me emotionally that I felt driven to write a novel from it. I wrote the first few chapters in a spiral notebook… and then lost the notebook a few weeks later on a family vacation, and never revisited the project. But the dream was as follows:

I was exploring a cave, and through a series of twists and turns through tiny connected passageways, I found myself in a faerie grotto full of enchanting and intelligent animals. This was a full and intricate ecosystem and, in fact, a civilization, that had existed here completely unexposed to the world outside for aeons. It was infused with peace, joy, love and respect. It was heaven to me, and I was welcomed warmly and with friendly curiosity as I explored it wide-eyed and strove to learn as much as I could about their alien ways and philosophies. I stayed there as long as I could, but eventually the need to return to my family for the night drew me away, and I resolved to come back as soon as I could get away from the house. When I did return the next day, I found to my deep shock that the magic had already begun to fade. Somehow the introduction of my presence had corrupted the wonderland. Its unique character was crumbling; it was beginning to resemble our own world instead, and the denizens within — though they forgave me perfectly and completely for the unintended desecration — were clearly suffering in sorrow from the loss of the special world they had cultivated for so long. My own grief was likewise inconsolable.

This archetypal vision of course has tendrils that connect meaningfully to many aspects of life. I can see its echoes in many other stories I’ve read since, many other dreams I have dreamed. Whatever it made you think of is probably more interesting than what I’m about to ramble on, and you should write that. Here’s what has brought the dream up from my memory though.

I’ve been thinking about how we messy manifest humans relate to our fantasies (and especially to the fantasies of others), how our fantasies can operate as sacred spaces for us, a safe protective place to visit that holds feelings or needs or unprocessed ephemera that don’t fit neatly into reality as we experience it. Sometimes when we catch a glimpse of someone else’s fantasy, which clearly encloses precious parts of that person, parts we don’t have access to in the here and now, we may, driven by jealousy or something purer — a longing for closeness maybe — try to step inside it. (Alternately, we may dare to invite someone else into our own fantasy.) Some fantasies are more robust than others, but in my experience a frequent result of this overstepping of boundaries, this muddying of conceptual levels, is a rupture. The two worlds operate by different rules. The fae don’t appreciate the intrusion of the mortal and may leave (the value of the fantasy for the fantasist is painfully challenged) or the interloper may be unceremoniously ejected instead (the value of the real-life relationship is painfully challenged). People get wounded this way.

Some trivial examples from my life because I don’t know how to talk about the deeper, more subtle and long-ranging ones:

• When I was seven years old I brought home sheet music for a song we were learning at school, a song that I found transcendentally inspirational (Lea Salonga’s “I Am But A Small Voice”). My emotionally distant father was in a rare social mood and playing his guitar on the couch, and in a burst of hopeful enthusiasm I showed him the song and asked if he could play this. I regretted this decision almost instantly as he fumbled around trying to learn the notes, making jokes, messing up the timing as I struggled to sing along. I had tried to bring him into an experience that was special to me — I wanted to share the magic with him, not just the melody — but that magic was nowhere to be found. The awkwardness that ensued was my first lesson in the challenges of creating a shared sacred space. I felt betrayed; I think I even cried and told him to stop.
• Exploring sexual fantasies with my ex-partner. This didn’t go well for either of us, but with different levels of fallout. We had discussed our fantasies with mutual interest and respect, but actually engaging with them was a different matter. His attempts to engage with mine were hit and miss, but even on the occasions that our clumsiness in that department broke the mood entirely, I was never affected emotionally by the failure. The one time that I attempted to appeal to a fantasy of his, though (note to the wise: I surprised him with it, bad move), his reaction showed that he felt violated. He was offended, hurt, sulked, withdrew. This is how I learned that fantasy appropriation is an area where consent is required as absolutely as with any physical touch. Go gently, start a long way off and keep securing enthusiastic consent as you progress.

So have I learned anything hopeful about the prospects of sharing fantasies and sacred space? Spelunking in the subconscious of another?

With regard to another’s subconscious, I advise prudence. Listen to their art and their dreams by all means, but don’t go putting yourself in their stories.

Collaborative imagination, on the other hand — creating and playing in sacred spaces together — is an artform that elevates the players.

The elements of the Other that are present in the process from the beginning add to the mystery and help construct the transcendent nature of the space. Nobody owns these fantasies; nobody is likely to have buried in them parts of themselves that are too sensitive to see the light.

Although exercises in communal fantasy (roleplaying games, theatre, religious or magical rituals, writing or making art or music together, lying on the ground identifying shapes in the clouds, even a good conversation) do end up drawing out, exposing and touching on subconscious elements in ourselves, we’re protected by the egalitarian nature of the exposure… we are making the decision to share in a space with others who are making the same ongoing decision… embarrassment is mitigated through being mutual. It is still possible for us to violate each other in these spaces, to use them for agendas, to take advantage of trust. But it is also in these spaces that we can step out of our shells, put down our usual masks by adopting new ones, and connect with each other in ways that affirm deep important parts of ourselves and help each other to grow.

My apologies if you were expecting any reflections on The Purple Rose of Cairo. It’s actually been a very long time since I watched it and it was just the first image I could think of that showed an awkward relationship across fantasy / reality lines. Send me better image ideas…….