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I had the most odd dream this morning, and I didn�t want to wake up from it.

I dreamt that someone who had last seen me when I was in Australia, so about 5 or 6, was seeing me again, but behaving in the same way as if I were still a child. Now, this is not to say he was patronizing; not at all. No one spoke, which was a welcome change from the barrage of queries that result from aging, absences, and expectations. Accomplishments are never final; answering the question as to what you�ve done is annoying, but answering the question as to what�s next is even worse. Perhaps I�ll quell all future interrogation from family members and those adults who last encountered me 20 years ago with the answer �Oh, I think I�ll probably get hit by a bus tomorrow. Or maybe not. We�ll see.�

Returning to the dream: it was a gentle-natured redheaded man with a hat and moustache, I believe. I don�t know anyone who fits this description, but I suppose if I wanted to, I could figure out the amalgamation. He didn�t speak, and held my hand, and I think my brain was representing myself as both adult and as a child (I felt smaller but �myself�).

We went somewhere to watch some musicians, and I think I was back to being an adult again as I was adjusting the outputs on the bass guitar�s amplifier. Then it may have been him playing the bass. You know, those parts of dreams where it gets all fuzzy as to who�s who, etc. The bass player (yes, possibly the man) started playing something random to get the levels right, and I start �singing� Hall & Oates, �You�re Makin� My Dreams Come True� � I say �singing� because I actually don�t know the words, and didn�t in the dream, either. But it was a happy music video type moment.

This was one of those dreams where the content didn�t really matter as much as the feeling I was experiencing from within the dream, and lucidly, aware of it being a dream. I had been discussing various people who had been present during brief intervals of my childhood who had fawned over me and gave me little gifts that I cherished � at the time, and still, today. A little fluffy �purse� shaped like a koala with a Canadian $2 bill, waiting to leave the airport from Australia. A spoon with little engraved pictures. Birthday cards, books, dolls, and most importantly, attention and affection. I joked with my mother that single, childless secretaries from the Embassies often took to me, �adopting� me for trips to the movies and outings. They disappeared into the ether and the pattern of loss repeated, over and over again, with other adults from whom I felt acceptance.

It was totally normal to me that I should dream about a man in this position; I had very sweet crushes on the random men who passed through our homes or stayed with us for any length of time. I remember that one had the last name �Shoemaker,� and a few pictures in the family album show him with my brothers, desperate for their own paternal substitute. That being said, there was the same sexless affection that I have for my lovely gay male friends that I had for this mystery man. The same desire to curl up and be held that I once had with my goofy psychiatrist.

It�s such a hopelessly desperate pull that it brings me to tears if I think about it for any length of time, as little as seconds. I feel helpless and completely exposed in my vulnerability. The more I look at pictures of myself as a rambunctious and playful child, the more I feel like the side of me then that was hurting for care still exists inside of me exactly as it was.

Sometimes I look exactly the same.