I have an extraordinary daughter named Savannah, who will at times demonstrate how hard it is to move forward. She is extraordinarily capable of focusing and attaining what lies far ahead, but seems totally perplexed by what lies directly in front. At dinnertime we have a nightly ritual. It usually proceeds like this. I work at home all day, and my wife works in New York City. She commutes on a daily basis, and as my wife knows how to work very hard, she often finds herself leaving early in the morning, not to return till close to eight in the evening. A typical dinner might look like this. My daughter and I are starving, and my wife is too tired to cook. We all decide to go out to dinner to a local restaurant. Luckily, we live in an area where there are a fair number of choices. As we eat out often, we all know intimately the choices. It is here at this interchange, at this moment in time, that all hell breaks loose. My daughter needs to look backward, before any forward movement can commence. On most nights, my wife and I have learned over the years to refrain from any suggestion as to where we might go. We simply ask "Where would you like to go to dinner Savannah?" It seems like a fairly simple, straightforward question, but it sets off a nightly tempest. Her response is "I don't know," which also seems fairly harmless and direct in its response. I might then take the lead and make a suggestion of a specific place, which would be countered with a higher-pitched "I don't want to go there!" I then may, usually mistakenly, suggest a different alternative, which will be met by even more drama and characteristically annoyed regard, with another "I don't want to go there!!" at which point, if I'm a little smarter, ask Savannah, "Where do you want to go?" Immediately, she will say "I don't know" again, which basically has led us back to the beginning, or in effect nowhere. This interchange can continue for some time, rising in pitch and plumage, usually only receding from exhaustion, and the now even more desperate need to eat. Its quite amazing that by trying to move the horse backwards when he wishes to move forward gets everyone nowhere fast.

Having just seen the enigmatic movie Inception, which has done nothing for my understanding of dreams, either as those developed while in the state of sleep, or even as a metaphor for some hope or aspiration in life, I thought it only fitting to discuss one particular dream that has plagued me since I was a young boy. It has recurred often throughout my life in various forms, but always upon waking, the same anxiety has consumed me. BUT... slowly I am beginning to feel the purpose of the dream may have a new answer. Ever since I can remember, being seriously tested, either in my education or in my personhood, I have on occasion woken from a dream in total despair. At night, in the dark somber recesses of my mind, the true me, whoever that may be, has revealed itself over and over again, for 50 years. There I am in a classroom, waiting to be evaluated, tested, or examined, and I find myself feeling unprepared for the task. I also feel unexceptional in my abilities, and basically incompetent and unattractive. In the dream, I feel if I only had more time, more knowledge, more wisdom, and more vitality, somehow I would be able to succeed. But the clock is ticking, but soon the real me will be revealed, and I will fail miserably in my dream. In the dream, though, I never get to this place. I always wake with the fear of expectation. The actual exam never takes place. I wake up in a total sweat, convinced that if one were to evaluate me, like the dream, I would fail miserably. If I were to stand naked before you, without my degrees, my wealth, my success, my clothes, I am nothing but a total failure. You would look right through me, deep into my soul, and see the total failure I might be. Oh, in real life I can play the game of hide-and-seek, but at night, when sleep has slowly unveiled my external appearance, this person is revealed. I used to hate (and to some degree still do) doctors, because as they probe and examine me, nothing good can come from that. They will only find my faults, my frailties, and my sickness. Don't look too closely, because as I stand before you, what am I? So for 50 years, I have viewed these dreams with despair, because in my heart, I have believed them as the truth. But as I have gotten older, and begun to slip from these surly gates, I have slowly begun to leave this inception behind, and find some new meaning to these dreams. Maybe they represent not who I am, but rather my own attempt to keep me grounded (down, both physically and mentally), and to prevent me from seeking what is real and not a dream. These dreams represent a big part of me, but there is also the other part that is just learning it can fly.…

In the matter of two years, my life, at the age of five or six, went through significant trauma and change.  One would think at my current age, post-traumatic syndrome would have worn off.  But despite years of therapy, I am very familiar with the symptoms but only vaguely clear of the exact cause. The best I can remember, at age five or six, was that I was on top of the world.  We lived in a modest house on a comfortable street with many children my age.  Despite my size and weight, I remember acting strong, powerful and happy. Then it all becomes a blur.  My mother, in 1953, was diagnosed with breast cancer at age 31.  I of course do not remember this, but what I do remember is a woman who doted and cared for her young son, disappearing.  She went off to bed for a year or so, isolated, alone and depressed. You must remember, my father was in the fashion business where looks triumphed over character.  Where life was evaluated by appearance.  I guess for my mother, the stigma in the early '50s of ones worth, beauty and attractiveness had been destroyed by her illness.  She was complete before and now something fundamental was missing.  This illness affected her for the rest of her life.  People did not discuss these issues publicly, nor privately, in the 1950s. So in conjunction with my mother's illness, my father went to work harder and basically disappeared from the family for a few years.  My mother and father both left me alone with the help.  Over a short period of time, he became much more successful and within a few years, we moved to a very large, grand house with lots of property and no one around.  I was even more alone than before. At the same time, as my mother and father were renovating this house (this must have been my father's attempt to bring my mother back to life), he surprised me with buying the two dogs, Golly and Frypo, which I described last week. They became my best friends.  It must be noted that then, and to this day, I sleep with the door open.  In those days, I felt very isolated and had become more and more fearful.  I needed and wanted a way out.  I was slightly claustrophobic and for all these reasons, would never be closed in a room with all the doors shut.  (To this day, I am still frightened of elevators, which feel contained and like living coffins, to me). Anyway, one night at about three in the morning, I woke up and was hardly able to breathe.  I couldn't see more than three feet in front of me.  I was terrified and somehow was able to find my parent's room and wake my father. He immediately got wet towels for all of us to put over our mouths and was able to find his way downstairs and open the front door.…

There are two types of dogs in the world that I'm aware of: there are Pooches, and then there are Woofs. This is a very important distinction, and has had a seminal and profound effect on my life. I am definitely a woof man. These are heroic, loyal, courageous dogs, that will protect and defend the honor of any young boy who has loved, fed, and smooched the woof on their noses with affection. This all started in the Summer of '59. My father, whom I have often mentioned with fear and admiration, had always, since I was born, decided that it was important for any son of his to have a dog; but not any dog. He chose the rarest and most unusual dog he could find: an English Sheepdog. He always wanted what no one else had. So from 1949 until 1959, we were either the envy or disdain of the neighborhood by having its only English Sheepdog, whose name was Golly. In 1959, when I was 12, Golly died of old age. Unbeknownst to me, my father had decided, as he had acquired more wealth and power, to turn the business of a dog up a notch. He had somehow found out who had bred the original Shaggy dog, and decided that it was only fitting that the family should now possess the offspring. So one Summer's morning on the beach, where you would usually find me and my father, he told me that it was time to go, and off we went in the family station wagon. This is a car he never drove, so I knew something was amiss. Off to Kennedy Airport we went (which in those days was called Idlewild) to pick up what he termed a "surprise." The surprise, to my delight, was not one, but two baby Sheepdogs, shipped from a kennel in California. Immediately, I named the one that looked the closest to the original Golly, "Golly," and the other came with the name Frypo, which we kept. These dogs grew into small Wooly Mammoths who were both funny and affectionate to me, but usually only me and the help. My mother and my sister, who basically could care less about animals, were terrified of these two monsters, but I knew that true love was a bond between a boy and his dogs. On occasion, as I was quite small and frail, I would trick my mortal enemies into chasing me home, only to be met by two of the largest and most protective animals they had ever seen. Don't mess with a little boy who has two large dogs. I may have looked weak, but Golly and Frypo gave me strength. As my parents were often gone for months at a time, it was Golly and Frypo who were my best friends. As they often had saved my body and limb from scary bullies, it was only fitting that I return the favor. Next week, I'll tell you more…