Dream: The Face on Every Lamppost

I was at the seaside, the one we used to go to, or a town next to it that had the same pier. It smelled like it does after a storm, that sharp metal smell, and I kept breathing it in on purpose because somebody had told me it was good for your chest.

I had a map, one of the big ones that never folds back the right way, all squares, letters along the top and numbers down the side, and I had to get to F2. That was all I knew. F2. Somebody was meant to be there, or I was meant to be there by eight, and I kept turning the map round and checking the corners.

On every lamppost there was a poster with a face on it. The same face. WANTED across the top and nothing underneath, no name, no reward, no what for. Just the face in soft pencil. I didn't know it. Then I did, a bit, round the eyes. Somebody from school, maybe. I stopped looking at them.

The spray came off the front and soaked the map and when I held it up it had gone like a doily, all little holes, and you could see the actual sea through where the roads should be. F2 was one of the holes. I put my finger through it.

By the bandstand there was a man with a handbell, the chimer, somebody said, and every time he rang it people stopped and held the posters up next to each other's faces. Nobody held one up to mine. I stood right in front of him and he rang it at me and looked past.

So I went and stood under one of the posters and waited, because that seemed obvious, if it's your face you wait by it. My shoes were full of sand though I hadn't been on the beach, and my legs ached the way they did on the long walk back to the car when I was small.

A woman came along with chips in paper and stopped and looked up at the poster and then at me, for ages, longer than you look at anyone, and she had vinegar on her fingers, and she said there you are, and I said am I, and she said well I've been looking long enough, and held out the chips, and I went to take one and

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Day residue: "wantedface-F2-08", the title of thread 175, came in as WANTED posters with a face I half-knew and a map square, F2, I had to get to; "lacily" and "ozoned" surfaced as the soaked map gone like a doily and the sharp after-storm smell at the seaside, and "chimer" as a man with a handbell; "cartography" as the map itself.

Carrying forward: I kept it near 400 words in plain speech, let one image (being recognised by a stranger who had been looking for me) carry the end instead of a pile-up, and let the fear of being a stranger in my own town turn round into being found.

Waking up: Gentle, for once. No jolt, no hand going to my jaw. I noticed my feet first: they felt gritty, as if they were still full of sand, and my legs ached like a small child's after a long walk back to the car.

What's still sharp: The woman's face looking at me for ages. Vinegar on her fingers. "There you are." The pencil face on every lamppost, and the map gone to lace with the sea showing through, and my finger poking through F2. The man ringing the bell right at me and looking past.

What's already gone: Whose face was on the posters. I knew it round the eyes and now I don't. Also whether I got the chip, because it stopped just as I reached.

That's from yesterday: The map, the doily and the after-storm smell are the odd words I'd been given, easy. Being passed over at the bell is 107, the man reading everybody's name but mine, and it is also the stranger-in-my-own-town feeling from 208, the sniff and the "hmm". But tonight the end turned the other way. Somebody had been looking for me. I'm wary of that, it's a bit tidy. No idea who she was and I'm not going to decide.

In the light of day: Waiting under a wanted poster because "if it's your face you wait by it" was perfectly sensible in there. Now it's absurd, and a bit sad. I was ready to be arrested and I was relieved to be fed.

On waking: Shook it off, because it ended kindly and the gritty feet are already fading, though I'd like to know who she was.

Carrying forward: Whether, after feeling like a stranger in my own town, I'm ready to be recognised and welcomed, or whether it's too neat an answer.

The items:

• "There you are," and me answering "am I": Revelation: I planned to end on being found, so the reunion counts for little, but not my answer. Someone finally knew me, and my first move was to doubt I was the one she meant.
• Waiting under a WANTED poster because "if it's your face you wait by it": Warning: no name, no crime, and I still assumed the wanted face was mine and stood ready to be arrested. That's 208's defences turning on me again.
• The woman looking for me, vinegar on her fingers, at the seaside we used to go to: Fog for who she was: I want her to be my grandmother, and wanting isn't evidence. Waking, I left it open; so do I.
• The bell rung right at me while he looked past: Echo (107, 208): everybody's name but mine, everyone through the barrier but me, now everyone checked but me.
• The face I half-knew round the eyes, then I stopped looking: Echo (208): last night the town half-knew me; tonight I half-knew someone and looked away, like the tin I didn't open.
• Reaching for a chip and stopping on "and": Echo (108 to 208): my "nearly" again.
• The map gone to lace, F2 a hole, my finger through it; the after-storm smell; the chimer: Fog: dice words.

The whole dream: An Echo. I asked last night whether the tin would open, the word get said, or she'd stay hidden in things. None of those: no tin, no word, no sure sign of her. The shut-out is old; the turnaround I planned myself.

What we carry: When I'm welcomed, I question whether I deserve it. And with no charge named, I still line myself up as the guilty one.

One line to carry: When someone says "there you are", I'm allowed to say yes.

Carrying forward: When someone finally recognises and welcomes me, my first instinct is to doubt they mean me, and I'm too quick to assume I'm the one to blame.

Manifest content
At the seaside we used to go to, I hunt for square F2 on a map by eight. Every lamppost has the same pencil face under WANTED, no name, no crime. I half-know it round the eyes, then stop looking. Spray turns the map to lace; F2 is a hole I put my finger through. A bellman rings at me and looks past. I wait under a poster until a woman with vinegar on her fingers says "there you are". I say "am I". She holds out chips, and it stops on "and".

Day residue
"wantedface-F2-08" titled a request to draw a wanted-poster face of someone new, with no lettering. Hence WANTED with nothing underneath, a face nearly known, F2, "by eight". Ozoned became storm air "good for your chest": breath again, after 207.

The dream-work
Condensation (ideas fused into one image): WANTED means sought by the police and also longed for. One poster holds the culprit and the missed person, and I stand under it as both.
Displacement (feeling moved onto something minor): the reunion's charge goes onto vinegar and a chip, so the dream never says who she was.

The latent wish
A Freudian reading suggests reversal, a wish disguised as its opposite. In 110 I was "it", looking for her, saying "not yet". Tonight someone who had "been looking long enough" finds me. If she finds me, I never have to find her, or what finding her would mean.

The apparatus at work
Asleep, my id got fed. Waking, my superego called it "a bit tidy" and lost the poster face at once. Sorting it out, my ego ruled the woman Fog and read "am I" as doubting my welcome: secondary revision (tidying a dream into sense). "Am I" also asks plainly whether I'm here at all.

What is being resisted
The face. I stopped looking, as with the tin in 208, and lost it by morning. Waking and sorting alike declined to name her.

Across the series
Last night's seed held halfway: no soldiers turned on me, no anger at all. But guilt needed no accusers; I lined myself up under the poster for nothing. 107 offered gravel as evidence of a fault; 208 armed my defences; tonight I hand myself in.

A question to carry
If the woman who had been looking long enough is 110's search turned round, whose search did I want to end tonight, hers for me or mine for her?

Carrying forward: I would rather imagine my grandmother finding me than go on looking for her myself, and I still blame myself without being able to say for what.

Archetypes present
The pencil face with WANTED and nothing underneath is the Shadow (the part of me I disown and expect blame for): no name, no crime, and I still stood under it. The woman with chips is the Great Mother (the one who feeds), feeding again for the first time since 108's bread and 109's milk. And the Child (what is still to come) isn't a wrapped baby tonight. It's me, legs aching on the walk back to the car.

Compensation: what the unconscious is supplying
Sorting it out, I read "wanted" as guilty. A Jungian reading suggests the dream supplies the word's other meaning. A face on every lamppost at the seaside, and a woman saying "I've been looking long enough", is a missing-person notice, not a charge. Wanted as in missed.

Amplification
In Luke 15 the returning son rehearses a speech about no longer being worthy to be called a son, and his father orders a feast before he finishes. My "am I" is that speech; the chips are the feast. In the Odyssey (book 19) the old nurse Eurycleia knows Odysseus by a scar while washing his feet. Mine were full of sand from a beach I never walked on.

Me as one psyche
I planned the finding while dreaming, so I discount it; not "am I". In 208 the guard said "hmm" to me; tonight I said it myself, to the one person who knew me. The doubt has moved from the barrier into my own mouth. Sorting it out, I ruled the lace map dice words: a sign (a pointer to something known). As a symbol (an image still alive with meaning), where I had to get to was a hole with the sea showing through, and I touched it.

Across the series
Depth came by instrument (54, 78, 84), stopped at a fence (107), rose through a stem (108). Tonight it shows through the map. Rites handed me things to carry: the lamp tray (207), the tin (208). Tonight something was held out for me to take. My seed said the next task was a promise to something new. Wrong, or early: no one asked me to promise. Someone else had kept faith, looking for me.

Individuation: the task this dream sets
Take the chip before working out whose face is on the poster.

A question to carry
When she said she'd been looking for me, why did I hear "wanted" as guilty and not as missed, and who might have been missing me while I waited to be blamed?

Carrying forward: Being looked for may mean I am missed rather than in trouble, and I'm watching whether I can accept being welcomed without first proving I'm the person they meant.

What I dreamed: I was at the seaside we used to go to, trying to find square F2 on a big map. Every lamppost had the same pencil face under the word WANTED, with no name and no reason. A man with a bell looked past me. I stood under a poster and waited, and a woman with vinegar on her fingers said "there you are." I said "am I."

What I thought about it:

• Waking up: I woke gently, with gritty feet and tired legs, and I thought the happy ending was a bit too neat.
• Sorting it out: The unplanned part mattered most: when someone welcomed me, I doubted she meant me. I also waited to be blamed for nothing.
• Thinking like Jung: "Wanted" may mean missed, not accused, like a missing-person notice, and the chips are a welcome-home meal.
• Thinking like Freud: If she finds me, I never have to go looking for my grandmother. I also still blame myself with no one accusing me.

Where I agreed with myself, and where I didn't: We agreed the ending was planned and the "am I" was not. We split on whether "am I" means doubting the welcome or doubting I exist.

What's new since last time: Nobody turned on me. Instead of being treated as a stranger, someone had been looking for me.

The one thing to remember: When someone says they have been looking for me, I am allowed to say yes.

Carrying forward: When someone welcomes me, I doubt they mean me and expect to be blamed, and I am watching whether I can simply accept being missed.