Linda Carson's Wildest Dreams

In my wildest dreams, the art world finds me without my lifting a finger or ever having to submit slides to a stranger. My drawing book becomes a classic, my husband's novels are optioned by Spielberg and one-shot painless laser hair removal becomes virtually free. I can take my pick of exciting-but-short-term teaching assignments and I never have to talk about Robert Bateman again.

In my wildest dreams, Steppenwolf Theatre stumbles across a script of mine and makes me playwright-in-residence while John Malkovich comes home to hand-pick a season from my body of work. Jodie Foster and Holly Hunter mud-wrestle to win a lead role. When James Earl Jones leaves a message on my answering machine, I have the tape transferred to MP3 and running in a loop throughout my home.

In my wildest dreams, my brother comes home and the other one moves out. My sister's kids come to their senses, my father gets a vintage sports car and my mother hires Norm Abram to finish every little thing on the house she's ever wanted done.

World peace. Space travel. Free post-secondary education for everyone who performs a year of genuine public service. Practical, empowering, self-help solutions for the developing world. Blank spots in the dictionary where the words ethnic cleansing and genital mutilation used to be.

In my wildest dreams, there are still dodos and great auks and passenger pigeons, and I get to see them. I speak several languages fluently. Once, I perform an emergency appendectomy.

In my wildest dreams, everyone who ever hurt me, insulted me, embarrassed me or just plain pissed me off is forgiven. I never brood about them again.

In my wildest dreams, I get to draw and cast and write and sleep until ten. Someone fills the fridge with fresh-cut celery sticks and take-out sushi. The library delivers, and Diet Coke cures cancer.

STEPHEN VIZINCSEY:

If our dreams aren't to be fulfilled they should at least be splendid.