|
I mentioned before in this series of articles that I dream every night. Oh, and my dreams are always in vivd, high-definition, color (for those of you who wonder about such things). These nightly escapes from reality also tend to be very pleasant, sometime silly, experiences, but upon waking I have little or no recall regarding content. Except once. Then I took a journey to Hell. I woke with total and complete recall including finite details of structures, landscaping, people, etc. Gave me the willies, y'know? The dream became my inspiration for "Songs from Lattys Grove" (PublishAmerica, August 2010). In that book one chapter chronicles the Hell dream except the character who takes the trip is an abrasive, surly, bad-attitude individual--not a sweetheart of a guy like me. See, I needed a back story about why one would deserve to be sent to such a place, and couldn't believe I deserved such a fate so I invented a character who did. How's that for denial? What's the deal with dreams anyway? Are they predictions of the future, fears, warnings? Stories in the Bible seem to slant that way. They even had dream interpreters, which was a high-risk job. Seems like they were either killed for delivering unwanted news or given part of the king's treasure. Me, I would prefer dreams to deliver at least some bit of truth because after all our childhood stories (myths) turn out to be so much hot air I think we humans like to believe there still something mystical out there. I mean, c'mon, look at most of the latest Hollywood offerings: vampires, talking animals who save the world, blue people on other planets... However, as much as I want to believe, scientifically I think dreams are just random bits of electrical impulses bouncing and careening about in our brains when we're unconscious. Nothing more. Anyway, a few nights ago I had another dream part of which I received enough recall to wonder. Recall the last "Mystery Train" article when I defined myself as a true existentialist? Here it is again: You haven't really lived until you think about death all the time. How's that for a paradox? Bob Zany tells a story about a man who was shot at a drive-through window at McDonald's. Guy had ordered a Happy Meal. How's that for irony? In this particular dream I wake up in a hospital bed with sun streaming through the window. My parents are present, and they both smile and greet me. "How are you this morning?" asks Mom. "Fine. I feel wonderful," I answer while at the some time wondering why I'm in a hospital. By the way, when I dream I am of indeterminate age, but surmise I'm young. No surprise there since when I'm conscious I still think of myself that way regardless of the passing years. See, I like to ignore that I'm aging like maybe time doesn't count if I ignore it. Hmmm, more denial. Ah, what the hell, it works for me. Maybe I've spent too many neon nights in bars when I should have been outside admiring the stars. "You have visitors," says Dad nodding to an attractive, curvaceous, twenty-something blond girl and a short male, a bit older, standing on my right. They both smile and raise their hands to me in a half-wave. I could tell by the way the blond looked at me that we were an item. (Consciously, I have no idea relative to the identity of either of these visitors. Certainly neither exists in real life. That said, looking at the blond makes me feel like a lucky guy. Suddenly horny too--or since I am asleep is that big-time stiffy only my conscious mind telling me to get up and take a leak?) In the dream I also know both are co-workers, but have no idea where we work or what we do. The blond steps closer, but I feel uncomfortable because I just woke up with messy hair and haven't brushed my teeth guaranteeing a world-class case of yuk-mouth. I'm very self-conscious and attempt to arrange my hair with my fingers. She hands me a book and two get-well cards. The book and one of the cards are from her, and the other card is from folks at the office. In the dream everything about the book (black dustcover with red writing and white highlights) and cards is crystal clear; however, upon waking most details are forever lost. I read the book title, author's name, and inside flaps, but can't make up my mind if it's a fictional novel or a nonfiction saga. I look at the girl questioningly. "I wasn't sure you'd like it," she says knitting her brow, "but my dad thought it was very good; that you'd dig it." She actually used the word "dig". "I'm sure I'll enjoy it very much," I say opening the cards--her's first. "This is very sweet. Thank you!" I smile and wink causing her to smile back with a bit of a blush in her face. The other card is signed by all my closest co-workers, whoever they are. I read every signature and nod a thank you to the fellow standing by. He gives me a thumbs-up. "Come back soon," he says cheerfully. Why am I here? "Are you sure the book's okay?" the young lady says with worry in her voice. "I mean, it may not be your taste. You know my father is 79!" "That shouldn't matter. Literature is ageless. Anyway, I can tell by reading the inside flap that I'll like it--a lot!" I nod my head toward Dad who is leafing through a magazine (Machine Design). "My father is 89; and Mom?" I motion toward the lady sitting at a table engrossed in a game of solitaire; the old-fashioned kind where you actually use a deck of cards not a computer. "She's 82." "Gosh, they don't look it." "I know." Then softly so my parents won't hear, "And something else...they're both dead." WHAT!!! What did I just say? Suddenly my conscious mind overtakes my reverie. Everyone fades away. What's going on? Why are Mom and Dad in the hospital with me? They were only a year apart in age, but 82 and 89 were their respective ages at death. Mom preceded Dad by six years. Why am I in the hospital? Who are these young visitors? I woke with a start. I rose without waking my wife, and went to my office downstairs where I sat quietly in a wing chair--thinking. It was 6:30 in the morning. It's not easy trying to make sense of a dream, but since my last birthday I've started adding up the maximum number of summers I may have left--IF I remain healthy. It's downright depressing. Like I said, I happen to be one of those guys hiding from the truth and afraid of growing old; even more afraid of the alternative. In the big picture of the eons upon eons (almost 14 billion years) of the universe, mankind has only been around for a second and a half if the total time represents a 24-hour day. I get that. The dinosaurs were here much longer. Are Mom and Dad coming for me? I once heard some tribal knowledge lore stating that when we pass on, someone comes to meet us; to take us "home" so to speak, but that's probably something said to make us feel better about accepting the event. I'm sure dream interpreters (psychologists these days) would tell me my dream is indicative of the following: 1. I miss my parents (true enough); 2. I miss having a nuturing safety net, and the presence of my parents in a hospital looking over me fulfilled that need; 3. Working with a team of people who care for each other is important to me; and 4. I like and long for romantic attachments in life. Well, maybe that's all true, but what if it's more than that? How much time (gulp) do I have remaining? (Unknown and unknowable.) How can I fake out the guy with the scythe? Copyright by Gene Myers Author of "Songs from Lattys Grove", PublishAmerica, Baltimore, MD (August 23, 2010) Author of "After Hours: Adventures of an International Businessman", AEG Pubishing, New York, NY (October 2009) website: www.strategicpublishinggroup.com/title/AfterHours.html
Related Articles -
dreams, hospital, aging,
| 
