This week, on three separate occasions, friends or acquaintances made mention that I had occasion to appear in their dreams. When someone is brave enough to confess my role in their night life, I, like a needy actor, almost always find myself curiously inquiring into the status of my role: cameo, supporting or starring? This week, I am pleased to say, I received top billing in all three. You could do worse. Remind me to send my dream agent flowers.
I enjoy appearing in dreams. If, however, if they are not slightly weird or disorienting in the telling, I fight the urge not to show my disappointment. Like the one in which I appeared this week that was dreamt by the lady who runs our local dry cleaning establishment. I've felt a slight chill of late with her and now I know why. It turns out I snubbed her for drinks in a dream and when she awoke it left a bad taste in her mouth that she carried around for the better part of a week. Now that she's confessed, we are on better terms. I've apologized for my un-dream-like dream-behaviour and she no longer unnecessarily scorches my husband's shirts. Everybody wins. Secretly, though, I hoped that she'd tell me that we drank from giant martini glasses filled with Kool Aid while wearing squirrel pelts. She couldn't even remember the outfits we were wearing. Very disappointing.
That said, I try never to dismiss my night dreams or the dreams of others because -without sounding like a total kook -I have always believed that on some level, our dreams are an extension of who we are and how we view the world. And I don't mean this in a pat, over-wrought, I-Believe-The-Children-Are-Our-Future kind of way. I truly believe that dreams are our subconcious' way of sending us a message about the world around us. The fact that it's written in code is just nature's way of having a laugh.
I know my theory is true because I've kept a dream journal for several years and it never, never fails to inform me about how messed up and hilarious I find the world around me. Here's a particular favourite entry from last year (N.B. Please bear in mind that most of the entries are written while half-asleep. It explains alot, trust me....):
In my dream last night, I was back working on Special Events. This time, the preparations were taking place in a barracks-type of building that reminded me of guest's quarters at a cheesy resort in the Poconos. Or a leper colony. We were surrounded, for some reason, by mechanics who were also doing their jobs but, for some reason, this was not bizarre or unusual in any way. I drove my bike everywhere and, occasionally, the mechanics would stop their work to fix my bike or give it a wash. This appeared routine for them and, for some reason, was not considered an inconvenience or break in their day.
I worked for designer, Vivienne Westwood but it was a young Vivienne Westwood with long hair and slightly boring clothes and not the funky older lady with the tremendous fashion sense and automatic sense of humour. Young Vivienne was slightly humourless.
She and I would occasionally take trips around town to look @retirement residences. Not sure why. On these trips, Young Vivienne would take her time to point out the interesting architectural features we drove past. We never took hills and when we reached one would dismount and walk our bikes up, a ritual that was clearly established at some point in the past but which we now stuck to for reasons unknown. When Vivienne was not around I gunned up the hills because I could.
There was a looming deadline that was to be met but no one seems to be worried about it, except for me. It was unspoken: the deadline would be met and we were so good at what we did that it is almost pointless to even throw our worries into this thought. What was more important was keeping our bikes in good, clean and running order and taking full advantage of the facilities around us.
Nice, huh? What does this mean? I wouldn't know where to begin.....
Here's one last one, chosen at random.
In my dream last night I was a child sitting by a river bank with a girl I' ve never seen before. We are shooting rocks into the water when a Canada goose floats by. We stop shooting rocks to let it pass.
You're like a Canada goose, my companion tells me.
How so? I ask.
A little bit white but mostly black.
I shrug my shoulders and we continue shooting rocks into the river. A river made of chocolate.
This one is clear, actually. Totally clear.