I’m with the native Americans in that dreams are a map of our true palate, a wild unburdened place where the pieces of our soul that need to unfold and do our laundry can do it and let us watch the dryer tumble if we can remember. Most of my dreams are like dumping memories inside a kaleidoscope and then sticking it in a leaf blower, things of great detail and unrelated characters that I don’t think figuring it out is meant to be done; some are stress burners and some are sex burners, like dreaming that there’s an assembly line of vaginas and I have to pleasure each one but it gets out of hand like that classic Lucille Ball episode.
Every once in while I wake up with a feeling that sticks around like an aftershock; sometimes the feeling is a few hours, sometimes a day and sometimes for years; last night I dreamt I was holding a baby and it was my daughter, of which, to my and my penis’s knowledge, I do not have, not counting my dog, and the gist of the dream was that i was surrounded by family, society world etc.. and they were taking her away from me. I guess every parents goes through this and today I walk around feeling like I made a baby. Or more like a baby that’s following me. Maybe that’s more of the beat of the thing. The dream has left its footprint in my guts and when it sticks, I always wonder what to do with it; I guess nothing. It reminds me that dreams are more real than parts of the ole rustic matrix we wobble around in while pursuing the gorgeous ache of life. A couple of dreams I’ve had have reminded me of that more than anything that’s happened while upright.
Dreams of Armageddon and being lost in a hospital and terrified I will see mutations and blood are the only repeat downsides I have but they stick around for a bit. How much is my psyche, how much is foresight and how much is alternate universe #23 hitching a ride on some quarks to lay into my slumber I don’t know. I do know the next step is to control dreams. Hello Carlos Castenada. Merry Christmas.
