All mammals dream. My guess is that we’re the only species that reflects on our dreams. What advantage would an orangutan gain from reviewing his bizarre dream-hunt in which he had the ability to levitate? It doesn’t seem obviously beneficial from a practical, or even evolutionary, standpoint. But humans have been fascinated by dream content for thousands of years (the first tablet describing dream content dates to Mesopotamia, 5000 BC), likely as long as we’ve had consciousness of the self. It feels empty and horrible to accept their probable meaninglessness.
Lately I’ve had several blurry moments where I couldn’t define whether an event or conversation had actually occurred, or if it was simply the mental residue from some recent dream. And I’m not talking about exciting, important events, but rather the most mundane and meaningless moments of deja vu.
Did I, in fact, talk to a semi-acquaintance at a Midtown bar regarding my sheepish apathy regarding activism, or was that simply a dream I had a few nights ago? Because such an event is possible, even likely, in my day-to-day life, but I’m completely uncertain as to whether the conversation actually happened. In reality. I am paranoid of repeating myself, and so avoid initiating a new conversation based on the same topic, but I’m also 35% certain it was dream content and I’m misremembering.
My suspicion is that such phenomenon is the by-product of advanced busyness; that I’m not processing my life and activities and memories (long or short-term) and so my brain is working it out through dreaming. Instead of sorting through important, emotional material, I seem to be having a very similar experience to that of my waking life.
I’ve read that there is no “time distortion” in dreams, that 5 minutes of dream time occurs in 5 minutes of real time, and that no dream is longer than 15-20 minutes. But I could swear that last week I attended a dream-dinner that lasted at least a dozen hours, spanning a few days. How could that be my perception when it’s physiologically impossible?
My mom deals with insomnia; her mother also had difficulty with sleep disorders. Thankfully, I can sleep through anything. Most of this has to do with a childhood spent in cars and apartments of blaring radios and drunken shouting; mom and her first husband were not very considerate in this way. As a result, I can fall asleep practically anywhere (though I avoid it on trains and planes) if I am tired. However, I do have a light snore every now and again, and on occasions of having sleepovers with lady friends, am known to casually sleep-grope my bedmate. Slightly unnerving, but easily swatted away!
When I was a boy I had recurring dreams of forgetfulness. I was preparing to go to the baseball park for an important game, but I would forget key items (glove, shoes, shirt) that would delay my arrival, and by the time I got myself together the game would be over. Later in life, this theme has continued. I will be late in arriving to the dream-theatre, and I will have forgotten important items at home that continue to keep me from punctuality. The end result, as before, is that I collect all necessary items, but far too late for the show.
Theatre dreams, and performance dreams in general, were the main content of my collegiate dreams. I would be cast in Shakespeare a few minutes before curtain; forced to improvise, failure imminent. In other dreams I was unaware of my effect on the audience; they are groaning and restless, but I have no idea and barrel on. As soon as the show ends I am suddenly aware of how awful I have been.
Very rarely, the dreams have taken on a magical bent and I suddenly wow the audience with spotaneous levitation. Through simple concentration I am able to hover above them and lift things telepathically. There have been times when the audience riots and there is sadistic violence in response to what is occurring onstage. Never have I dreamt of rehearsal.
Once I had sex with a woman I’d never known–she was on her period, and upon penetration she exploded like a balloon–all matter dissipated in a thousand flesh-less, bloodless directions.
I am constantly surprised by the amount of unknown characters. Where does my mind recieve the templates for these faces and personalities? Are they completely fictional or are they foggy reproductions from a reality I’m not paying attention to? Example: I rode the school bus my whole life (loser). And in those final few years, I didn’t talk to anyone. But I still saw their faces and heard their voices; my mind received the stimuli and filed it away somewhere. Are these dream characters mere mind-vomit?
Rarely do I interact with celebrities or historical figures; however, the few exceptions have been memorable. Once I was visited by Allen Ginsberg. It was old Ginsberg, with long grey beard and bald top and he looked vaguely middle-eastern for a NYC-Jew poet. He sat in the lotus position giggling and I asked him what he thought of the meaning of life. He looked at me grinning, said, “Mah,” and floated away. I have not believed in an afterlife since I was a boy, but this dream made me want to believe. It made me wish that Allen Ginsberg’s aura had decided to visit me in a dream, and would traverse time and space to do so. It felt like a great cosmic wink.
Another night it was Brando. We were alone in this enormous library; some aristocratic study with enormous shelves of leather-bound canonical literature. He was young (pre-Streetcar) and wore a smoking jacket and he didn’t say much. But neither did I and I could tell he liked me because we were both Midwestern boys; brooders with parental issues and enormous chips on our shoulders. Like the Ginsberg, this dream made me feel special, like I was worthy; as though my heroes would approve of me. But these are the only heroes who’ve visited me. Dylan, Lennon and Kerouac have yet to show, and I’ve yet to pitch for the Cardinals. It mystifies me: why some and not others? What is it about these figures that my brain selects; is it arbitrary? Do I love them more? Maybe my subconscious believes Lennon would hate me.
I have had many dreams in which I die. I have drowned, been shot, mangled myself in car wrecks and fallen from several tornadoes. Each time I die I simply lose consciousness–there is a cessation of incoming stimuli and I just stop living; this feeling is akin to standing up too fast–a starry, dazed feeling that, if extended, feels unlike life. Usually when this happens I realize what has happened wake up–I have never encountered an afterlife (although I have had many dreams involving the Devil). I first died in my sleep when I was a kid, futilely defending my family against a home invasion. Strangely, I’ve enjoyed a lot of my deaths. The tornadoes were fantastic; I have rarely sensed the merciless power of nature in real life, but my dream-experience seems exact. This is probably a Midwestern thing; I bet Tahitians dream of death by typhoon.
The terrible truth is that I usually only remember half of my dreams; much is lost in waking and I almost never write them down (though I know I should). They are fascinating and meaningless at the same time–but they must reveal something.
