JANUARY 30, 2021 – By whatever causes, I’m a dream machine—and always have been, since my earliest days.
My deceased elders—parents, both sets of grandparents, and sole uncle—still figure prominently in my dreams, proving, that there really is an afterlife, though I have no way of knowing whether the dead people featured therein are cognizant of it. (This raises a philosophical question similar to the one about noise—or its absence—if a tree falls in an unoccupied woods.) My dead elders are always very much “real” and “alive.” On most occasions I’m delighted to see them, though we do have our spats. A while back, I was insanely mad at my (dead) dad, which surprised the hell out of me, given that in life we were very close (though occasionally we argued vehemently over politics). Oddly, my rage was over something quite minor—so minor, I’ve forgotten what it was despite my recall of details surrounding the unhappy encounter.
Another common theme is legal work: frantically composing an argument while waiting for the judge to enter the courtroom; sweating bullets because I’d forgotten all about the closing of some big deal happening now; or searching high and low for the key to my office. These stress-dreams are a variation of another theme: scholastic dereliction; facing failure at the end of the quarter/semester because I never attended class or completed assignments.
Another repeated theme: performing on the violin under the stress of lost music, inadequate practice, or a non-appreciative audience.
The “stress dreams,” however, are counterbalanced by frequent ski dreams—even in summer. These are pure pleasure, usually in rugged mountains, always in good snow conditions.
Often, I’ll have political dreams—like the one two nights ago, wherein Trump had died (of natural causes) and his funeral occurred just two hours later. Immediately after the service (which I’d refuse to attend . . . even in my wildest dreams), I ran into Mary Trump, the psychologist-niece, who’s trashed him royally. Smiling, she said that out of spite for the dead man, someone had cleverly arranged for a gospel group to sing the roof off the church.
Then there’s the “scenic travel” dream. Last night was classic. I’d been plopped down just outside Pena Palace in the Sintra Mountains of Portugal. An unusual snowfall had occurred, rendering the area even more magical than usual. As I walked around the perimeter, fog blanketed the landscape. Suddenly the sun burst through and revealed a spectacularly beautiful mountain. Before I could snap a photo, fog moved in again.
Next, I was on a plateau overlooking the fog-bound sea. Through a hole in the fog I saw a large sloop, its mainsail directly in front of a white-bright sun. It was an amazing shot, lasting only a moment, but my camera failed me. I snapped a “memory” picture, and with it, captured every detail for later retrieval.
All of which prompts this philosophical question: if a dream can be remembered, does it become part of one’s reality?
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© 2021 by Eric Nilsson
