“Well, I never heard it before, but it sounds uncommon nonsense.” -Lewis Carroll
He’d come into my office to tell me what I already knew, like always. Keeping the course of action I’d planned to myself, I let him ramble on about how some other department had already staked claim over the dollars. Losing control, or the illusion of having it, is a recurring theme. While he continued ignoring any expressions I might’ve leaked, incessant talking filled the remaining square footage. Just as I began to think I was sinking into radical acceptance a crowd appeared, stealing oxygen, trampling boundaries. The nameless man reached across my throat for a pen. His partner stood too closely behind me to whisper his needs like a grocery list I mustn’t forget. The faded photo copy of contact information was floating under my elbow. They leaned over my shadow repeating letters and numbers which might’ve been a way to reach me, though it was impossible to make out a coherent email or phone number over the collision of their voices. Meanwhile the office door was crowded with figures and outstretched arms as if my unstated offerings hung suspended in the air like pluckable fruit. Escaping to Whole Foods seemed both real and rational.
As the automatic doors washed me in the ever unwelcomed woosh of cold, forced air I was met with white, cathedral-height partitions. Fuck those vents. What is this? An event? Meeting room pods where produce should have been. There would be no getting around the mile high walls which led me into a maze of meeting spaces. Clusters of people packed tight in florescent cubes whispered of tired disparities; those eternal problems which no longer shock some. Their gaping faces and furrowed brows listened and stated all the current affairs. I just wanted to feed myself and be alone. I just wanted to retreat into an aisle of aromatherapy, unnoticed. Instead I bumped into her in one of the narrow, glaring halls thinking only of the face I had no means of hiding; my own. How do I get out? How do I get in? I want desperately to help, yes, but not now. Will I ever be heard? She looked through me at the tile behind us. There were no footholds. I may as well not’ve been my self. She listed off assessed needs, troubling statistics, revelations and tasks which may or may not be mine. Everything sounded like an excessive production. The answers are very simple; I tried to say but my volume was muted. None of my thoughts could become words. None of my thoughts would translate to anything real; like power, the restoration of order, reassurance, conviction or love.
Following this trail of futility, I wandered into a clearing past the white maze and found myself in an underground city. Mahogany doors, intricately carved, dotted an expansive pavilion. Decorated women in designer coats, eccentric shades and drool-worthy jeans swaggered, stomped and floated across over-sized, emerald and umber parkay. Hello my Pinteresting distractions! Look at that electric blue, furry jumper! Look at that glowing column of gossamer pink. Her dress over jeans was my favorite. Platinum blonde strands, kissed with the palest blushing highlights framed an unfuckwithable smile; a pillar of self-possession. Her platform boots strode to freedom. I tossed out a complimentary yelp which sounded more like longing to be her and she turned to smile back as if saying you can. I tried explaining to the bleeding, human need in front of me why they were wonderful, how everything would be fine and to stop worrying and can’t they just see all the other parts of life but my conflict came through instead: help or haute couture. Neither! Where’s the beach?!
In real life there is no back door, but here in my subconscious mind automatic gates parted revealing a chain linked shore. Despite being dotted with unwanted audiences, paired, trioed, quartered, I found a vacancy. Beaches are prone to competition for solitude. Even the birds look bothered. It was dark except for the kind of flood lights you’d expect to blind you in the parking lot of a grocery store at night. Settling into the sand on my back I relaxed near the inky tide line and closed my eyes. Almost good enough. Except I wish that dumpster wasn’t so close.
Just then I heard the music, like one of those lyrical symphonies accompanying fireworks over Magic Kingdom. What the hell is..where is it coming from? It was so loud, beckoning, surreal. I looked up and saw, flying tangibly low, a star shooting space ship; as if propelled by fourth of July sparklers. An ice cream truck in the sky. What? Is? That? Descending directly towards me it landed, produced hulking, black, treaded wheels, configured itself upright and started speaking at me like an autistic child. Tell me your dreams. What do you hope for? What do you want? I felt confronted, enchanted and disturbed. Only to myself I thought I can’t possibly answer that question with all these people watching.
And then I woke up.
I’ve been an avid, lucid dreamer for as long as I can remember. Dreams are fun, revealing, metaphoric stories which practically write themselves several times a week so I thought for the new year, since I journal them anyway, I’d create space for them here.
To our dreams in 2018