I've had plenty of odd dreams in my day, like, say, the one where my dead father appeared to me on an English beach and presented me with my uncle, telling me "he just got here." (I didn't know at the time that my uncle had just actually died.)
Then, there was the one with the road trip in the VW microbus to the kingdom led by
Alfred E. Neumann in an emerald castle (where he had been overthrown by the evil queen Sharon Stone and her mad scientist beau, Arnold Schwarzenegger.) That's the same one where Roman centurians drank beer with Jesus (he was tied to a cross as he stood next to the town fountain - the Romans lifted the beer to his lips.) And disabled Vietnam vets siphoned the gas out of my VW. Aaaand my friends and I ended up at a radio supply store in Siberia (Radio Shakski?) looking for an antenna for one friend to attach to her Wilton cake mold radio to contact her husband in New York. The dream ended when my friend was kidnapped by an evil dentist (who looked like Thomas Dolby on a very, very bad day, indeed) and the building burned to the ground.
Interesting side note: that friend of mine had a dental appointment in Manhattan the next day, but it was cancelled due to a fire in the building. Go figure.
Lately, my mother has been appearing in my dreams, and she's been doing something unusual: talking. See, my mom hasn't spoken in my dreams since she died. Until now. And when she appears now, it's always in the form of a benevolent figure, helping me, watching me, playing board games with me. In one recent dream, I had a broken toe, but the doctor, in looking at the x-ray, was able to determine that I actually had some evil form of cancer. (How's that work, Mr. Science? Dunno, kids. Ask my subconscious mind!) Next thing I know, I'm waking up in recovery, some vital parts of me missing, but with my mom sitting at the foot the bed, looking younger than I remember, but smiling and asking me how I was doing.
When I woke from that dream, I thought of my mother, sitting day after day by my father's hospital bed as he died. She kept a notebook with her to write down any words he said. The last thing she had written down in the notebook was my name. I have always wondered if he regretted how mean he had been to me in his final years? My father had not been kind to me over that last handful of years. Though I was seventeen at the time, I still physically cringe when I think of how he scathingly laughed at me when he heard my high school boyfriend had come out of the closet. "What did you do to him to turn him gay?" was my father's comment. I've never forgotten it. I've also never had a boyfriend since. My relationships with men have been colored by self-doubt, a desire for approval, and a belief that guys who might want to date me somehow must have some deep flaw.
Let me review the guys who've wanted to date me.
Majorly, majorly flawed.
Trust your instincts, Luke!
Where was I? Oh yeah, dreams.
I slept horribly last night, thanks to the freaks upstairs, who decided that vacuuming and putting together furniture were appropriate activities to start at 10:45 p.m. When I went up to ask them to stop, please god stop, the chiquita says to me, "Oh, come on! It's Friday night. Get real." I hate these people. I really do. I'm considering putting a CD of bad Russian pop music in my old boombox and standing in front of their door tonight at midnight, holding it up and playing it a la John Cusack in "Say Anything"...
Last night's dream (which my friend the Austism Expert would tell me was simply a few seconds long) featured a move to Los Angeles.
It was, in truth an EPIC anxiety dream, just with a road trip twist.
Out of the blue, I accepted a job with a media company in L.A. called New Line of Horizon Cinema(hey, that's a lawsuit waiting to happen, new dream bosses!) I have no idea what my role was there, but I was excited that I was gonna be in L.A.
Problem? I hadn't told my current employers I was leaving. I just didn't show up one day. And suddenly, I was in Los Angeles, at my new office, but with no apparent duties. I just wandered around aimlessly. I kept thinking about my office back in DC, and how everyone probably thought I was dead. Worse, I'd left a pile of projects unfinished and unfathomable by anyone new. Great - they figured I was dead and incompetent!
My new office had "togetherness" night once a week, organized by the boss and paid for by the company. There was even a communal room where everyone kept a pile of casual clothes to match whatever "togetherness" event was sprung on them. Tonight? Baseball! But I didn't want to go. I knew people in L.A. I wanted to see them all, but I'd forgotten to bring their phone numbers. (Of course.) I kept seeing the folks I knew in town, turning corners in the office building and then vanishing before I could get to them. I'd try to call their names, but was rendered mute with each attempt.
Classic anxiety crap. Textbook even.
Plus, I was still broke, just like in real life, yet I needed an apartment. So, I just drove around Los Angeles in an old van, unsure of how I'd get housing with no money and bad credit. Eventually, I came to the end of the road. Literally. The road ended and I was trapped between a couple of pickup trucks in grass along a small river, where a bunch of old Latino guys were fishing. No one spoke English, and I couldn't explain in Spanish that I needed out, and I had to get back to L.A. I pulled out my cell phone to call for help, and I figured I could call the Sasquatch or Javi to translate for me.
But my phone controls no longer made sense and my vision became so bad all I could see were blurs of light. I guessed on speed dial numbers, getting strangers over and over again. Eventually, though, I got the Sasquatch on the line. I was so relieved to hear his voice. But he was cold and aloof. I had left DC without telling him, either, and, miffed, he had moved on to new friends. I could hear him shrug over the phone. "Figure it out," he said. "I'm busy." (That is so not the Sasquatch.) And, of course, I'd left Javi's L.A. cell phone number back home...
The dream ended with me, penniless, homeless, and blind, sitting on top of my van in the tall grass, Los Angeles in the distant smog, my cell phone apparently useless, while happy old farts fished and chatted in animated Spanish.
My mother arrived, walking through the vibrant green blades. She smiled and spoke cheerfully: "See? I told you, you should have taken Spanish."
Thank you, wonders of the mind. You have to give me anxiety dreams with punchlines.
Wishing you random dreams with no anxiety at all,