dreaming

I tend to bask in these seasons when my nights are filled with vivid dreams I remember in whole or in parts when I awake. It is another existence in there, in my dreams. It’s extra life.

Years ago after reading a science magazine article, (Omni?) on the subject of ‘lucid dreaming,’ I took to suggestions from the article designed to help one take control of their dreams. For a couple of months I went around reading things in public places, on walls, billboards, menus, then reading them again. The idea is that a thing read will never read the same twice, in a dream. So, if one could make a habit in wakeful life of reading things twice, the read thing which changed would trigger the dreamer into knowing they were dreaming and hence, being able to take control of the dream, “lucid dreaming.’

It worked for me. I was in Japan on an Air Force base and I volunteered to coach youth sports while I was there. One day I was driving my ’81 Celica around on base when I got into a collision with the mother of one of my players. (The kid actually played for me three seasons in a row, soccer, little league baseball, then soccer again.) After damaging the family VW Beetle, I followed her and Todd back to their house on base and when I saw Kevin, (Todd’s dad,) he got angry about the car. He fretted and fumed a bit then he started acting like he was going to punch me.

I looked at his t-shirt, which said “Brooklyn Dodgers,” across it. Quickly I looked away and looked again. It said only, “Yankees,” the second time. I was dreaming and the dream immediately faded.

I was in a nowhere place for some moments as I pondered the fact that I was sleeping yet aware of my thoughts. In my dream I moved slowly about in an ether. I recalled the point of this lucid dreaming, and how the article had talked about the exhilaration of flying in one’s dreams. It had specifically suggested one could work toward flying by taking giant steps like they were on the moon, intending to float, which I did. I never did fly but I did take the giant steps though I don’t think it was in that specific dream. I engaged in lucid dreaming for a few months after which, I think I got tired of reading things twice in the daytime.

The floating was truly thrilling. I remember pushing off the earth and floating up and out and being amazed at what I could do and how it felt to my normally limited body.

More recently I have had a recurring dream wherein I levitate. Usually I am in a group of people and out of the blue I begin to rise into the air. Often I entice others, who did not know they could do this, to join me. No one is ever baffled at my ability in my dreams, rather they casually look then return to whatever they were doing.

Last night I dreamt I was writing a piece of fiction. In my story a 10-year-old daughter was telling her father the family should take certain steps, engage in conservation projects or write letters to soldiers, in order to support the war. The father was incredulous and asked his daughter what war she was talking about.

“The war on terror,” she responded.

“There is no such thing as ‘The War on Terror,’ dear,” the father chided.

He went on to explain to her that the war on terror represented a propaganda campaign and that people who fear will more readily support the side who both puts them in fear and purports to protect them, and that in fact, the definition of war was in flux since it had formerly implied troops were engaged in battle on a battlefield as opposed to the idea governments were secretly collecting information to thwart otherwise unknown would-be attacks and similar activities.

This was all just me, sitting at a keyboard, writing, in my dream. The idea stuck with me though, somehow. When I woke, I thought I had happened upon that one idea, the one I’ve been looking for, the one that will help me write fiction, the one that will help me finally write a cohesive story with a plot and narrative and a hero with an arc and redemption awaiting him in the end.

Yes, I have had the idea I had this idea innumerable times. Sometimes I think I am the idea of me longing for the idea, (while reading Lao Tzu, perhaps.)

I have often thought I do have one great idea, one great work in me. Less from ego and more from the need to feel like I have helped humanity, I long for this to be true. I think I want it to be true so badly I will happily sacrifice any notoriety or wealth that could conceivably come from a great work of fiction. I imagine it manifesting so late in my life, there is no time for me to enjoy it, or perhaps the work comes to light after my demise.

In reality, perhaps I merely need this idea to impel me through the everyday rigors of life. Maybe I need this specter of a higher calling realized constantly near me in order to change diapers and take customer service phone calls. I would be most pleased to be able to help, however meager. And I admire the men of one work. I love the greatest Mexican novelist ever, Juan Rulfo. (I know Gabriel Garcia-Marquez would never have existed without Rulfo’s inspiration.) I love Ralph Ellison, the invisible man of letters who painfully tried to make it happen again in his lifetime but could not, (or if he did, that second great work was destroyed in fire.) I would rather read one book, full of meaning and ideas and life, by a one-book genius, than 50 pieces of Stephen King tripe. (Apologies to King, he merits mention unlike many others on the popular landscape.)

Maybe I have this work in me? One would never know it today, based on my habits and my station in life. I do not have the ability to write fiction today. I am an expert letter writer. I correspond with the best of them. I write first person journal entries with some skill. (If you’ve gotten this far I will say I’ve proven that much, recognizing there are likely two or three of “you.”) Occasionally I can write something funny, a sarcastic essay or two but mostly, my efforts towards fiction have been flat.

Still, I have not yet said “uncle.” I try, sometimes. Maybe I will try with this material from my dream. It seemed much better while I slept. I saw it as such a great jumping off point. This idea would impel me through pages and pages, I thought. Before waking I saw myself working backwards from that conversation to the beginning, to the family, who they were and why the reader would look at them. I thought of the larger story and saw the arcs of the characters and bits of plot like stardust shuffling through my field of vision.

When I woke, it was mostly gone. I still see the moment. I understand I have some idea the girl changes from naïve to one who calls out the emperor for running around naked. I suppose the dad is heroic in a way, for enlightening his little one and maybe that makes the daughter Terra and the father me and maybe all dreams are fantasy. Or maybe I just need to learn how to dream more often when I am awake.