I’m starting a new wacky series called Dream Theatre. Let me boldly explain: I dream a lot, and not only during the day. No, when night falls and the pillow dents, I go to la-la land. There, the strangest things happen.
Funkily enough, I usually remember them vividly, and have the easiest of times tuning back onto the right dreamlength, if I wake up in midst of high interestingness.
Bizarrely, I’m sometimes even able to prolong a dream beyond sleep, to the extent that I’m fully aware that I’m awake, but still continuing the dream without forcing the issue. This is particularly practical during weekend mornings when you have the extra time to indulge.
If that was not enough, I also dream in color. For example, the purple color that Dream Theatre #1 ends with, was so strong that it all but engulfed me.
I may suck as a sleeper, but I’m an elite dreamer.
Nightmares? Remarkably, a very rare breed, the big exception being: Two years ago I couldn’t dream about anything else than falling towards earth at breakneck speed, aboard a motorcycle, knowing I was going to die – but about a year ago, these violent episodes finally started drying out. [I had feared they’d go on forever!]
Indeed, regular nightmares, like someone/something chasing you, rarely take place. If they do, they’re lame, and sometimes turn into comedies – or, I realize I’m dreaming, and turn the tables on the assailants. [Very convenient, if you know how to do it!]
I don’t plan on doing the Dream Theatre too often, thou. Frankly, an unproportionately large amount of my dreams are sensationally pornographic, and I’d rather keep them to myself. Other dreams are incomprehensible at best, and challenging all known limits of sanity at worst. But once in awhile, when I hit the sweet spot of weirdly funny, I may serve up a slice from la-la land.
So, without further impossibly unnecessary ado, here’s a mildly mad one I had a few days ago:
A party is taking place. Thumping music. I am among friends, we’re revolving on the floors, but I don’t know their names, and I can’t see their faces properly. I must be abroad. Everything about this scene feels American. Suddenly, I find myself behind the turntables, taking over the show. Hey, the crowd loves me, people keep touching me, patting me on my back, and everyone is booming and shouting.
On second thought, these are not turntables, but my own computer, with my own music from my own iTunes archive. And I’m looking so hard for a song I want to play. It’s by Queens, but I just can’t find it. I’m getting desperate. I’m fumbling, struggling, sweating. What’s the name of the song? Why is this so hard? Artists are arranged in alfabethical order – it should be right here, on Q. Help.
The music just dies, but from somewhere a background band immediately starts drumming softly. I start to sing. It’s ‘I Want It All’ by Queens. I sing the refrain to the song. I listen to myself. It sounds absolutely great. I lose track of the crowd. I sing more. Man, I’m great!
Suddenly, a black person stands in front of me. He’s dressed in white – all white, shiny. It’s Puff Daddy. He smiles. God, such white teeth! We don’t say anything to each other, instead switch watches. I try on his big diamond-encrusted one, with a lightblue and white strap. Oh, the strap is too damn long, and I get tangled up in it. First it goes around my head. Then it goes around my waist. Should I wear it like a belt? Where do I buckle it? We laugh, switch back. My watch is tiny. We become friends.
Next day we meet again. We are walking together; it’s warm, there are palm trees, green lush gardens. He says he will get a haircut, but I notice his hair is absolutely perfect. No, it isn’t, he says, like he heard me. Next he says we will both get our teeth bleached. We approach a beauty salon from the garden. It’s very early in the morning, and the half-sleeping doorman is slouched on a chair. He is startled when we walk past him. Mornin’ Puffy, he manages, scared and whimpering before Puff Daddy’s awesome might. We wear crooked smiles.
We enter the beauty salon. In the foyer, a bunch of big black men stand huddled around something, ignoring us. They seem totally fascinated. What is it, I wonder. I have to peek. It’s an ugly brown cockerspaniel, squatting, taking a poo on the floor. I don’t see the fascination. Why do they circle the dog like that? I don’t like these guys.
Puffy wants to show me something else, and he leads me to a room nearby, where a salesman stands alert, greetings us, smiling extremely broadly. He seems ready to fall into a welltrained sales pitch, which he does, and then proceeds to open a big flat package for us. The package is dark grey, and it takes ages to open it.
Finally. It’s a purple cloth, I see. Aha, a huge purple scarf is revealed. So purple. That’s for you, Puffy says. For me? Thanks, Puffy. But it’s so big. It will cover all of me. It covers all of me.
I wake up.
[OBSERVE: I exert no control over this. Dream Theatres are as accurately depicted as possible. I write them down the morning I had them. Any superficial words or attributes have been peeled away. I do not analyze, judge, or question; I just write it as I saw it.]