These dreams I’m having are starting to worry me. Because I don’t think they’re mine. They don’t feel like mine, anyway. My dreams are usually very fragmentary, full of color, and make little to no sense. So you see, I can barely distinguish my waking life from sleep.
Really, though, my dreams tend to be odd and splintered, but I’ll wake up laughing, or with strange words in my head, or a picture I wish I could paint. My dreams, my normal regular every-night dreams tend to kind of be like what I’d imagine would happen if I got to spend seven hours tripping on ‘shrooms with the bastard son of Dali, Robert Mapplethorpe and Picasso.
But these dreams I’m having lately, these new dreams are suddenly so
very different. Not just brief splashes of color any more–they’ve
become these huge and sprawling day-glo narratives. Bizarre,
interconnected stories that string out long and lucidly, but never
prosaically. And they seem to be a series. A really bad series written
by V.C. Andrews and narrated by W.C Fields, with post-production work
by a giggly Tim Burton who has no thumbs.
These aren’t dreams I wake up from feeling rested and relaxed.
I just wish I could remember them and could string them together. Every
time I have one, it seems completely familiar–the place is familiar,
the characters, the frantic thing I’m supposed to be doing, the plot
devices that steer me along the long and twisty paths that I’m supposed
to be trodding. All very, strangely oddly and painfully familiar. There
have been times in these dreams where I look to the left, and see the
building I walked into, last dream, when I was going undercover as a
high school teacher. And in this latest dream, I’ll think “Hey! That’s
the high school in which I went undercover!” Except that my grammar is
much less prissy in my dream.
So I’m having these…these episodes every night. There seems to be an
underlying story, but I can’t unthread it from the long and complex
individual storylines that sprout up in each dream. I can’t even quite
figure out the stories of these dreams, either. It’s partially because
I keep getting distracted by all the pretty colors, and partially
because I have never been great shakes at remembering my dreams, and
there’s a huge chunk I forget because these fuckers are so goddamn
complicated. Who knew the inside of my head was all twisty like that?
I wish I could remember them if only to figure out what kind of psychoses I’m developing.
I remember pieces of the dreams. There was one where I had to go into a
factory filled with pinto beans. In every room, cans of pinto beans were
stacked up and lined along the walls and in pyramids. I had to find the
trigger can, which would explode all the cans and take out the menace
of pinto beans, which was threatening the town in which I lived, where,
in a previous dream, I had recently discovered I didn’t actually live.
And when I had noticed, I had had to fight off the people in the family
restaurant who had syringes and wanted to re-indoctrinate me. Into
something or other. Possibly, the family restaurant lifestyle of crap
on the walls.
This was the family restaurant in which I used to waitress before I had
become an undercover teacher, in a previous dream to that previous
dream. And there was this one time where I was driving a really big car
which was falling apart, while there were crows on the roof that were
making me scream out of control on the road that lead up to the factory
which held the menace of pinto beans.
Oh, I don’t know. Don’t ask me. And don’t look at me like that.
I told my friend Eileen about these dreams. She was a psychology major,
and claims that this makes her expertly qualified to interpret my
subconscious. Because I really wish I could just have a
normal-to-subconscious dictionary or something. She’s the closest
thing, I suppose.
She is also the only one who actually wants to listen when I start
waving my arms around and yelling about crazy blondes with really big
needles and red pupils and family restaurants and beans. Which I did. I
told her about the beans and the bugs and the brains and the breaking
things, and she nodded and uhm hummed at me. And then I finished.
"Huh," said Eileen. "You’re fucked up."
I’m just going to take a Tylenol P.M. tonight.