I’m trying to find the ideal time to take my medication—if I take it early in the day, the drowsy side-effects make me want to sleep all afternoon. If I take it at lunch, I’m out at 6. And if I take it at bed, like last night, I get the most intense, vivid, plotted, and violent (often) dreams. It’s a bit frustrating.
Last night, e.g., I was basically in The Wire meets Inception with Omar, Billy Joe from Green Day, Casey Affleck, and Leo playing murderous thugs in an underground (literally—lots of traveling in trains. And on trains) world where we occasionally came up. J was there at one point, after I witnessed one of the above actors simply vaporize someone with a shotgun, and we have to escape on the trains but these trains went through all these different areas where one had to know all these signs, signals, and passwords to survive. Which of course we didn’t know. But luckily, Gary Busey was there to guide us.
Because of course he was.
Still working on my medication schedule—dreamed last night that my beloved great-aunt, who would have been 100 this year, died. At first, I was really in the moment, feeling really shitty because she died. But at some point, well after I had started gathering up her things like her jewelry, and her last scotch and soda, you know, the important stuff, I remembered that she died in 2002.
Still, the grief was right there. Joy to the Brain.
I dreamed I was golfing, and swung so hard I fell off the tee box and out of bed.
I literally fell out of bed.
The weird part was it was a long iron, Stevie Williams hit before me, and Scott Van Pelt was commenting. I mean Van Peazy does highlights.
I had a dream the other night about the end of reality tv. It’s called ‘Divine Retribution’ and it will only air a few times as it will not survive long.
Here’s the deal: we recruit the most beaten-down, over-worked, berated, angry, and vengeful workers we can find—waitstaff, domestic help, teachers, customer service folks, whatever—and give them the opportunity to get their perfect revenge.
The key is that they have to know the marks really, really well. Parents who overshare during teacher conferences, bosses who have no secrets from their cleaning staff, chefs who blather on about their home lives, etc.
Then we, the producers, find out everything that the marks value in their work, their homes, their possessions, and make their worst nightmares about these valued possessions, vanities, habits come true. Righteously.
My dream was very specific on this point—we will DESTROY the marks’ petty fears about their stuff—this would be especially fun with the bad bosses who shit all over their cleaning staff about their perfect A/V set ups or 1000 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets, chefs who go insane over the slightest messes in their kitchens, etc. And we expose their secrets for all to see and just blow their sad little lives to pieces in a public shaming exercise and in no way work to put the pieces back together. The show ends with the marks broken, crying hopefully seeing their perfect world of hate obliterated.
I may not be a nice person.
Last two nights I’ve had dreams about high school sports and not being ready for a test. I think that I’m channeling my anxiety about being a bad teacher into this weirdness. I never have these kinds of dreams.
Two nights ago I was somehow on the varsity ice hockey team (I was a terrible hockey player) and when the coach, who is dead, told me to get on the line for conditioning sprints, my skate laces were undone, and worse, were made of costume jewelry chains. And the laces were so long they went up my legs to my thighs. Great work brain!
Last night I was having the ‘unprepared for the exam’ dream for the first time in my life. I’ve never had that dream before despite having taken MA and Ph.D. comps and orals. Deeeeeelightful.
All I can do is work harder on Blackboard and my grading, I guess.
I had an extremely vivid dream last night of my grandmother’s house at Christmas Eve like when I was a boy, when all the Swedes in the family (and us few Irish bugs—of course it turns out more of the family is Irish than previously thought, hello Co. Antrim) would gather for a smorgasbord and gift exchange.
All the old folks who are gone now were there in the dream, but only some of us in the dream could see and interact with the dead, which was odd, even by dream standards.
The dream even had the smell of my grandmother’s house. She and I spoke for a while, and I saw my grandfather, but I can’t remember what we said.
I miss them both terribly this time of year.
Dammit brain, you can go suck eggs.
Just had the loveliest one. My wife’s beloved, but deceased, grandfather visited. He’d been on a cruise — food wasn’t really to his liking. Fried chicken was good, but only served once. I think it was Tom Robbins who likened heaven and hell to a cruise ship in Jitterbug Perfume (good book, btw).
I was hosing down the yard and the outside of the house—we live in his house now—and he was pointing out some spots I’d missed as well as critiquing my methods—in a good mannered way.
I think my brain is saying that I am doing right by his memory.
I damn sure hope so. He was a great man, and I miss him.
Yet more weird dreams.
Yesterday, I dreamed about my mother’s father, a man I never met, as he died a few months before I was born. I guess he was a hell of a guy when he wasn’t too drunk. But the dream was ok; we visited a little.
Then this morning I had another anxiety dream—I was taking the AP English test in a swank NYC Hotel before I had to get home to Boston; it was a fierce blizzard out, and I couldn’t get my pen to work.
So there’s that.
Anyone want to play analyst and suggest meanings?
I was searching my grandparents’ house for more on my brevet captain, when my grandfather, long deceased, gave me a mint or a pill or something, I think it was a Gaviscon, and then dropped dead of a stroke.
Seriously thinking of getting off the wagon if these dreams continue.
When I drink, I don’t dream that much. This sobriety program has my dreaming going to 11. Vivid. Familiar. Family based. Horrifying.
Like last night, not going to lie, watching my grandfather drop dead, was not cool.
Do I have to go back to poisoning myself every night to avoid this crap?