I’ve awoke with a start. Another one of those dreams that I usually reserve for nights after too many Margaritas and seafood tacos. I can’t tell you the last time I had a Margarita…or a seafood taco. It wasn’t last night.
This dream was too vivid, and it wasn’t the first one. Good news, it wasn’t a nightmare…maybe.
There was once an old man who walked the two-lane road in front of my house. My dream included him. His name was Bap. My guess…Bap was a nickname. Being young I referred to him as Mr. Wolfe. After rubbing the sleep from my eyes I remembered what the old folks said about Bap, “He ain’t right in the head.” Maybe I’m not either.
Dressed in bib overalls and a dusty, sweat-stained fedora, he would walk until approached by a car. As the car drew near, he would recoil, clearly fearing the car might suddenly lose control and run him down. His eyes were dark and brooding, boring into the driver as if Bap could somehow create a visual barrier that might protect him from being squashed flat like an unlucky possum. His head followed the movement of the car until it was well past. Thankfully there were few cars during those days but I don’t think Bap had much to do anyway.
There were stories told around campfires by preteen boys that claimed Bap had been kidnapped by nefarious teenagers up to no good, taken on a wild ride in someone’s jalopy and let out far from home. Somehow this had translated into a fear of cars instead of a fear of nefarious teenagers.
When I asked my father about him my dad simply replied, “Ole Bab is just a quare bird. Don’t worry, he’s harmless.” I guess he was, I remember him only as a reluctant and fearful walker and no threat to society.
I dreamt about him last night. Bap, not my father. I’ve had a series of dreams that, while none are exactly the same, my series follows the same theme. I’m lost and as the dream progresses, I get more lost and quite anxious about it.
Last night was the sixth in the series since the beginning of this month, a variation on a theme once or twice a week. Having reoccurring dreams is not new to me but I feel something is amiss, I’m a bubble off plumb. More so than usual I should say.
Why am I dreaming in psychedelic tangerine and blue paisley? Why am I having a dream that includes a man long dead, a man I haven’t thought about in decades? Why am I having dreams that include unicorns and oiled up body builders hitting a bell with sledge hammers.
In the dream I can see my destination clearly in the distance even though I don’t really know what my destination is. I just know it is there. I’m on a high hill under a haze filled sky with a brightly lit city spread out below. I see my destination but somehow, I get lost. I see it again and again from different vantage points.
I see it over and over and over and over again its location changes and I’m further away. Short cuts avail themselves, but they turn into lengthy long cuts as I find myself in mazes that include textile mills, construction sites, athletic complexes, even a cruise ship.
I find myself in dimly lit corridors or brightly lit shopping malls. In one I open a door to a disco lounge complete with shiny disco ball, swirling women in dresses made of ethereal fabrics, and John Travolta in his white suit. At least the Bee Gees aren’t singing in the background, “Staying alive, staying alive, oh, oh, oh….” Instead I hear Jimmy Buffett singing, “My whole life lies waiting behind door number three.” Great, Monty Hall may be in my next dream.
I open doors and am led further from my destination or to rooms with no exits. In one, Bap stands against the wall staring at me with the look he reserved for cars, no white suit just bib overalls, a dark stare above a mouth formed into an “O”.
All along the way there are people, in many places there is a crush of bodies. People from my far past like Bap or people from my near past. Friends long dead, others quite alive. Family members galore. Folks I haven’t spoken to in decades and others I talked to yesterday including the little blond runner with the bouncing ponytail. No rhyme or reason in psychedelic colors.
If I were an electrical media device, I’d attempt a hard reset. For some reason an engine seems more appropriate. I think my timing gear is off and I might be missing on a couple of cylinders. I’m in need of a tune up, BIGGLY!
Despite so much color in the dream I have awakened feeling like a threadbare cotton tee shirt, its logo faded from view.
I awake and remember the dreams vividly…and the colors I dream in. The colors are psychedelic. Tangerine and pink acrylics in a swirling paisley and that’s just the unicorns walking around an azure blue lake in the middle of a football field. Did someone sneak LSD into the corn salad I made for myself last night? The oiled up body builders beating the bell with sledge hammers? Turns out my alarm was going off. I don’t know why the resemble Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris.
I don’t know what the dreams mean…do they mean anything? I’ve always believed dreams to be the discharge of random, unneeded data…a cleansing of unneeded (unwanted?) memories. Freud and Jung would disagree, I guess.
Most of my dreams fade over time. Not this one. The tangerine is still quite bright.
I should be happy. They are not nightmares…at least not yet. My concern is probably much to do about nothing and I am actually looking forward to meeting up with people I haven’t seen in a while…even in a dream. I should take the stance that you really can’t be lost if you don’t have any idea where you are going anyway. Maybe I should go ahead and have a spicy fish taco and a tequila drink…or three. Who knows how lost I might get or who I might meet up with.
Don Miller’s author’s page can be found at https://www.amazon.com/Don-Miller/e/B018IT38GM?fbclid=IwAR02mav138M8WD5XAa0evj0FzgjRW4oesksttngRRqYeqHwSRc-6AoUmN4Q