For Every Generation, Some Dreams Are Mixed
For many years I kept detailed, diligent journals of every dream I could recall, sometimes jotting down just a word or image and forcing myself to dig deep to pull it up later in the day. Not much became of those journals, and they mean little when I look back at them.
I feel lucky that the dark recesses of my subconscious that emerge in these dreams are not as spooky as my daydream wanderings. And rarely are my dreams completely pleasant or nightmarish. Just murky and confusing.
And they often merge into one another with no logical sequence, such as last night when I was visited by one of my exes who was distraught that the economy had become so bad that The Gap was going out of business. "What a blessing!" I exclaimed, thinking about how that store seemed to embody all that I most despised about our time together, seeming so prefabbed and soulless, a paint-by-number relationship out of a magazine. "But how many times did you go there? How many pieces are still in your closet that came from The Gap? How many of them do you still wear?" I agreed that he was probably right, and looking at him with a certain lessening degree of disdain, wondered why I couldn't put them in the recycle bin.
I passed from this scene, realizing I was riding in a car with my father who died two and a half years ago. I was aware that he was neither dead nor alive but very present, and in a jovial but disconnected state as often he was in the last three years or so before Alzheimer's accompanied him for his final exit. He told a rambling story as he wove through traffic, stopping at green lights and buzzing through red ones. I could hear car horns blaring, tires squealing, people cursing and metal scraping against the car -- yet it kept moving forward. Knowing it was impossible to pull his firm hands from the wheel, I rested my head his leg as I did when he drove me home from summer camp as a kid, trusting that we would arrive home safely.
When I woke at 6:30 a.m., I felt peaceful but still conflicted.
In the afternoon, I realized I needed stamps and went across the street to the video/copy shop. The clerk said that the only stamps they had were ones promoting Alzheimer's awareness. "That's fine," I said. After I paid and took my change, the clerk smiled, handing them to me, "So you'll remember."