I had THAT dream again, the one where I wake up shivering under a mound of blankets in an eighty-degree room. The re-occurring dream I've had throughout life. The one I know I will have several more days to come, that is, when I'm finally able to fall asleep.
In the dream, I walk into my grandmother's room. She sits up in bed and puts down a John Saul book, The God Project.
"How can you be here?" I ask, "You're dead."
"I have a message for you," she says.
In a flash of dream frame, I'm sitting in the driver's seat of a bus, staring down an empty road. I glance into the mirror above me. It's a tour bus. A bus packed full of people, all of them pressing their faces into the windows so I can only see them from the back and side. They hardly move and no one talks. They are fixated on the whizzing scenery, or perhaps searching for something.
I feel incredibly tired as if I've been going for days without end. I check the mirror once more and see a chair directly behind me, void of anyone. I stand while the vehicle is still going, step around to the chair and stretch over a metal bar to grab the steady wheel. The bus never swerves. Eventually, I relax, release my grip and sit back. Calmness fills me and I find myself joining the others on the bus, mesmerized by the scenes blurring by us.
A tap to my shoulder, "Excuse me?" I turn to an elderly man who stands next to me, a perplex expression marring his face.
"Who is driving the bus?"
"I am," I tell him.
"Really?" He looks concerned.
"Don't worry. I have it all figured out. I can sit back here and if something gets in the way, I can jump up and move the bus out of danger in time to avoid catastrophe.
"Yes," he says, "but wouldn't it be so much better if you controlled where you are going?"
I wake up. It's the same every time. I understand it is a no-brainer. I hardly need to grab a cigar and Google Freud's journals or pay two hundred some odd bucks an hour for psychobabble when the answer is evident. The dream is telling me to take control of my life-- duh! It always happens when I go wild, have fun and for lack of a better word, frolic. Actually, there is a better word, but I chose not to use it. My inner-guilt chastises me for having the gall to smell flowers and drink lots of wine -- okay, maybe a little too much wine, but who really cares? No one gets hurt and only blue laws are broken. My subconscious cares though, holding my fantasies hostage in retaliation as if to say, "No more Jell-O pits or bar poles until you straighten your ass up! Don't mess with me. I'm your worst nightmare."
Why are dreams so cryptic? Whether trying to communicate to myself or, as a friend suggests, "A cosmic message from beyond the grave. Boo! Boo!" Wouldn't a message have more punch if was blunt and to the point? By the time a dream is deciphered, if it actually is, it's probably already too late, or the moment is lost. My dreams only hint at the problem but never tell me what needs to be done or why.
A far more powerful thing would be to wake up and find myself sitting next to me saying, "Look Jackass, things have got to change and here is what you need to do or else. You've already messed things up quite a bit you freaking idiot." You darn well can bet I'd take action the next morning! I'd call in to work, "Sorry boss, I'm going to be late today. Why? My astral self told me to do some things and I'm doing them. By the way, I'm supposed to stand up to you and say you're a butt sometimes and don't give me enough credit, but we can discuss that later. Right now, I have to call my dad, and then do some charities. See you this afternoon." Okay, maybe not taken to such an extreme, but there would be impact.
The worst part is the symbolism. I heard a dream expert on the radio talking about what each item in a dream symbolizes: a snake is an un-resolved issue, a bear or shark is a threatening situation, babies and animals are secret pleasures etc . . . . A ghost represents a fear of the unknown. What? Really? There is a manual? Moreover, if so, does my psyche really possess this guide? Is it flipping through the pages saying, "Let's see to get my point across I'll need three dwarves, an umbrella, and a tattoo parlor. Oh what the heck, I'll throw in Queen Elizabeth playing naked twister while eating a vanilla cone to just to "F" with him."
What about children? THINK OF THE CHILDREN! When I was a child, I had a nightmare. The invisible man rubbed raw hamburger into my hair. No matter where I ran or hid, a glob of ground round would plop itself onto my head. It felt greasy, sticky and just plain horrible. What was I supposed to take from this symbol? Avoid red meats and the hidden dangers of cholesterol at all costs? I was freaking six years old. I didn't know about any such thing. I only knew about Hot Wheels, Tonka, and Big Wheels. The only thing I took from it was to grab my head and scream bloody murder at the site of raw meat. "Run boy run or he's gonna get you." I skirted cookouts and ate all meat well done for years. I don't want to even think about sushi bars and I shudder at steak tartar. If I put enough thought into it, I can probably trace all my night terrors back to meatloaf nights -- not that Mom's meatloaf wouldn't classify as horrifying on its own merits. Even as a man to this day, there is something disconcerting about a woman holding a tray of meat as I find it both scary and comforting.
Why can't I just dream fantastic dreams of football, luxury, and decadence and have the idol care-free lifestyle to match? Why must I punish myself for pleasure in a world rivaling Gomorrah ? The dream! That dream! The bus and the people. . . the people . . .
Suddenly, I'm filled with a sense of dread. The people on the bus are familiar to me. As I study the snapshot emblazoned into my mind, I now realize I know them, at least most of them. They are all people from the past and present, family and friends, lovers and exes. Could the strangers be the ones I have yet to meet? Or am I looking to hard for meaning?
I'm a freaking moron. What if the message was for me, but never about me, at least not completely. I'm so conceited and self-indulgent; I never even considered it might be about them. All those at one point or another, who have been/are/ or will be counting on me, gathered together in one place. They are depending on me to navigate us to where we need to be and I have left them waiting for so long.
Perhaps it is time I took up the wheel again and aim in a direction. Only now I know I'm not tired -- I'm scared as hell. What if they don't like the trip, I can't figure out where to go, or I get lost or worst of all, fail?
Perhaps I just needed to write it down. There were two children clustered at one of the windows. I don't recognize them perhaps they are. . . I just don't know yet. Though, I now know who the elderly man is.
