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Entry tags:
Dept. of Dreams
I Try to Save the World in My Sleep
I don't dream nearly as much as I used to, or at least I don't remember the dreams I probably have. I think most people have that experience, especially as they grow older. But there are dreams I remember, and they are almost always of a type.
In all of them, I'm trying to save someone, or many someones. I'm always so very slow, my limbs sticky with dream physics, but I keep trying, even though sometimes I know that what I can do isn't nearly enough.
The earliest dream I had was when I was, I think, just approaching tweenhood. It was slightly different, involving a man in a silver sort-of-spacesuit coming up the front walk to our verandah, and telling me that I'd been chosen to join a team that was going to defeat a particularly odd villain; a disembodied brain housed inside a grandfather clock, itself placed on a train running constantly through the underground. I still remember the look of the underground station. I can't recall the end of the dream, but I think we saved the day.
Many years later, I dreamed I was standing on the deck of an aircraft carrier, where dozens of children, orphans, were standing. I had to get them as far away from the landing area as possible, because a plan was going to crash onto the deck. I only had a short amount of time in which to do it. I recall how panic stricken I was, and how I hid that as well as I could so that the children would listen to me, and so that the adults around me would help me get them as far away from the danger zone as possible. I don't remember how that dream ended.
Last night, I dreamed I was on the front lawn of Acadia University's University Hall in my hometown of Wolfville, N.S. Canada, where numerous people were seated. I had two nuclear bombs - which looked like nothing so much as two World War I shells, an image dug from my memories of an empty shell casing kept in a bookcase in my childhood home - and which I had to somehow get as far away from all of us as possible. I knew I couldn't get them nearly as far from us as necessary, but I used some type of rocket launcher to send them through the air in what I think were two different directions. I remember hoping that they would land at least five miles away, but fearing they wouldn't make it that far. Then I spent the rest of the dream telling people to move away from the walls of every building around us "so you won't have them fall on you when the shock wave hits," and telling them to lie flat with their faces covered. I think I was frustrated that so few people were listening to me.
I awoke before the bombs went off, but I can hope some of us survived.
I've spent the day occasionally wondering why the only dreams I seem to remember these days are those in which I'm trying, not very successfully, to save peoples' lives.
I don't dream nearly as much as I used to, or at least I don't remember the dreams I probably have. I think most people have that experience, especially as they grow older. But there are dreams I remember, and they are almost always of a type.
In all of them, I'm trying to save someone, or many someones. I'm always so very slow, my limbs sticky with dream physics, but I keep trying, even though sometimes I know that what I can do isn't nearly enough.
The earliest dream I had was when I was, I think, just approaching tweenhood. It was slightly different, involving a man in a silver sort-of-spacesuit coming up the front walk to our verandah, and telling me that I'd been chosen to join a team that was going to defeat a particularly odd villain; a disembodied brain housed inside a grandfather clock, itself placed on a train running constantly through the underground. I still remember the look of the underground station. I can't recall the end of the dream, but I think we saved the day.
Many years later, I dreamed I was standing on the deck of an aircraft carrier, where dozens of children, orphans, were standing. I had to get them as far away from the landing area as possible, because a plan was going to crash onto the deck. I only had a short amount of time in which to do it. I recall how panic stricken I was, and how I hid that as well as I could so that the children would listen to me, and so that the adults around me would help me get them as far away from the danger zone as possible. I don't remember how that dream ended.
Last night, I dreamed I was on the front lawn of Acadia University's University Hall in my hometown of Wolfville, N.S. Canada, where numerous people were seated. I had two nuclear bombs - which looked like nothing so much as two World War I shells, an image dug from my memories of an empty shell casing kept in a bookcase in my childhood home - and which I had to somehow get as far away from all of us as possible. I knew I couldn't get them nearly as far from us as necessary, but I used some type of rocket launcher to send them through the air in what I think were two different directions. I remember hoping that they would land at least five miles away, but fearing they wouldn't make it that far. Then I spent the rest of the dream telling people to move away from the walls of every building around us "so you won't have them fall on you when the shock wave hits," and telling them to lie flat with their faces covered. I think I was frustrated that so few people were listening to me.
I awoke before the bombs went off, but I can hope some of us survived.
I've spent the day occasionally wondering why the only dreams I seem to remember these days are those in which I'm trying, not very successfully, to save peoples' lives.