Things are not what they pretend to be in dreams, but lately mine have been intense. Last night they were in full color and had smells. I met a ten year old boy in a little boy T-shirt with horizontal stripes who showed me a place I thought I recognized. It was the interior of a dwelling or an office, cramped, a little dark, seasoned like the dusty dead socks presence of an old adobe. (This might have been in a museum.) There were two other individuals, tall young men dressed like Mormons, looking after things, who saw us enter but ignored us. I told the boy I’d spent many years there in the past.
Moving Right Along
Acequia at the bottom of the hill
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I won’t even try to interpret that one! But I strongly believe dreams are more than just the brain reshuffling itself. As a child I was tormented by nightmares and waking dreams. As an adult, I’ve always agreed with Borges that nightmares are screams from hell.
I think dreams are absolutely vital. The inner landscape is quite real. I would have killed myself years ago without the guidance and the symbols in my dreams. I’m no expert on nightmares, but I’ve had a few—they usually involve abandonment. The dreams that stand out are redemptive in different ways. There are several I remember almost every day.
This one is easy for me to understand. It’s amazing how the meaning grows if one allows things to associate.
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