Sometimes I have unusual dreams—as we all do—and they can stick with me in a creepy, nightmarish way.
But other times, people tell me about their dreams that have me in them, and I enjoy those so much more.
Here’s one a writer friend sent me last week. There’s something comic book-y about it with a hint of Donnie Darko surrealism thrown in, but with a much better ending…
In my dream, my family and I were coming to see your new house… You had just moved in that month and the carpet was a pink pattern like a black base carpet but with bright pink flecks in it as if a woman had lived there before you and you hadn’t had time yet to replace it or paint etc. You were holding court with a group of about 8 who were on the couch and in the kitchen having some kind of political meeting. One of the 8 was your dad.
I walked in and looked beyond your “political book club” and there were your two sons at a roller rink—that had loud music blaring and disco lights, mirrored ball etc. And the wall in your house was like a black magic board where you could magic marker clever expressions and sayings, and you and the boys could leave each other funny notes etc. Apparently, it was one of your son’s birthdays and he was having a party with a bunch of teens, while you had your political book club. You had said, “This was what he had most wanted for his birthday, a rollerskating party with just friends.”
If this was a play, the locus would be “place,” since the “setting” (your house) was the central character that set up all else, conflict, other characters, etc. And I remember trying to take it all in—like catching the political vocabulary list you were going over with your club, and trying to read the many things that were written on the magnetic board. (I thought I’d remember some of them when I woke but didn’t.)
These kinds of dreams are much better than being an axe-murderer or whatever else occasionally goes wrong. And I can sort of see this all happening somehow. If I just had a bigger house.