All I Have to Do Is Dream…Or Not
I had a terrible dream last night. It involved me and my wife living with my widower father, in upstate NY for that matter, because the bank through which we have our mortgage demanded immediate payment of the principle. If we didn’t pay, they would foreclose. It was a genuine nightmare. But it didn’t make sense.
Why would the bank demand the full principle when I have never been late with a single payment? Why would I leave sunny Central Florida and move to gloomy Western New York while my house is under threat of foreclosure? How could I have lived 58 years and never known that Nikki Haley is brown? I am both stunned and ashamed of my brain’s inability to come up with more logical dream sequences.
What Is With the Dream Machine?
I guess that’s just the way it goes. That part of the brain responsible for dreaming — we’ll call it the ‘dream machine’ — does its own thing. One minute you’re dreaming of a beautiful sunset on Maui and the next you are running from a wild boar looking to spear you, stick a pineapple in your mouth, and serve you to all his boar friends at the next lūʻau.
You might assume it was something you ate, but do you really know? Maybe there are some deeply seated fears of pigs and grass skirts buried in your psyche. Maybe the wild boar represents the relationship you always wanted with your mother but were never lucky enough to have.
All I know is that I have had some strange dreams in my lifetime. Last night’s gem of running back to dear old dad because some tightwad baking exec was jonesing for a promotion is pretty tame by comparison. I once dreamed, and I swear this is true, that I was stuck on a transatlantic flight with hundreds of people who passed the time by singing “The Song That Never Ends” by the talented and slightly eccentric Bernard Rothman.
But here’s the best part: we were being led in this eternal ditty from children’s television hell by none other than the dynamic duo of Barney the purple dinosaur and a flight attendant dressed as a sheep! Figure that one out, Dr. Freud. If you suspect my dream machine has been cobbled together using aftermarket parts from Cuba and several South American countries, I would be inclined to agree with you.
Why Can’t They Make Sense Already?
Most dreams make no sense at all. But why? Is it because of some unknown conspiracy between Mr. Sandman and the Illuminati? By the way, ‘Mr. Sandman and the Illuminati’ sounds like the name of a 50s cover band made up of amateur musicians currently enrolled at Yale. That notwithstanding, I still want to know why dreams just can’t make sense already.
For once I would like to dream something as logical as not allowing illegal aliens to vote BECAUSE THEY ARE HERE ILLEGALLY!
I would love to doze off and dream about the U.S. Postal Service actually reading the ‘return to sender’ message I wrote on that piece of rogue mail and responding accordingly.
Just once, I would like to dream about a vacation I can actually afford, instead of seeing myself at a swanky Seychelles resort with all-inclusive packages so pricey that the combined wealth of every Icelander still wouldn’t be enough to pay the bill.
Instead, I dream of things so illogical that I am forced to slap myself the morning after. That’s how I roll. But I guess it’s not all bad. Relating my slumbering irrationalities to my wife makes her laugh. At least she starts the day out on a positive note.
