"Thanks for meeting with me again. I know it's short notice."
"You are welcome, and do not worry about the timing. It is a fact of my studies that dreams often demand immediate recital to ensure accuracy and meaningful interpretation."
"Well, however you say, I didn't want to forget the details before we spoke."
"Indeed. Tell me, what about your dream compels you to share it now?"
"I wasn't me again. I mean, I was in someone else's body in my dream, and I shouldn't have been there. Like last time, my situation was all foreign, and wrong, and I yet I wasn't afraid like you'd expect in a nightmare."
"What happened that you feel you should have been afraid?"
"Well, my first memory is of a bunch of soldiers or cops shooting at me! Although, I wasn't really a hapless victim. We had a gunfight. I started out running through woods on the edge of suburbia firing a handgun back at the badges chasing me. I got the impression my sandy-time persona was a wrongfully accused fugitive. I'd go so far as to say I was a hero, and the guys after me had been conned by a clever frame job. Problem was, we got to this hill just inside the tree line, and I turned to fire a rocket launcher down into a knot of my pursuers!"
"What about that action makes you call it a 'problem'?"
"It wasn't very heroic, self-defense or not! Plus, I didn't get a feeling of guilt for killing cops (maybe they were soldiers), just satisfaction that I could get away easier with them dead. The emotions seemed wrong for me, like my consciousness was attached to another person. Anyway, my out-of-body ride passed out of the trees and emerged into some rich guy's country club home -- you know, great view of the golf course, Greek-style white columns, and a drive-through portico to keep you protected from the weather while getting out of your car. I found the rich guy himself under the covered driveway, popping the tires on a Rolls-Royce and setting fire to an antique convertible of some sort.
"My dream carrier lost our temper. I got swept up in it, and it felt like my temper, but it definitely came from him. I was furious that he had ruined my getaway. I told him so. It was the only thing I remember saying in the last five or six dreams: 'Do you hate me so much that you would ruin your own property to foil me?' I said it very formally, like a dire accusation."
"Was the act of speaking more significant to you than what you said?"
"I think it was a sign of how caught up I was. Do you follow how much back-story I was wading through? They all knew me and wanted to stop me, to the point that I expected the rich guy to deliberately sabotage me. And enough had passed between me and them that I was outraged! It only got worse, too, when the rich guy snarled, 'Yes, I hate you!' and spat at me. I ran on feeling alone and cornered in a mad world.
"Then, confirming my fears, four strong, male nurses tackled me on the 16th green, overwhelming me despite the karate moves I randomly displayed to fight them. This doctor closed in with a syringe, ordering them to hold me still. Right then I could've been a dead ringer for Arnold in Total Recall, or Leo in Shutter Island. I wanted to bellow at them to stop, that I had done nothing wrong, that I didn't even know who I was or why I was there. But before I could, the doctor stuck me and I woke up."
"Hmm, so backing up a little, the abundance of detail in your dream -- 'back-story,' you said -- has caused you to conclude that you were in someone else's body?"
"Yes, whoever I was riding along with, he was too connected with everything to be an ivory figment. And that doc decided me."
"Do you assume the doctor was a psychiatrist, perhaps, and the nurses asylum staff?"
"Oh, I don't know, I suppose that was the impression. But the important thing is that he knew I was there! As the nurses restrained my dream form, he told them, 'Gently, don't hurt him, he's not in control.' It was like they blamed me for the man's violent actions and crimes. And when the doctor injected me, I woke up. He'd driven me out. The sand had sucked me into that man, and the drugs had shoved me back out.
"I tell you, my dreams are not my own!"
"You are welcome, and do not worry about the timing. It is a fact of my studies that dreams often demand immediate recital to ensure accuracy and meaningful interpretation."
"Well, however you say, I didn't want to forget the details before we spoke."
"Indeed. Tell me, what about your dream compels you to share it now?"
"I wasn't me again. I mean, I was in someone else's body in my dream, and I shouldn't have been there. Like last time, my situation was all foreign, and wrong, and I yet I wasn't afraid like you'd expect in a nightmare."
"What happened that you feel you should have been afraid?"
"Well, my first memory is of a bunch of soldiers or cops shooting at me! Although, I wasn't really a hapless victim. We had a gunfight. I started out running through woods on the edge of suburbia firing a handgun back at the badges chasing me. I got the impression my sandy-time persona was a wrongfully accused fugitive. I'd go so far as to say I was a hero, and the guys after me had been conned by a clever frame job. Problem was, we got to this hill just inside the tree line, and I turned to fire a rocket launcher down into a knot of my pursuers!"
"What about that action makes you call it a 'problem'?"
"It wasn't very heroic, self-defense or not! Plus, I didn't get a feeling of guilt for killing cops (maybe they were soldiers), just satisfaction that I could get away easier with them dead. The emotions seemed wrong for me, like my consciousness was attached to another person. Anyway, my out-of-body ride passed out of the trees and emerged into some rich guy's country club home -- you know, great view of the golf course, Greek-style white columns, and a drive-through portico to keep you protected from the weather while getting out of your car. I found the rich guy himself under the covered driveway, popping the tires on a Rolls-Royce and setting fire to an antique convertible of some sort.
"My dream carrier lost our temper. I got swept up in it, and it felt like my temper, but it definitely came from him. I was furious that he had ruined my getaway. I told him so. It was the only thing I remember saying in the last five or six dreams: 'Do you hate me so much that you would ruin your own property to foil me?' I said it very formally, like a dire accusation."
"Was the act of speaking more significant to you than what you said?"
"I think it was a sign of how caught up I was. Do you follow how much back-story I was wading through? They all knew me and wanted to stop me, to the point that I expected the rich guy to deliberately sabotage me. And enough had passed between me and them that I was outraged! It only got worse, too, when the rich guy snarled, 'Yes, I hate you!' and spat at me. I ran on feeling alone and cornered in a mad world.
"Then, confirming my fears, four strong, male nurses tackled me on the 16th green, overwhelming me despite the karate moves I randomly displayed to fight them. This doctor closed in with a syringe, ordering them to hold me still. Right then I could've been a dead ringer for Arnold in Total Recall, or Leo in Shutter Island. I wanted to bellow at them to stop, that I had done nothing wrong, that I didn't even know who I was or why I was there. But before I could, the doctor stuck me and I woke up."
"Hmm, so backing up a little, the abundance of detail in your dream -- 'back-story,' you said -- has caused you to conclude that you were in someone else's body?"
"Yes, whoever I was riding along with, he was too connected with everything to be an ivory figment. And that doc decided me."
"Do you assume the doctor was a psychiatrist, perhaps, and the nurses asylum staff?"
"Oh, I don't know, I suppose that was the impression. But the important thing is that he knew I was there! As the nurses restrained my dream form, he told them, 'Gently, don't hurt him, he's not in control.' It was like they blamed me for the man's violent actions and crimes. And when the doctor injected me, I woke up. He'd driven me out. The sand had sucked me into that man, and the drugs had shoved me back out.
"I tell you, my dreams are not my own!"
0 comments:
Post a Comment