Sunday, September 10, 2006

One of those reflective moments (Dreams)

Morning all. I'm having one of those moments where I just need to write, to put things on to paper, or to at least get them out of my head. The process of putting down words is somewhat therapeutic for me. Even if no one reads them, when I am allowed to release my frustrations in a controlled environment like this, I feel much better having them out of my head and put down somewhere where I can analyze them.

I dreamed last night. Like so many other dreams of late, this one resonated something I can't quite put into words easily, though I will try anyway for the sake of my sanity. Keith, an old friend of mine from the school days was a teacher at a school of some sort. I don't know why he was there, but for some reason he was. He had an office that he shared with two other teachers. Somehow throughout the dream he got hurt, hit on the head. I remember looking for him frantically to make sure he was ok but no one else seemed concerned. I looked in his office and beside his industrial brown desk was his briefcase, an old worn black leather portfolio style like many professors carry. Seeing his portfolio lying there beside his desk was ominous. I'm not sure why, but for some reason I knew he had been hurt, attacked or something akin to that. Neither his co-workers nor my friends seemed to realize the importance of it, so I searched him out. No one seemed to care that he was hurt. For some reason, only I cared and I had to make sure he was ok. Find him. Take care of him. These were my astral perogatives. The places I searched were vague, non-memorable. I remember in the dream that I searched for hours and finally found him huddled on the floor behind that same desk, a bloody gash on his head where he had been struck by some blunt instrument. Again, the "how's" and "why's" seemed unimportant to the dream, as did the searching and the details. Only the fact that he was hurt and that I found him stood out to me as memorable. I helped him stumble to my car. I was parked outside of the building, a building I've never been inside or seen, some inner-city school or college in a town like Boston must be. I remember it was overcast and rainy, cold for that time of year. The ground was cold and the grass was fading to a soggy brown, as if it had been raining for weeks and nature had given up on this spot of ground and was in the process of decomposing and returning it to the earth.

Then I was home. It wasn't my home. Well, actually it was my home but it was a place I had never seen before. The lighting was that industrial brown-white that you see in hovel-style apartments in movies on television, that kind of light that signifies, all by itself that you are living at less than your dreams. Successful people have white light. Victims and the destitute are always shown in that sort of offworldly brown light that shouldn't even be a color on the spectrum, as if thirty years of nicotine had smothered the bulbs and given them that suburban amber cast that signifies dirt, poverty, and a life full of unrealized dreams.

I never saw the house, not all of it. I got Keith inside and laid down on the couch. I don't remember doing this, only that it was done. He was safe and cared for and he would be ok. Then I was in my closet, a large walk-in foyer style closet that I remember being off the main hallway in the apartment. No one actually has those. I notice that now. No one has a large L-shaped walkin coat closet, but that's what it was.

Scott Maktos was there from high school. I'm not sure what this signified either. I've never had a dream that included him before. Scottt was a friend of mine in school, but he was the typical funny-guy that got others in trouble along with himself. Why he would be included in this makes no sense to me. He was there with me, following me in to my closet. He wanted to borrow a shirt. I don't know why, but that was the purpose of his arrival in my closet. Neither how he got there, nor why are apparent to me, but that's the truth of it. Doc was there too, standing back in the "L" of the closet. Doc and I were discussing shirts; what shirt was appropriate depending on what kind of date Scott was going on. Polos, T's, button-down's, and others were all there, but for some reason I wanted him to wear this bright canary yellow polo I had. I don't remember if he ever wore it or not, but it seemed important that he wear that one. I think the dream actually had a resolution to this part, but it has faded in the hours since I woke.

Throughout the entire dream was another undertone. For some reason, my personal-life was ambiguous to me. I couldn't tell you if I was dating, single, married, divorced, or what. What stands out to me now is how many things were vague, while how many other things were sharply detiled. Amy Poole was there. Amy was the first girl I was ever in-love with, once I was old enough to know what truly being "in love" meant and what it signified. We dated for three months, from February 14th 1992 until May 16th, 1992. The point of that is only to explain the strange signifigance of her in particular being in my dream. I'm sure it means something, but I don't yet know what.

Sometime in the beginning of the dream, as I was looking for Keith, she appeared. I can't remember all the details, which is why I'm frantically racing the clock to put them down on here before they escape me, as dreams often do. We were in an elevator, somewhere in the school, during my search and the doors opened to some floor or other. She stepped directly out of my last memory of her into my dream, as if she had been transported there directly from my mind's impression of what she would be like today. She was older, aged about like me, so I would guess she was 30. Her hair was the same sun-golden blonde that she carried back in my younger days. I don't remember her face aging in my dream but I remember her eyes and voice were older. Her eyes carried the look of experiences in life that don't exist in the expressions of a high-school or college-aged woman.

The whole point of her appearance in the dream seemed to be bedding me. I remember talking to her as she accompanied me on my search for my injured friend. We talked of what we were doing and where our lives were. She never talked about her life but I know about it for some reason. I don't remember the actual conversation but I remember the result, if you know what I mean. Anyway, throughout this was the underlying theme of her trying to get me into her bed. Actually, it seemed to be that she wanted to get me into her bed, not get her into my bed. I don't know if there is a sub-conscious signifigance to that differentiation, but it was one that I just "knew" in my dream. Again, those of you who know I'm dating, please remember that this was a dream, not some sort of twisted male fantasy. Anyway, I know that in my dream, I was not myself. I don't know if, in this dream, I was someone that my mind "thinks" I am, or if it were some strange way of projecting what my dream-self "wanted" to be, but I know that my reactions weren't typical to me. It's like I was reading a book. In my mind, the responses I made to come-ons, the way I talked, even the way I carried myself and dressed weren't at all reflective of me in the real world. I was successful, self-assured but not cocky, and well dressed, but not in my normal-sense of well dressed. I was wearing blue jeans of a style similar to boot-cut, but not quite. I had a button down shirt on but can't remember the color, covered by a sport coat, dark blue in color of an expensive cut. My shoes were some sort of italian black loafer. Now, anyone who knows me knows quite well that few parts of this accurately portray my style. Ok, basically the blue jeans represent the only things in that list that I do own in real life. All in all, it seemed like I was watching a character from a book who was trying to portray me, but who did a better job of it than I do mysef. Now that I say it like that, it seems quite disconcerting. How could he be "me" better than I am? That's a thought for a whole new day!

Anyway, Amy and this pseudo-me were dancing around each other in some high-level sexual banter that seemed to insinuate without ever outright stating the obvious. And then, to make this whole scenario that much worse, I woke up at some point in the elevator conversation to reality, sans any conclusion. So, now in addition to being strangely wierded-out, I'm left hanging on all the important aspects of the dream. Why was Scott there? Scott represented the kid in school who was super-smart but who would rather play jokes and skip class than apply himself. A born clepto-maniac, he was the high school's local supply for everything from cigarettes to pot, pills, etc. We were friends through the band, but not the kind to hand out at each other's house all weekend and party together. So what in the hell was he doing there?

And Keith? Why Keith? He was one of my greatest friends growing up but we've grown apart over the years. It seems I can't keep in touch with anyone who doesn't have an internet connection jacked into their lives. Keith is the perfect example of modern middle-america. He works a job, day to day, and will continue to do so until either a retirement plan, pension, or social security kick in and keep him going through his older years. God, he was 35 when I was 16, so he must be going on 50 right now.

And finally, Amy. Any of the three of these would be interesting enough, but three people I haven't thought of in ten years, all coming together in my sub-conscious in the same night? Not once did I ever spend time with any two of those three at the same time. They were all completely different parts of my younger life and had absolutely nothing in common with each other.

The other thing that surprises me is the propensity for strange detail. I'm not an overly gifted orator, nor a writer, so my ability to explain the visual and auditory parts of the dream aren't worthy of an attempt in this forum. Suffice it to say that I can't remember what Amy and I talked about, yet I can distinctly remember the scent of Victoria Secret's "Warm Vanilla Sugar" scent mixed with overtones of crispness due to the extreme cold where we were. I remember how sharp the scents were and yet how diffuse the sunlight was in those brief outdoor moments. Not to mention that particular scent didn't exist when I new Amy in my younger days and it's only truly smelled wonderful on one woman I've ever known. So, now maybe you're all as confused as I am. Then again, maybe you're not really here due to the exceeding boredom that overtook you about paragraph two. Anyway, I didin't write this one for you. This one was just to get the ideas out of my head. However, they have sparked a lot of thoughts about the rest of my life that I'll discuss in my next post.

Till then. Adieu.

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