I thought I’d get off politics today…so here in what you might think is a ‘relief’ from my usual ranting is another subject, which too many will seem completely absurd and therefore a perfect reason to write about it.
And the subject is--dreams.
Here’s a little known fact; The Turkish siege of Constantinople took 54 days. The city surrendered in May 29, 1453. The only reason I mention it, is because of the number. Forget the topic…I just felt like tying the title to this and it’s all I could think of.
Here’s another little known fact: When you take melatonin as a sleeping aid, you are taking chances with your dream life. This could be good or bad, depending on whether you can actually put up with your own creativity. Like a blind date, you never know what kind of dream you are going to get---Saw 18----Debbie Does You AND Dallas---or some kind of ‘Abbey Hoffman plays basketball in his underwear’, trip.
I take melatonin a lot because I’m a night person trying to become a day person. (Don’t ask.)
More than often, I get nightmares. Psychologically beating myself up in my dreams is a favorite pastime and I can get very creative with it. In many dreams, I am back in my musician days, setting up my equipment---the big crowd is waiting---all eyes are on me---and a fuse blows inside my mixer, and I can’t fix it. And it gets worse after that. I become a female Ben Stiller intensified one-hundred fold.
Actually I’ve always carried an extra fuse…just not in my dreams.
In my fun dreams, I design vast mansions and decorate hundreds of rooms in my head, with the gaudiest furniture you’ve never seen. I’m sure if I could “realize” my dreams into reality I could make the coolest hotels and houses in the world, none of them practical. But I do so love to go on a Bill Gates Cable Channel redecorating orgy while I’m sleeping.
This makes me think…no wonder rich guys get mad at their redecorating wives. I mean, how many times has the White House been redecorated?
Nesting is genetic for the female. You must know that.
And then there are the dreams that are…just strange. Like some mental omelet that was cooked up in some kind of acid fat---that’s the one I’m going to tell you about now. Why?
Well, they say in dreams you are trying to tell yourself something, and all you have to do is listen. (I never do) What they don’t tell you, is that maybe you don’t WANT to know what you are trying to tell yourself, damn it. Why can’t I just leave myself alone!
And besides, I want to state unequivocally here that when you men tell your spouses that you do not dream…women know better. We ignore you.
So here is my last dream; Dr. Helen, or anyone else for that matter--have at it.
It’s Christmastime, and I’m looking at a regular middle-class brown house. It’s surrounded by lots of trees; it has about 3 bedrooms, and a screened-in side porch.
There’s about 5 inches of snow on the ground.
Inside the house, there is a mourning…my father has died. (Never mind he died about twenty years ago) and there is a feeling of sorrow for everyone.
Despite this---there seems to be a big party going on--lots of drinking and laughter, a very merry Polish wake. Ever been to a Polish funeral? Texas-hold em’ can go on for days.
Anyway, all of a sudden I’m walking around in the back yard with….BILL MURRY! (Yes, the Saturday Night Live one.)
Are we going to have wild crazy sex? NO, darn it! (I told you I was creative at berating myself.) We are just talking and looking at the next door neighbor’s evergreen tree in their back yard, which is draped in some pretty lame, little white Christmas lights--- lights just thrown up as an afterthought.
The tree itself looks like it has been poisoned, the pine needles are sagging---it’s dying.
We both remark sadly about the state of the tree, and I say to him: “You know, Bill, I used to be quite a tree hugger when I was young.” (Leave me alone here.)
Okay…when I was nineteen I went through such a major depression that I would go out into the woods, cry, and run from tree to tree, hugging and hanging on for dear life.
Good thing Al Gore did not see me.
So I said, “Hey---you want me to teach you how to hug a tree?” And Bill said, “Okay.” (Bill Murry will do anything.)
I put my arms around the truck of the tree…Bill was on the opposite side and he put his arms around the other side…our arms encircling the tree.
“Okay, now Bill---hug it really, really hard.” I gave the tree a big squeeze, so did Bill.
So…as we hugged, suddenly from the sky came a huge and beautiful rainbow. (Remember, it was nighttime,) A rainbow that’s end went right into the tree itself. The tree slowly lit up with a beautiful luminous and florescent, soft green light. A misty glow of magical smoke surrounded the tree, and us.
Well, I can’t tell you how much Bill Murry was freaking out at this phenomenon. A rainbow in the dark----a rainbow that you could actually see against the black starry night sky---who’s one end seem to come down from the heaven and explode in a warm spiritual light, bathing with love the poor little tree that we were hugging.
He just couldn’t believe it!
I was not surprised at all. I had seen these “signs” before. And that’s what I thought it was…a sign…from God. Miracles do happen.
As I walked back to the house, I looked back at Bill Murry who was still at the tree. People were coming out from the party, surrounding him and asking him about this strange miracle. How in the world did it happen they all asked in astonishment?
As I walked away I could hear Bill exaggerating; “Well, there was this woman, and she and I were... doing it. You know right here…”
Walking back to the house I thought he was pretty funny…men. Some of them never leave high school.
Of course, strange dreams usually scene jump, that’s what makes them so weird.
Bill and I are then walking down a snowy road, going away from the house. A big red pickup truck comes sliding by---stops---and in the car is Clint Eastwood. Well, more like a vampire version. He had fangs. Clint said in his very scary, husky voice, “Do ya wanna go for a ride?”
“No thanks.” I thought.
But then I noticed Charlie Sheen in the backseat. (I know, trucks don’t have backseats)
Bill Murry said, “YES!” and then started floating up in the air from the joy of having been touched by a rainbow. Bill was having a wizard moment right out of Harry Potter.
Charles, Clint, and I are looking out the front window of the truck and wondering, as we watch Bill Murry literally wrapping himself up in the air with some kind of silly putty string and having the grandest time, if he was going to electrocute himself, because he was floating near a telephone pole.
Then, just a quick as a popcorn pop, he was in the car, with a silly grin, and we were off to Clint’s house.
When we got to Clint’s house, he immediately passed up his driveway and drove his spiffy red truck right into his swimming pool…something he evidently did all the time just for fun, because he had a special truck that could go on land or sea. (I watch too many inventors’ shows on TV.)
Knowing I was freaking out about maybe drowning, all the boys were getting a big kick out of scaring me. All three were laughing up a storm.
Then Clint drives out of his pool, smashes into his backyard fence to stop. He doesn’t care…he’s rich.
And we all end up in some kind of sunken living room
And here’s comes my “Listen to me carefully, Joyanna.” lesson. Bill is telling his buddies Clint and Martin about the rainbow he saw, AFTER he hugged the tree. It was a sign he said. He never believed in signs before. But he was there…it actually happened!
I could tell, these two guys, drunken Clint and no-brain Charlie, would never in a million years, no matter how much the miracle was explained to them to them, would even get it.
There was no God.
So there I was. What should I do? Try to go into some esoteric philosophical questions about God, life, and rainbow signs?
I thought about asking them, “Okay, who’s slept with the most women here?”
And then I woke up.
So, what, dear readers, was I trying to tell myself?
That miracles do happen, signs from God or spirits are sent to us…but only some of us are open to them?
That even forlorn Christmas trees can regenerate?
That I don’t trust Clint Eastwood---Charlie Sheen is a non-entity---and I’d loved to hang around with Bill Murry?
I don’t want to think about it, it’s an absurdity siege.
I think I’d rather feel good about the fact that I was not in Constantinople when the Turks took siege. Leave me my Melatonin---and give me a glass of red wine.
A good night’s sleep is a miracle in itself.