Dreams

Without the dampening effect of the drugs the dreams fly to me frequently in the night, expressed in vivid shades and symbols, a ruby flash thought to be a hummingbird swooping and landing on my outstretched hand, suddenly revealed as a butterfly, its dry jointed legs wrapping tightly around my forefinger, powdered wings pulsing like a heart folded and cut from iridescent paper, my heart. Is this a thing of beauty or a deadly enemy? Alarmed by its grasp I reach to remove the insect, at first unwilling to destroy its beauty but then tearing at its thorax with increasing urgency as I sense its numbing jaws probing for a vein, a soulless blue faceted eye staring at me sightlessly. The wings come apart in my fingers with a blast of fibrous color.

Or another recent restless night, everyone else was dealing with other important things--all that was required of me was to keep control of a certain small transparent spirit, an imp, I called it, but I'm not sure if that was then, or later, after I woke. It was clear that it needed to be restrained--there would be problems with the world if were loose and it was clear also that this imp wanted its freedom. In a moment I had compressed my hands around its body, sealing it in crossed palms, locking my left thumb with my right, forming the airtight pocket and holding it closed with all the strength of my opposed wrists. Only now I literally have my hands full, and they are full of tumult as the imp tries incessantly to escape, its efforts innocent but implacable. Held high in front of my face I can see my hands shaking from the creature kicking within them, and a second later its slim shoulders press past the seal of my fists. "Ha, Ha," the imp trills, "you can't hold me, I'm free, I win." But no, I say, and pulling my hands open flat to my face I pop it inside and swallow.

Symbols. Yeah, they're obvious, but they're my symbols--they knock me out. Sometimes it's about construction, usually an unfinished remodel of the massive interior of a barn or warehouse. It's the bare framing for a maze, no wallboard, at any moment I can slide through the spacing of the studs into a different room or hallway. Often in my role as carpenter I'm crouched on the top plates, navigating the walls, strengthening the corners with steel strapping. Last week I was building a header for one of the doorways. I think I still know how to do this, a plywood spacer between two 2 x 4s on edge.

Maybe I'll get more analytical in a little while. Right now I'm just revelling in the memory of these things. Like here's a good one that I just re-discovered by doing a desktop search for "deja vu" within the files of my computer (how apropos):

Deja vu in dreams--being in a place where you know you have been in a previous dream. In this latest dream we are driving somewhat tensely from our house to the movie theatre around the triangle block formed by Mr. Green's abandoned gas station, the "Complete Mobile Rejuvenation." Today this is the location of Vickie's community garden, the Complete Rejuvenating Community Garden. There are aspects of cars exiting from the freeway, busy-ness, traffic signs that must be paid attention to. In the earlier dream, at the same location, a mass demonstration/riot/parade of black clad protestors from a nearby neighborhood pass by us toward the old Oakland train station, going down a street that is like a combination of Peralta and Adeline. Feel left out of the scene--they are young, pierced, tattooed, with their own concerns. But hook up with a young and enthusiastic woman who is willing to give at least a little attention. Some drug-taking or semi-outre behavior in a cave, national monument or room of the old Oakland train station.

Or another example, two dreams that involved a trek up Mt. Everest, a surprisingly simple journey along a curving snow bridge, remembering with apprehension that previous much more difficult expedition up Mt. Ross/Everest, but finally everything had worked out and here I was again.

Descending from the summit I got a piece of icepack two feet long and was eating it as we came down the escalator or what had to be an IMAX theatre. Someone said, forty people have died eating ice like that.

Tia drops off her plants to be looked after--surprise, she also has brought her dog, a small Shelty which she can no longer take care of. "Please take him. He's very smart--watch this," she says, rolling a pencil to the dog. The dog looks beleaguered and takes the pencil in its mouth, holds a small piece of paper like a grocery receipt beneath its paw and prints neatly:

Name: Jackson
Zipcode: 94806 (which was wrong, by the way)