A place where people are completely bonkers
I've talked about and narrated dreams elsewhere in this blog. If I don't do so more often, it's simply because I rarely remember them. Experience has taught me that if I cared to remember more, I would have to pay 150 bucks a month for biweekly appointments with a floor-lamp, and I don't have that kind of money. So it's only ever going to be the one or two per year I actually remember, owing to fortuitous circumstances like waking up at the end of it and then staying awake long enough to retell it to myself a couple of times, to fix it in my mind. But I certainly wish I could remember more. Dreams are interesting.
As I always say, though, it's not what happened in the dream, it's how you felt about what happened. That's generally the most interesting aspect.
In this case, as usual, the beginning of the dream is lost to me. At the point I begin to remember, I am alone, walking along a road in Durán, near where I used to live, though later it turns out the road is actually close to where I now work. I have time to kill, and want to "explore". I seem to have forgotten my age, with the result that the verb "explore" can have, as it once did, vague connotations of lust, though its full meaning goes well beyond that.
Shortly, I find myself faced with a fork in the road. Common sense dictates taking the right fork: I take the left, and find myself in a sort of transfiguration of the muddy off-road turning that led to my old house in Durán. This place is different, though. There are a few delightfully tumbledown houses dotted around a small central patch of ground with a big tree in the centre, dappling the ground with filtered light. Beyond, the road continues into a ravine. I admire the tumbledown houses for a moment, wondering who lives in them, before continuing into the ravine.
At this point I hear an amplified voice that appears to be that of a young guitarist. It says something like "Yeah, this sounds pretty good, doesn't it?" A few notes on an electric guitar follow. I look around for the speakers that are broadcasting this voice into the ravine, but fail to see them. Continuing my journey, I find that the path peters out into rock face. If I wanted to continue, I would have to climb the rocks with the aid of overhanging branches. Instead, I turn around and head back to the tumbledown houses. There seems to be no reason to do otherwise, and time is limited.
Once I am next to the big tree, I feel the urge to stop in my tracks and take in the beauty (as I see it) of the muddy, ramshackle place, despite my apprehensions of what people living there must think of a stranger just standing there. At that moment two things happen: two rustic-looking old people appear, and I spot something flying around in the air above me. The thing in question, that soars and ducks and weaves in the air close above me, at one point looks like a flying lizard; then it looks like a leafy twig; then it looks like a lizard again, or an iguana, with wings that seem to be made of leaves. I think to myself "hey, I seem to have discovered a new species of reptile!" I try to get a better view of it, and suddenly it appears to be an old woman tangled up in twigs, buffeted around by the wind - a development that I find not so much surprising as encouraging. I find myself wishing that flying was as easy for me as it is for her.
However, I feel a bit selfconscious owing to the presence of the rustic-looking old people, so reluctantly I start walking again, back the way I came, towards the main road.
At this point two more people appear, walking in the same direction as me. They are speaking English. Since we are not in England, they will assume I cannot understand their conversation, which provides me with an incentive to eavesdrop.
"Can you lend me one?" one says. "Mine is broken."
"I've only got a Symphonic," the other replies. "Is that any good?"
"I've got to go to Berlin," the first one says.
"They're talking about harmonicas," I muse. "They are musicians. They are Bohemian types who are canny enough to know that a tumbledown house in a place like this is the perfect spot to be creative in, in between Berlin gigs." At this point I bump into one of the two speakers. "Sorry," I say indistinctly, and hurry onward. It only occurs to me later, after I have woken up, that this "sorry", in English, gave the game away somewhat. In any case, the two English speakers hardly register my presence.
Just as I am passing the last tumbledown house, I notice that there is a man wandering around dressed as a knight, with a cardboard helmet. Various other people appear, skulking and wearing ridiculous clothes. At this point, I remember I have to be back at work at 5pm - I have a class at that time. Fortunately I have plenty of time to get back to work - it's only just past four. I am pleased with myself for having discovered a place I can visit any day, between classes. How would I describe this place to people I work with, people I am not on particularly close terms with, but whom I would like to impress with my discovery?
"It's a place where people are completely bonkers," occurs to me.
This description seems so satisfactory, I immediately wake up.
Unlike other dreams, interpreting this one doesn't seem particularly difficult, given my particular set of lifelong preoccupations and failures. I'm uncertain whether the ravine is to be interpreted as a vagina or not, as Freud would want it to be, but if so it's almost too neat. As for whether "a place where people are completely bonkers" could be read as a description of Twitter, well, it's tempting, but on the whole I'd say no, that's not my mental map. Twitter is out there, beyond the main road, a place where people are completely predictable in the most depressing way possible. The off-road, backwater place where people are completely bonkers, and where, in consequence, I would at last fit in, though not completely since I don't fit in anywhere, has yet to be discovered in real life. Here's to another day, week, month, year, lifetime of searching.
As I always say, though, it's not what happened in the dream, it's how you felt about what happened. That's generally the most interesting aspect.
In this case, as usual, the beginning of the dream is lost to me. At the point I begin to remember, I am alone, walking along a road in Durán, near where I used to live, though later it turns out the road is actually close to where I now work. I have time to kill, and want to "explore". I seem to have forgotten my age, with the result that the verb "explore" can have, as it once did, vague connotations of lust, though its full meaning goes well beyond that.
Shortly, I find myself faced with a fork in the road. Common sense dictates taking the right fork: I take the left, and find myself in a sort of transfiguration of the muddy off-road turning that led to my old house in Durán. This place is different, though. There are a few delightfully tumbledown houses dotted around a small central patch of ground with a big tree in the centre, dappling the ground with filtered light. Beyond, the road continues into a ravine. I admire the tumbledown houses for a moment, wondering who lives in them, before continuing into the ravine.
At this point I hear an amplified voice that appears to be that of a young guitarist. It says something like "Yeah, this sounds pretty good, doesn't it?" A few notes on an electric guitar follow. I look around for the speakers that are broadcasting this voice into the ravine, but fail to see them. Continuing my journey, I find that the path peters out into rock face. If I wanted to continue, I would have to climb the rocks with the aid of overhanging branches. Instead, I turn around and head back to the tumbledown houses. There seems to be no reason to do otherwise, and time is limited.
Once I am next to the big tree, I feel the urge to stop in my tracks and take in the beauty (as I see it) of the muddy, ramshackle place, despite my apprehensions of what people living there must think of a stranger just standing there. At that moment two things happen: two rustic-looking old people appear, and I spot something flying around in the air above me. The thing in question, that soars and ducks and weaves in the air close above me, at one point looks like a flying lizard; then it looks like a leafy twig; then it looks like a lizard again, or an iguana, with wings that seem to be made of leaves. I think to myself "hey, I seem to have discovered a new species of reptile!" I try to get a better view of it, and suddenly it appears to be an old woman tangled up in twigs, buffeted around by the wind - a development that I find not so much surprising as encouraging. I find myself wishing that flying was as easy for me as it is for her.
However, I feel a bit selfconscious owing to the presence of the rustic-looking old people, so reluctantly I start walking again, back the way I came, towards the main road.
At this point two more people appear, walking in the same direction as me. They are speaking English. Since we are not in England, they will assume I cannot understand their conversation, which provides me with an incentive to eavesdrop.
"Can you lend me one?" one says. "Mine is broken."
"I've only got a Symphonic," the other replies. "Is that any good?"
"I've got to go to Berlin," the first one says.
"They're talking about harmonicas," I muse. "They are musicians. They are Bohemian types who are canny enough to know that a tumbledown house in a place like this is the perfect spot to be creative in, in between Berlin gigs." At this point I bump into one of the two speakers. "Sorry," I say indistinctly, and hurry onward. It only occurs to me later, after I have woken up, that this "sorry", in English, gave the game away somewhat. In any case, the two English speakers hardly register my presence.
Just as I am passing the last tumbledown house, I notice that there is a man wandering around dressed as a knight, with a cardboard helmet. Various other people appear, skulking and wearing ridiculous clothes. At this point, I remember I have to be back at work at 5pm - I have a class at that time. Fortunately I have plenty of time to get back to work - it's only just past four. I am pleased with myself for having discovered a place I can visit any day, between classes. How would I describe this place to people I work with, people I am not on particularly close terms with, but whom I would like to impress with my discovery?
"It's a place where people are completely bonkers," occurs to me.
This description seems so satisfactory, I immediately wake up.
Unlike other dreams, interpreting this one doesn't seem particularly difficult, given my particular set of lifelong preoccupations and failures. I'm uncertain whether the ravine is to be interpreted as a vagina or not, as Freud would want it to be, but if so it's almost too neat. As for whether "a place where people are completely bonkers" could be read as a description of Twitter, well, it's tempting, but on the whole I'd say no, that's not my mental map. Twitter is out there, beyond the main road, a place where people are completely predictable in the most depressing way possible. The off-road, backwater place where people are completely bonkers, and where, in consequence, I would at last fit in, though not completely since I don't fit in anywhere, has yet to be discovered in real life. Here's to another day, week, month, year, lifetime of searching.
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