I enjoy the phenomenon of dreaming. I know there are those who study this area and interpret meanings, and make claims about all sorts of issues connected with dreams. Freud and Jung made a big deal out of them. Gamblers, the kind who play the Numbers or the lottery, buy dream books, which are supposed to predict wins if you dream about certain things. In our family, we like to talk about them.
When all of my children were living at home, we tended to have similar dreams at the same time. Maybe it was from moon phases, or season changes. I particularly remember once when we all had dreams about soft, swishy things, like cushions, rubber toys, and fat pink snakes, when we all happened to have fevers. God knows what Jung would have made of that one.
I have dream versions of familiar places. In my dreams, everything is bigger than life. The buildings at my dream Kent State are the ones I knew as a student, only on a gigantic scale, with ceilings so high you can barely see them. I am usually looking for a bathroom in one of those vast halls and when I find one, it's usually a lone toilet in the middle of a public space. That has absolutely no relationship to an
ything I ever experienced there. In fact there was one women's rest room in Kent Hall that had great acoustics, and was a great place to harmonize in. Of course, campus dreams bring up the one where I go to take a final exam and discover I never attended class. That happened again last night, which is probably why I am writing about dreaming.
I also dreamed this dog ( see illustration); in fact there were two of them on leashes held by an old man. They were very small and had human-ish eyes. I asked the old man what kind they were, bur I don't remember the answer. They were very stylized, looking as if they were made of china, bur weren't. I happened at the time to be looking for two other dogs, one large and one very, very small, both of which were made of pencil sketches. Really.
My dreams are usually fragmented, but there are some people, like my friend Nancy, whose dreams have comprehensive, if surrealistic, plots. Maybe that's a sign of a sound sleeper, or a more organized psyche. The brain is a complex and wondrous thing, and dreams must lurk in all those folds and creases, triggered by who knows what. As Scrooge suggested, perhaps a bit of undigested meat, or a
dab of mustard.
Anyway, I don't interpret; I just enjoy the weirdness of it all.