Dreams

"I am accustomed to sleep and in my dreams to imagine the same things that lunatics imagine when awake." -- Descartes

I have always had vivid dreams, and most of the time, they stay with me long past waking. I don't know why this is. I have one friend who almost never remembers any of her dreams. Maybe it has something to do with how deeply one sleeps. She always slept like a rock, and nothing, not even people pounding on the outside walls of our apartment (another story, dear reader, another story) would wake her. I, on the other hand, sleep fairly lightly, especially if I'm in a place I don't know well. Maybe that's why the dreams stay with me.

My dreams have always been odd. That's no doubt due to my reading tastes and my overactive imagination. I've never minded it, and frequently wished that I could just get the images on paper and into publication. I remember a friend of mine telling me he could make a fortune if he could just hook me up to a machine that would turn that stuff into print.

Lately, my dreams have been dark and wild in a way they haven't been in years. The last two nights have been especially strange. Maybe it's because I'm flirting with a sinus infection and my routine's been off. I wonder if it's not something to do with the phase of the moon or some other ambient factor, though, because one of my students told me about a weird dream he'd had, and there just seems to be "something" in the air.

Last night's dream took place, as dreams will, in several places, jumping around. The dominant image I remember was a platform-type tree house with fabric walls that was where I was staying for the summer. There was a storm coming in, but several people who I knew in the dream, but have no idea whom they might be in the real world, were in the tent, too. It was like some kind of summer camp/retreat. I remember the lushness of the color. Everything was too rich, like fruit just before it becomes overripe. The light flickered through the trees and traced patterns on the white fabric of the tree tent's walls. I remember everything. The beds were metal cots with squeaky springs. The linens were old, soft, and white. I had an old quilt on the bed like the one my great-grandmother made. There was a windchime we'd hung from a treebranch. That was one of the primary sounds in the dream. It played three notes over and over.

There were other platforms up in the trees. There were several together, and one of them had a Japanese-style tub. That part I can trace to the source. Hardly a shower goes past that I don't miss my deep tub from Japan. The other parts are a mystery.

My platform tent was on the outskirts of the camp. The others kept trying to get me to move in closer, but I liked the tent I had. They were worried that something was coming with the storm. The thing I remember most was knowing they were right, knowing I should have been scared, too, and knowing that I wanted to meet what was coming more than anything else I could think of.

When the storm came, the white fabric of the tent was magically waterproof. (How convenient.) I sat on the old quilt and waited for the something to arrive. The sound of the windchimes multiplied and another sound like 100s of bamboo windchimes joined them. The sounds were soft at first, and I remember hearing some of the others calling me to run because "he" was coming.

Suddenly, I saw him walking through the rain and trees. He was walking slowly and touching the leaves. The wet didn't seem to touch him. When I saw him, I knew him. I knew he was coming to see me, even though he was wondering around seemingly without purpose. I knew his face. He was beautiful. I knew his walk, graceful, silent, ground-eating without effort. More than anything, I wanted to talk to him. I had to hear his voice.

That, of course, was not to be. The strident pulse of my alarm clock went off before I he got further than the base of the tree in which my platform stood. I guess I'll never know what he sounds like. Maybe one day I'll write a voice for him and finish his story.