“But in your dreams whatever they be…”Lately I’ve been visited in the night by bizarre-o dreams, of yet undetermined meaning. Some are kind of entertaining, some raise emotions that often seep into my waking mood. Last week I dreamt I needed to get
Jeremy Piven a copy of his head-shot ASAP, and I woke up stressed because I didn’t know when I would be able to accomplish this. The other night I dreamt of a friend I haven’t seen in awhile, and spent most of the day missing him terribly.
See if you can lend your interpretive insights on some other dream-gems:
A) One dream found me in the midst of an army base in Baquba, Iraq. The president and vice president (Ronald Reagan and Donald Rumsfeld, respectively, each with schmarmy slicked-back hair) are touring the compound, being all official ‘n stuff. I stumble across an old Army commander, wounded and lying between 2 parked cars in a garage. He is hurt bad, but is alert, and I know there is still time to get him medical attention and save his life. When I beg some bystanders to call 9-1-1, they stutter and shrug and are completely inefficient. I grab my new cell phone to call, but alas – there is no “1” key on my phone, so I have a difficult time calling. Finally I am able to get through, and after what seems like forever, precious time lapsed, the paramedics arrive.
To my dismay, the paramedics are some Iraqi civilians with wives and children in tow. They stand around and look at the commander (who, by the way, has now morphed into my dog, Grimley – however, the urgency of the situation remains unabated), but they are unable or unwilling to help. Sufficiently stressed and upset, I appeal to Reagan and Rumsfeld, but their backs are turned to me and I can’t get their attention. I awake – and it takes a few hours to entirely shake off the stress of that dream.
B) Growing up outside of Washington, D.C., post-
Senators but pre-
Nationals, the Baltimore Orioles were the closest we had to a home-town baseball team. And the star & hero of the Orioles during my youth was
Mr. Cal Ripkin Jr. So imagine my dismay when he showed up in a dream last week, acting like a total skuzzy jerk! (Also, in the dream Cal was played by
Michael McKean, with long stringy white hair.) Throughout the day following the dream, I had to consciously re-adjust my mental image of Cal, reminding myself, “It was just a dream! In reality, Cal is a balding, milk-drinking, all-around good guy! Not a jerk.”
C) Nestled all snug in my bed for a Saturday afternoon nap, I dream that I get up and go into the kitchen. Looking out the window, I notice that the drizzly rain from earlier has turned to snow. And swooping down towards me, from the roof of the building opposite mine, is a miniature Santa Claus. He is grinning and impish, landing on my window sill and staring at me through the glass. I tell him, “I accept you into my heart!” (
I don’t even want to begin to unpack the theological issues wrapped up in that phrase) because in my dream, I have learned from movies that that is what you are supposed to say when you meet Santa. I ask my roommate, sitting on the couch behind me, if she can see him, but she can’t. Despite repeated affirmations that I have accepted him, Santa Claus flies away into the snowy sky.
Uhhhh....yeah.
