A few days ago I finished a book about politics, and soon I will be done with one comparing John Brown and Abraham Lincoln. Both books have inspired a ton of thinking, including self reflection. The joy I that have felt tearing through those books has been a reminder. I need to read a lot more. Too often I prioritize the wrong things, or allow certain habits to steer me away from other tasks I enjoy, especially reading. But these past few weeks I set aside time to delve into these books. And I was well rewarded.
At some point I want to write about them. I would like to regularly post book reviews. It would help me to work on my writing skills, and incentivize more reading. Those are two habits I would love to improve.
But writing good reviews requires a bit more effort on my part. Research and rewrites will be necessary, so I would like to avoid procrastinating. This week, I am going to take a shot at a review, by working on it daily. I will see how it goes, and get back to you. Hopefully there will be something to show by next Sunday.
In the meantime, I have had a series of enlightening dreams: the first about the end of one thing, the beginning of another; the second involving Kevin Bacon; the third, involving death; the fourth, what will come to pass.
(The last dream described reflects this Vincent Van Gogh painting.)
It felt like I was entering a schoolhouse in a post-apocalyptic setting. Not the intense survivalist fantasy, where every man is for himself. Nor a decaying world, where all things lay in ruin, and the few people left drift aimlessly and exhausted through the rubble. No, this was a static time, long after some cataclysmic event, where humanity decided the simple and mundane was good enough. The air was filled with an eerie tranquility.
I was a teacher, standing in a small classroom, with just a handful of students. A door, to my left, was open. Within the group of people, I recognized two from real life: a former high school student, who was once obnoxious in his indifference (but who has since grown into a conscious, thoughtful young man); and my boss, who was also my mentor (he has since passed away). The latter sat off to my right, within a raise platform, like a judge's bench.
That day was going to be my last: I was headed off on an important (what it was, I do not remember, only that it was significant). I began the class with my back turned, spending a moment contemplating a clever way to explain my resignation. Because of its importance, I concentrated on the words I would say, the pauses I would make, the words I would emphasize, and the facial expressions I would display. Feeling ready, I turned around to my class.
I was greeted with a noisy classroom. My mentor was talking with my students, engaging with them about something. I waited for everyone to be silent, but he kept speaking, refusing to turn it over to me. Frustration welled up inside me. Despite the commotion, and believing that if I spoke in a certain tone people would stop and notice, I began my speech. It did not work. As I talked to the room, my mentor and the students, especially the one I could recognize, ignored me, conversing with one another. And, I could clearly feel that they were doing it on purpose. They wanted me to be silent. I felt like a fool. Anger and desperation inspired me to shout, to try and drown them out, force them to stop and listen. My yelling accomplished nothing. Even screaming, "I am leaving" failed.
Knowing I would not return, and realizing that my last moments with my class was humiliating, I exited through the open door on my left, resentful and defeated. However, as I walked around the schoolhouse, the air felt fresher, the sun a bit brighter. With each step, the humiliation of the prior scene faded. I began to rationalize my departure. Their behavior was further evidence that I had to leave. That it ended terribly need not impede my sense of hope. I did not need the terrible event to define my next step. Turning another corner I became aware that I was entering a new room, not part of the schoolhouse. My mother was, as were some of my siblings. Standing among them, I said a few words and something happened. We all smiled, and began to move in the same direction.
As the dream ended, it still felt like a post-apocalyptic universe, but this time, a point where humanity realizes it had survived a catastrophe, and that now, even among the ruin, it was building something better, because it was working together.
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The details are a bit hazy, but it does involve Kevin Bacon, from his Tremors days (I thought of that movie when I saw him appear in my dream. He was part of my group (we were all friends) as we headed inside some stranger's house. In the living room, we ran into another group, clearly a crowd of mean students, like the clique of bullies found in those 80's high school films. They looked as if they were setting up for a sleepover. In fact, my group was doing the same. Looking to avoid them (even Kevin Bacon was not cool enough for them), we snuck past them, hiding behind the objects of the room (including a few tall, fake plants, and a couch). Walking up a flight of stairs, we entered another room, somewhat spacious, with long tables stretched beneath a wall full of square windows. I realized we had entered a classroom. We spread out, laying down sleeping bags. That's when I realized that we should not be having a sleepover in some teacher's classroom. However, I did not want to leave. None of us did. We were not trying to be bad. We just felt like we had to be there for some reason. That is also when Kevin Bacon's presence became an odd fact in my mind. Like, why was he spending time with us? It had less to do about him being famous, then, just why was he even there in my dream?
I started to become anxious, because I felt bad that we were rearranging a teacher's classroom. So, I took stock of every object's original place, intent on putting the stuff back before we left. At some point, the room darkened, and we all could feel that a presence had entered the house. We no longer wanted to be there. So, we began heading down another set of steps, off to the side, that led directly to the front door. Last thing I remembered was standing in a dark stairwell, a lighted area at the bottom, the presence hanging about somewhere down there, and Kevin Bacon leading the way.
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In this dream, I was a teenage son, and the man I was with was my father, but not my real life one. We were Jewish, and yes, I actually acknowledged that fact within my dream. There was something about our appearances that made me think of a father and son from a television show or movie (maybe Milhouse and his dad from the Simpsons?--but less pathetic). We were definitely close, and we were both a bit dorky. But I still felt admiration for my dad, and I could sense he cared for me.
It began with us entering a second floor apartment, ready to sit down together in order to eat dinner. He was cooking something in the oven, while he went off to the bathroom in order to clean up. I was by the kitchen sink, washing my hands, or maybe cleaning the dishes. That's when I received the news that Mother had died suddenly. There was no call, or visit from someone, just this realization that she was dead, and I would have to tell Father. But I did not feel I could do it right at that moment. He seemed in a good mood, and I did not want to ruin it. While I was pacing about, thinking of what to do, I realized the food in the oven was in for too long. They were chicken legs, and I knew that they had been overcooked. When I open the oven to have a look, I saw them, dried out. Moving them, caused some of them to fall off the tray, into a pile of ash that lined the bottom of the oven. I felt bad about it, and disgusted with the food.
At that moment, with the oven still open, Father walked towards me from the bathroom, clean-shaven and smiling. I felt an urgent need to tell him about Mother's death, before he found out about the dried-out, overcooked chicken legs. Tearing up, I blurted out the news. Father was taken aback by the sound of my voice. But as came closer to me, he said nothing. Instead, he focused on the oven and the food inside.
As I transitioned from the dream world to the real one, the last thing I remembered was looking inside the oven, grabbing the tray of chicken legs, and, upon pulling them out, realizing not all of them were inedible. Some of them could be salvaged.
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Evening had arrived, and my parents, my siblings, and I, all adults, were driving home. When we arrived, I realized we still had not eaten dinner. So, I volunteered to go out and get some food. When I headed to the car, I was shocked to discover that the road outside the house was covered in a foot of snow. I hate driving in snow. But I knew I had to get food for my family. So I got in the car and began driving. Using the car like a plow, I pushed the snow aside. However, I soon noticed that there were stretches of road already plowed, and that further ahead, the main road was completely cleared. That gave me hope, inspiring me to push forward through the remaining snow.
Feeling a little fatigued, like had shoveled the snow with my hands, rather than move it aside with my car, I was on the main road, moving forward. Yet, I felt a new danger appear. The road looked shiny. Maybe it was ice? I could not tell. But I knew I had to be careful. Unfortunately, my attempts at caution were failing as I began careening past a left turn I needed to make. When I was almost through the intersection, I panicked. Disregarding oncoming traffic, I recklessly veered the car onto the new road. I made it.
My sense of relief soon faded. As I moved further down the road, I realized that I was driving in the opposite direction of my original destination. I need to get back on track somehow: I needed to turn around.
As I made the decision to change course, I became aware that I was no longer in a car, but riding a bicycle. And the road had become a wide cobblestone sidewalk like you would find in an old city. A river, narrow and moving fast beneath steep moss covered banks of jagged stone, appeared to my left. Like the flow of the river, I was bounding further and further from my original goal.
At one point, I picked up the bike, and headed down a flight of stairs inside a narrow stone tower. On the one hand, it felt tight, with the bike thrown over my shoulder, and my body racing every downward; on the other hand, the walls were replaced in many places with open windows framed in stone. The further down I went, the more out of control I felt as forward momentum propelled me onward. Panic arose when I suddenly found myself balancing precariously on a vertical metal ladder attached to a wall, with a bike in one arm, and my other arm being used to climb down. Noticing that the ladder was short, I convinced myself that this leg of journey was almost over. A little effort now would help me get back on track. The panic subsided, and I got off the ladder.
And with that, the scene suddenly changed. Now I stood in the dark, outside an old stone Catholic Church. The kind with one end rounded, and the rest built in the shape of the cross. Without hesitation, I pushed the doors open, bright white walls, shiny wooden pews, and rich, dark red wooden floor.
Two things seemed odd to me. The brightness inside contrasted sharply with the small interior space. And the pews did not face the altar, but instead faced each other, with a wide aisle between them. While thinking about these two facts, I walked down the aisle, towards the back of the church.
Along the way, I found my aunt and uncle, and my two cousins and their husbands and children, sitting together. No one else seemed to be in the building. We exchanged greetings, and I inquired about their health, especially my uncle. We chatted about something.
Realizing I need to find my parents and siblings, I moved on. That's when I discovered my father sitting, alone in a pew. He called me over, and he began talking to me. He spoke about how the Church owned certain property (my mind began drifting to images of what he was saying). It was leasing that land to a certain group of people, a group of traveling salesmen. They sold novelty items (I do not remember what kind, only that they were silly and frivolous). As he revealed this information, I realized he was telling me that Church was corrupt, participating in illicit activities related to this land. Disappointment. That is what I felt as I nodded my head in understanding. When he was done, I stood up and moved on.
Soon I found myself in the rear of the church, and the mood suddenly changed. The light was dimmer here, almost in shadows. And I was no longer standing. Instead, I was sprawled out on the floor. Dying. Within that moment, I had discovered that this whole time while walking through the Church, my body was riddled with bullet wounds. I determined that sometime before entering the building, I had used my body as a shield. But I could not remember that exact incident.
My father reached me first, grabbing at me, moaning, "My son, my son."
My mother arrived next, screaming. Then she kneeled beside me. Placing my head on her lap, she hummed softly to me.
The dream faded into black, and my last thoughts focused on a question.
"How did I even get to this point?"
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And thus ends those series of dreams.
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