It always gets me when I read about how scientists specializing in sleep studies invariably say that one only dreams during REM sleep. When I drove production truck in the mines, I would always doze off on midnight shifts while my truck was being loaded. Under the biggest shovels, it would take three scoops, or about one minute before the shovelrunner would blow his horn, telling me I was loaded; under smaller ones, it could take as long as fifteen. I slowly began to realize that to sleep is to dream–always.
Once I got the technique down on how to remember my dreams upon waking, it was very plain to see that we dream all the time, but have a built in eraser-head when we wake.
I started experimenting with sleep-paralysis which is the perfect state of mind for dream control–the ultimate high. I even told these guys in a dream once that I wasn’t really there, and if they didn’t believe me, just watch–and then I forced myself awake.
What baffles me more than anything is how is it that I can be totally surprised in a dream; Am I not the one making it all up? Also, there have been times when I was just drifting off, thinking about one thing when suddenly I jerk, and realize I was dreaming about falling off a bike. Two dreams at once? Anyway, the world inside our heads is just as rich as the one outside, and since we’re going to spend one-third of our lives there, we should try to learn its language of symbolism and enjoy its mysteries. This is truly a world without consequences.
I don’t know what happened to Memories # 5.
Boone Lamoine knelt before his father’s icy grave and wept. Huge, shimmering tears, as if in a parting gesture of consolation, warmed his frosted cheeks before falling to be frozen in the snow. He pulled his scarf tightly about him as his long, dark hair whipped violently in the howling wind. The snow swirled madly around him, and for a few minutes all was white; the world had disappeared just as surely as if he had been struck blind. A deeply religious man, the story of Paul on the road to Damascus flitted through his mind.
“Boone!” came a voice barely discernible above the ferocious wind, “C’mon, let’s go!” The last place Cindi, Boone’s wife, wanted to spend Christmas Day was in a fucking cemetery. She was already a little pissed for having to go with him to the church for the Christmas program, and she probably wouldn’t have if little Celeste wasn’t going to sing a solo–Cindi was a hard-core atheist. As a young child, she’d had religion crammed down her throat, both figuratively and physically, one in the pews and the other in the church basement; it had left a bad taste in her mouth. Oddly enough, the thought that her own daughter may be going through the same thing never entered her mind. “Celeste will kill us if we’re late!”
Venus, Goddess of Love,
I know you have two sides:
The righteous one who seeks
And the guilty one who hides.
As Morning Star,
Though you adorn
And move the heart,
Your watchful eye upon the morn
Means lovers have to part.
As Evening Star,
When lovers meet,
You kindly look away,
And hide your face
Beyond the hills
With lovers free to play.