Wednesday, October 30, 2013
Photo: Freud's Vienna office, from forpilar.blogspot.com.
Despite being woken up more than six times by my car's alarm that inexplicably went off three times, and by my dog, who whined constantly through the night, I somehow managed to sleep deeply enough to have two very strange dreams.
I'm rooming with another guy, who seemed likeable and reasonable enough, but in the dream I become more and more concerned that he is not a good guy at all. I ask questions and he doesn't answer them. He gets that lean and hungry look, as Shakespeare's Caesar called it. Somehow it becomes clear that he's a murderer, and I come upon a giant folder of files and documents, one of which seems to prove the issue when I pick it up and read it. When I lower it from my eyes, there he is, looking dangerous, obviously about to do something nasty. But before I have the chance to do something about it, either my car alarm goes off in the garage, or my dog whines and wakes me up.
The most surprising thing at all: the dream makes it very clear who this person is: It's Red Sox back-up thirdbaseman Will Middlebrooks. Who, despite striking out way too often, I'm sure is a nice enough guy in real life. That was just weird, man.
It's in the future, not too distant. I work under a bridge that crosses a wide, beautiful river. Things are so bleak in this existence that countless people jump off of this bridge in an attempt to kill themselves. My job is to rescue them from the river, and resuscitate them. I get a bird's-eye view of this bridge (of which I did remember the name, but some time in the last fifteen minutes, I've forgotten it; I hope to remember it by the time I finish typing this, and I can tell you it's a simple name, like the Point Bridge, or something. It's not something famous, like the Golden Gate Bridge, or even something real). It's a long suspension bridge; it's fall, because the leaves are turning color. The river water is very smooth and clear. There are no boats. Everything's serene and peaceful and beautiful.
Except it's not, because people are jumping. I save quite a few people over a short period of time on this day. Maybe a dozen, or more. I don't have a boat to get them. (Maybe there's a gasoline or engine shortage in this future.) But the last person to jump, a tall, full brunette, is different. I can't find her in the water at all. This has never happened before. Never has someone gotten away, or died. But just when I'm about to give up, I see her, and soon she's on the riverbank and I'm trying to force the water out of her lungs. This happens for a very long time, much longer than is useful.
I look at her. I don't know her. She's got a solid enough neck, a pretty face, and soaking wet black hair that trails on the damp ground. Her eyes remain closed (though I know in real life, a dead person's eyes stay open) and, when I stop blowing in her mouth, trying to revive her, that, too, closes.
She's completely still. She's dead. I've lost her. For the first time, I've lost one.
And then the dog's whine wakes me up.
And that's it. Two strange dreams. I never did remember the name of the bridge, but I'll go with the Point Bridge for now, until I remember.
Freudian analysis, anyone?
P.S.--A very hearty thank ye to Ashley Cosgrove, who was kind enough to put a link to a recent Shakespeare entry (the one about how he did not play a part in the 1608-9 publication of his sonnets) on her Facebook page--and without me asking (or even being aware of it, at first); and to Gibson DelGuidice, who was nice enough to recently say very complimentary things about my blog (and to place a link to it) on his blog. And I didn't even know about it, either, until recently. You guys rule.