I rarely recall vivid dreams anymore. Sometimes when a dream disturbs, I awake with an image or two. But the images fade soon after waking.
I've read the grocery store vivid dream books, saddle stitched little pamphlets that sold for fifty cents located just by the self-hypnosis guides and the television guides. They prescribe carefully written logs, and advise that one can even seize control of one's dream. I imagine that if I had control of a dream, I could go to really interesting places. But I'd hate to be like Demi Moore in the Euroesque art film, never sure which set of images was real and which dream.
Imagine Pol Pot, for example. Surely he is a creature of nightmare, directing the slaughter of millions in the name of ideology. The wild animal who attacked Roy--can this really be a waking moment? The gorgeous red maple leaves the new Fall brings--how can this be "real"?
Ennui among these dreams and visions which comprise real life intrigues me, even as I experience it sometimes. Tomorrow I go see a doctor, who will probably put me on blood pressure meds. I hate the idea of meds of any kind, of another mandatory obligation, like breathing or drinking water. I think of it as a lifeline to my mortality--another drifting towards the abyss which physical decline brings.
This is surely not a dream, but it has a gauzy, dream-like feel to it. But my blood really pumps, and now I need to medicate its pressure. It's not a dream--it's just a matter of simple biology and lifestyle and genetics. I don't remember actual dreams, those finicky places I go each night and leave behind, forgotten.
So tomorrow, when I awake, I may not remember flying over fields. I won't see the green murderous aliens of my childhood dreams, nor catch the mud-cats from the local town drainage creek from other dreams.
But I'll step out into a real day, that seems somehow dream-like. I do not know how to interpret these dreams, but I know I am to face them with courage, with hope, and perhaps with water tablets to depressurize my blood.