Wilyem Clark
09-30-2015, 10:39 AM
People sometimes ask if I ever use material from my dreams as inspiration for my work. My umbrella answer is: No, because dreams are too patchy in their plotting. Deceptive, also: often I have shaken myself awake believing I had captured a gem of a story in my subconscious ramblings; but once the smoke surrounding the oneiric stage clears, I find myself holding unremarkable gravel.
This is due, no doubt, to dreaming’s alleged function as a rearranger of experiences—smashing some to lesser components, bleaching others so that their finer details fade, saving a share and ridding the brain of many. One cannot be too analytical within a dream’s context; I am less rested when I exert myself within such inconsequentialities, on occasions when I try to infuse meaning where it doesn’t belong, or struggle to read arcane texts that don’t exist, or rack my brains solving indecipherable formulas that sporadically coalesce in that parallel world.
But shards may be salvaged once in a blue moon—or should I say blood moon, for that is the celestial event that may have triggered the dream I am about to relate. I will do my best to reconstruct that nocturnal adventure now, before its footprint in imagination’s sand is washed away.
The episode began—or my memory of it begins—with a search for a coffee bar. Coffee had been on my mind; I had been discussing it with my friend M., who had just gone back to brewing his own after a period of major disruption to his household. So my dream avatar was wandering the lower levels of an indistinct mixed use complex, certain that some deliciously tony java joint operated on the far side of a blank concrete wall, and he might reach it if only he could penetrate the barrier. He was joined by others—four or five of them—not a single person sharply defined or recognizable . . . enchanted tailor’s dummies, essentially. Suddenly my gauzy representative discovered, in what was until then an equally featureless opposing surface, a staircase, medieval in design, cut into the solid foundation. It was dimly illuminated, narrow, and curiously inviting. The thought occurred: If one were to ascend to the next floor, perhaps a crosswise passage would become evident, and—etc. We all trudged up the steps, single file. At the top, we emerged into a new environment: a spiffy, carpeted, glass-partitioned office, which I interpreted as being the headquarters for a huge, somewhat secretive corporation, a hectic hive bustling with the comings and goings of organizational servants. Undaunted, we climbed further stairs that encircled an atrium within the greater workplace. All was pleasant and untroubling until—on the third floor—a dark suit blocked our progress. He tapped a photo ID on his breast, a wordless way of communicating that we lacked the credentials to traverse his company’s space. He herded us into a nearby conference room.
There we twiddled our thumbs, one might say, for an indefinite span. Out of boredom I produced (via prestidigitation, I assume) what I called a “reality randomizer,” an instrument that roughly resembled a Brownie camera. I’m not sure what effect it was supposed to manufacture, but there was no time to experiment with it, for soon Mr. Badge returned with a sheet of legalese for us to sign, a release form perhaps, or maybe a formal admission of guilt.
I think my gang and I were ready to abandon this phase of the dream, but then an additional complication clamped down upon us: the corporate types wanted to move us into an auditorium, where we would be subjected to reels of the firm’s propaganda—sales figures, product endorsements, speeches by the CEO—all without the release valve of “buzzword bingo” or other subversive entertainments. What a horror my dream factory had cooked up—a tedious snoozefest within a snooze!
What happened next? There is no proper resolution, for at that moment my alarm clock went off. I will not attempt to supply a satisfying ending. Nor will there be a sequel. This, I promise you, will be the full extent of my dream recycling program, for the conscious mind is a far better dramatist than its feeble background companion.
This is due, no doubt, to dreaming’s alleged function as a rearranger of experiences—smashing some to lesser components, bleaching others so that their finer details fade, saving a share and ridding the brain of many. One cannot be too analytical within a dream’s context; I am less rested when I exert myself within such inconsequentialities, on occasions when I try to infuse meaning where it doesn’t belong, or struggle to read arcane texts that don’t exist, or rack my brains solving indecipherable formulas that sporadically coalesce in that parallel world.
But shards may be salvaged once in a blue moon—or should I say blood moon, for that is the celestial event that may have triggered the dream I am about to relate. I will do my best to reconstruct that nocturnal adventure now, before its footprint in imagination’s sand is washed away.
The episode began—or my memory of it begins—with a search for a coffee bar. Coffee had been on my mind; I had been discussing it with my friend M., who had just gone back to brewing his own after a period of major disruption to his household. So my dream avatar was wandering the lower levels of an indistinct mixed use complex, certain that some deliciously tony java joint operated on the far side of a blank concrete wall, and he might reach it if only he could penetrate the barrier. He was joined by others—four or five of them—not a single person sharply defined or recognizable . . . enchanted tailor’s dummies, essentially. Suddenly my gauzy representative discovered, in what was until then an equally featureless opposing surface, a staircase, medieval in design, cut into the solid foundation. It was dimly illuminated, narrow, and curiously inviting. The thought occurred: If one were to ascend to the next floor, perhaps a crosswise passage would become evident, and—etc. We all trudged up the steps, single file. At the top, we emerged into a new environment: a spiffy, carpeted, glass-partitioned office, which I interpreted as being the headquarters for a huge, somewhat secretive corporation, a hectic hive bustling with the comings and goings of organizational servants. Undaunted, we climbed further stairs that encircled an atrium within the greater workplace. All was pleasant and untroubling until—on the third floor—a dark suit blocked our progress. He tapped a photo ID on his breast, a wordless way of communicating that we lacked the credentials to traverse his company’s space. He herded us into a nearby conference room.
There we twiddled our thumbs, one might say, for an indefinite span. Out of boredom I produced (via prestidigitation, I assume) what I called a “reality randomizer,” an instrument that roughly resembled a Brownie camera. I’m not sure what effect it was supposed to manufacture, but there was no time to experiment with it, for soon Mr. Badge returned with a sheet of legalese for us to sign, a release form perhaps, or maybe a formal admission of guilt.
I think my gang and I were ready to abandon this phase of the dream, but then an additional complication clamped down upon us: the corporate types wanted to move us into an auditorium, where we would be subjected to reels of the firm’s propaganda—sales figures, product endorsements, speeches by the CEO—all without the release valve of “buzzword bingo” or other subversive entertainments. What a horror my dream factory had cooked up—a tedious snoozefest within a snooze!
What happened next? There is no proper resolution, for at that moment my alarm clock went off. I will not attempt to supply a satisfying ending. Nor will there be a sequel. This, I promise you, will be the full extent of my dream recycling program, for the conscious mind is a far better dramatist than its feeble background companion.